The lads at my gym told me I needed to have my fucking head read for shooting Deca. There were horror stories everywhere about this type of juice. 1 bloke couldn’t get a horn for 3 weeks after a cycle. Another bloke went off fanny for a month. Were the stories true? I thought it was a load of old fucking flannel, like saying a poke of Test could give you a heart-attack. So, I got hold of a few vials, cut-price, and shot the shit. I didn’t even stack the Deca with Testosterone to smooth out the side-effects, because I was on the bones of my arse skint.
3 weeks in, and everything was sweet. Had a dick like a truncheon in the mornings. Sex drive was bang on. Then 1 night I was taking a waz, looked down, and it was if my bell-end was fucking retreating into my dick. I could still get a little chubby, though, and it least it meant that I hadn’t been sold a vial of piss, you know?
A couple of days later I stopped getting wood altogether, and that’s when I started shitting it. The desire was still there, but I couldn’t get a rise out of the bastard. Porn was useless. I even rang up a list of my ex-birds to see if any of them would wrap their lips around it, but none would so much as stoop to a hand job. Fat lot of good it would have done me, anyway, with a prick like a burst balloon.
I was propping up the bar in The Moonraker’s 1 night, waiting for my training partner Jonty. We’d pre-drink at The Moonrakers, and then head up town on the lash proper. The barman swung on the Coors Light pump in front of me. He was a sliver of a bloke with a weak beard and a boss eye.
Reload? he went.
You weightlifters sure can drink.
I went: You can’t get drunk twice in 1 session. You just drink through the drunkenness. Leave the dead bottles, will you?
I like watching them stack up.
I turned around to see if there were any lookers in the place. The music was going loud and the strobe lights were cutting people to pieces. I could make out a bird sat at a table in the corner who was big in the rack, but she had some weight on her. Big tits on a fat bird are like big biceps on a fat bloke. Who gives a fuck?
I was peeling the label off my bottle when this fucking fit bird parked up next to me. I’m talking a 10 out of 10 if ever I saw 1, perfectly poured into a black dress. The barman’s boss eye straightened up as he gave her a once over.
Drink? I asked her.
I sat back on the stool. I went: I’ve got this theory about blokes who are good at pulling birds. They’re basically stone-cold bastards, but they know this, and actively work to address it by giving birds lots of attention. That burns your Mr Nice Guy, because he’s always operating at his everyday level of niceness and no fucker notices him.
And you’re the Mr Nice Guy?
I’m the bastard.
She looked at me for the first time. I could feel her stare rubbing against me.
You lift weights? she went.
No, I put them down.
She laughed, and it was like some sort of surrender.
We had a few drinks, a few more, a fag in the smoking area outside.
Conversation was fucking easy, a smooth back-and-forth. I couldn’t believe it. The times I’ve dogged birds to get into their knickers, and here she was throwing her fanny in my face. She kept touching my arms, and I had my hand resting on the small of her back, and I could see every bloke in the place looking over ready to mop up if I spilt.
That’s when I remembered that my dick was broken.
You alright? the bird went, smoke from her fag climbing the air like a vine.
Yeah. I’ll be right back, I went, and headed to the lavvy. As I pushed through the crowd, I cursed myself for not getting some Viagra from Marcus. He was a gear dealer first and foremost, but he had his fingers up all sorts of arseholes.
2 blokes were in there, unloading into the pisser.
1 bloke said to the other: Fucking hell, you seen that smoking hot bitch at the bar?
The other bloke said back to him: I wouldn’t kick that out of bed for farting. Who’s that lump she’s talking to?
Dunno, but he’s a lucky bastard. She’s 1 fine bird, and he’s 1 shitpan ugly prick.
I walked up the condom machine. Buying rubbers was a fucking high hope. No – I wanted some of those herbal pills that are supposed to stoke your dick up. Probably a load of shite, but I couldn’t even give them a shot. Some fuckbag had smashed the brains out of the machine.
The lads at the urinals were still talking, hadn’t seen me: He must be on some juice, mustn’t he?
Course he is! His tits are bigger than that bird he’s with. I want a bit of tonk on me, but I wouldn’t want to look like that. He’s too big. It’s a mental illness lifters get when they start training, a bigorexia. They’re never hench enough. What a puffed-up…
That’s when he slung a glance over his shoulder and saw me.
…slag, he finished, his loud voice somersaulting into a mouse’s squeak. The stream of piss between his legs wobbled to a halt.
I opened the door, and went: It’s mental illness alright, but at least it got me jacked, you piss-ant shower of tossers.
The bird was at the bar waiting for me.
You want to go somewhere? she went, a hand on my forearm.
Your place or mine?
Your place, I replied. Limp dick or not, I couldn’t take her back to the mine. Open the cutlery drawer and there were fucking needles looking at you.
She grabbed my hand, and we made for the door. As we walked out, Jonty Jackson was trying to get in. The doormen were pushing him back, telling him he was too steamboated. His eyes were like frogspawn and he was giving them mad jip. Jonty was my boy, my training partner and best mate, so I should have waded in.
You know that lary bastard? the bird went, with a scowl. We were walking to a taxi on the curb.
I held the door open for her, and went: Never clapped sight on the prick before in my life.
She told her address to the drive, and we pulled out. As soon as we were rolling, she was all over me. Fuck, I’d never known a bird to be so game. She was giving me the tongue and I could taste her cherry lip gloss. I went for a classic move, and slid my hand up her thigh, rifled past her knickers to her pussy. There was playful resistance, but she was pumping out wet heat, so I let her have a fingertip. Her pussy was gobbling at it like the mouth of a hungry fish, and she was moaning away, pushing down further on my digit. I caught the driver’s eyes in the rear-view, and gave him a savage look until he went back to staring at fucking street. I pulled my finger out and chased her clit around like it was the last pea remaining on a plate.
The taxi pulled up at the curb of her house, and as she was adjusting her G-string, I gave my fingers a good sniff. Standard.
She lived on that rough Pinehurst West estate. Tiny houses, a criss-cross mish-mash of living. At any given time, you could smell either shit or food cooking, or shitty food being cooked.
At the door of her house, she spun around to face me.
You don’t take roids, do you? I’ve known blokes in the past who took gear, and they were all nutters.
She was feisty. I wanted to fuck that out of her.
I went: I think roids are for cowards and fucking bullies.
I stared out through the roid bloat that was pinching my eyes shut.
Come in, she went.
I did that, and then we were in the kitchen. I thought it was a right dingy shithole, all shadows and corners.
Nice place, I went.
You want a drink?
What you got?
She bent down to look in a cupboard, and her fine teardrop calfs rode up her lower leg. Still no pulse from my dick. I tried not to think about it but trying not to think about it only made me think about it even more, you know?
She went: All I’ve got is wine and…wine.
Bit queer, isn’t it?
She laughed and poured herself a drink, went: You’re a real throwback, a tough guy. How much can you lift?
Bench-press? About 4 of you.
That makes me so fucking wet. I’ve got no time for those poofy blokes who have long hair and wear skinny jeans. I’ve been there and shagged that. I couldn’t tell if they’re fucking me or I’m fucking them. I want a real man for once, 1 who’s gonna dick me right.
You got a boyfriend? I went.
No – do you?
She moved in for another fierce kiss. Her eyes were closed. Mine weren’t. I knew I was outgunned, but the only way out was to keep on going in.
After she’d necked her wine, we headed upstairs. Her arse was a few inches away from my face and it had this hypnotising little wiggle, this shimmy-shake. I could feel through my jeans that my dick was still like overcooked spaghetti, but I gave that arse a few slaps, and she giggled her way into the bedroom, with me chasing behind. She flicked the light on, closed the door, and pushed me to the bed.
Stay there, she went, and lifted my finger to her mouth, sucking it to the tip with lips that formed a soft, wet, tight O.
Before long, her dress and bra were in a pile on the floor. She left her knickers and heels on. Somehow they managed to make her look more naked. She had the sort of body that was so fit that you wished you had 2 dicks to do it justice. I didn’t even have 1 dick, and didn’t I fucking know it.
I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, she said, said it like a threat.
The bed springs squeaked as I shifted my weight.
She walked over with a look on her face like she was about to get wrong with me, like she was a wild fucking animal. Dropped to her knees, undid my belt buckle, and whipped the fucker clean off – slung it against the wall. In a quick second, she’d had my trousers and boxers down and was giving me brain. She was running her hand across my hard quads, but my soft dick was like a piece of chewed gum, stretching back and forth in her mouth.
Shame pinching up my face, I was rubbing my brow and going: Fucking hell. Oh, fuck me sideways.
She thought I was fucking loving it, went: You like that, huh?
She switched from my dick to my bollocks. It was like she was stuffing the hanging wattles of a tired old turkey into her mouth. She was working it and slurping it, but after a bit her eyes shifted from being sexy challenging to just plan fucking challenging, proper drilling into me. I raised my face to the ceiling, and prayed to God Almighty that she didn’t know anyone from my gym. The fallout from this would be worse than the time I shagged that brunette piece who we later found out was a prostitute. But that’s a story for another time and maybe not even then.
Still nothing from my dick. Sweet bugger all. She was absolutely fucking ruining me.
It was too painful to watch. I pushed the bird over to bed, and had her knickers down around her ankles. It has been said that I am a very lazy bastard when it comes to foreplay, but just to distract her from my limp dick, I gave her a right old finger chug. Soon she was grabbing 2 fistfuls of duvet and moaning my fucking name. I flicked the bean with my tongue for a bit, straightened up, and wiped pussy juice from my beard. It didn’t matter how fit the bird was, pussy still tasted like a week-old bucketful of piss and sweat.
Her hand was groping for my limp prick, and she was staring at it like it was a busted toy.
When are you going to ram me? she went.
The walls were closing in. I had to think of something quick, something that wasn’t embarrassing. I couldn’t think of anything. And then it hit me. I went: Wait. I need to take a shit.
She looked at me with her mouth slightly open, eyebrows curled into a question mark.
Where’s your crapper, or do fit birds not shit? I went, stepping into my boxers.
She started diddling herself, went: Down the hall. Second left. And hurry up, for fuck’s sake. My cunt’s making a sound like batter being mixed.
As soon as I’d bolted myself in that shitter, I started furiously pumping my dick. I was trying all sorts of different grips – standard right-hand tug, reverse grip, double-fisted. I even filled the sink with warm water and slapped the fucker in it. I looked like a great big elephant taking on water through a tiny little trunk. I was speaking to my dick, snarling through my teeth: you shit, you bastard, you son of a motherfucker! There was a mirror on the wall, and I kept looking from my jacked body to my limp dick, from my limp dick to my jacked body. I had it all. My biceps were screaming big and the pipes of muscle running up to my neck looked fucking sick good. But what’s the point of being hench if you can’t even fuck a stunner? I thought about bailing through the window, but the drop was a brute. That would be 2 broken legs, and my squat would be fucked for time.
Beyond the patchwork of tiny gardens, the tallest building in the town’s skyline rammed up into the air like an awesome piss-take.
No choice, so I tucked my meat away and went back to the bedroom.
There was this mad loud vibrating noise coming from in there. I hung my head around the door. The bird was resting against the headboard of the bed, legs spread wide. She was wanking herself with this fucking massive vibrator. Damn thing was like a wrist around, no lie. Her face was flushed to fuck, and she was proper going for it, flapping away.
I just stood there.
What’s wrong? she went,
I didn’t say shit, but we both knew that I was in no condition to be the second act following that big bastard.
She suddenly got very angry. Her angry face was very similar to her wank face. She went: This pussy not fucking good enough for you, or what?!
I smiled. You know how prissy birds get when they think their looks are on the way out.
Find me fucking funny, do you? she went, mardy as fuck.
She tugged the vibrator free, and launched it at me with a grunt like a female tennis player smashing a serve. I dipped to the right. That vibrator cartwheeled end-over-end past my head, and bounced across the floor. Thing must have had some guts, because it was fucking pulling itself along the carpet.
The bird scrambled from the bed, threw on a nightgown, went: I should have fucking known as soon as I saw you sitting there all buffed out at the bar. You’re a fucking queer, aren’t you? Fucking looking at yourself in every reflection you can find, like a little bitch. Real man my piss-hole!
I went: I’m no fucking queer!
She grabbed my clothes, and legged it out the bedroom. I saw the tail of her nightgown flap around the corner. I bundled behind – skittering over that vibrator that was still thrashing its way down the hall like a headless snake. Quick thud of feet on stairs. The bird opened the front door, and tossed my shit out onto the street.
I bolted out, limp dick swinging inside my boxers, and then turned around to face her. I pointed my finger at her and opened my mouth as if to speak.
What? she went, with both hands on her hips.
There was something very important I had to say, something that would claw this situation back, but I had no fucking idea what it was.
The front door slammed in my fucking face. I bent down to pick up my clothes. The moon was sitting high in the sky, watching, and it didn’t give a flying fuck.
I stood staring at that door for a long time, and then gathered my shit. Got my jeans on. Walked off down the street carrying my t-shirt and the weight of having almost fucked 1 of the fittest birds in town. There was still time to get mashed, though, so I headed to the High Street and got on it like a car bonnet.
I woke up the next morning, face-down on the floor, in a bus shelter on Havelock Street. I was holding a bag of cold Chinese takeaway. Crispy duck and pancakes. I walked home under a sky the colour of breeze blocks, and ate the Chinese for breakfast at my kitchen table. I showered, and drove to work still sick drunk. I was seeing 2 lines running down the middle of the road, and I could have flipped a coin to decide which was real. I did my 12 hours on the timecard. The thing with factory work is that the boredom is enough to kill you, but not quite, and that’s the fucking tragedy.
I went straight to the gym after work. I started off on shoulder press, but even my warm-up weight felt heavy as fuck. I slung the bar to the floor. Another fucking thing I couldn’t get up.
Big Dave sauntered over, went: You’ve got a face like a slapped arse. What’s wrong?
Had a rough night last night, Dave.
Rougher than Jonty?
What happened to that prick?
Spent a night in a cell for getting sparky with some bouncers outside The Moonrakers. He was in earlier, bragging like fuck about how the law had to use 2 pair of handcuffs to lock his hands behind his back because his lats are so jacked.
He’ll be fine, he’s taken more beatings than wet-mix cement. At least he got free bed out of the bastards.
Why are you so pissy, then?
I looked over my shoulders, and said on the down-low: Been running Deca without Testosterone. I’ve got Deca Dick.
Big Dave jolted back, as if just mentioning Deca Dick was enough for him to catch it like a cold. He went: Are you lacking in frontal lobe, or what? Good luck getting a shag any time soon.
I went: This coming from a bloke who couldn’t get a fuck in a woman’s prison whilst holding a box of Durex? God almighty, and when you do pull – the state of the bastards. I wouldn’t even ride them into battle.
Piss off! When was the last time you fucking pulled, then?
It was my pride that roped me into telling him the story of the night before.
At 1 point during the process, 2 lads walked over to the nearby mats. I’d seen them around, but didn’t know them by name. They started doing sit-ups – taking it in turn to hold each other’s feet.
I shifted the gears of the conversation sharpish: Uh, so, say Dave – did you watch the boxing on the telly on the weekend?
Boxing? What the fuck you on about?
Yeah, the boxing. You know, I said, rolling my eyes towards the chavvies in the corner.
The penny finally dropped, and Big Dave went: Oh yeah, uh, the boxing. I watched it, but it was a bit of a fucking limp fight if you ask me. The lad had it all to play for, but he didn’t rise to the challenge.
I wanked the air. Dave smiled.
The 2 lads wandered off after finishing their work. We snapped back to our conversation like a twanged elastic band.
I put the rest of the tale down for him.
When he’d finished laughing, I went: Thanks for your fucking compassion.
I’m sorry, bruv. But if you was me and I was you, it’d be hanging out of your arse right now.
So what’s your advice? I went. Although Dave was as thick as fuck, I often asked for his advice about shit, if only to do the exact opposite of what he suggested.
Big Dave said: I’ve got 2 pieces of advice. Firstly, you need to get some HCG into you. Restart your bollocks.
Human Chorionic Gonadatropin? I went.
Inject it into your gut fat with insulin pins. That’s standard, otherwise you’ll never get a rush of blood to the dick again.
What’s the second piece of advice?
This is when Big Dave leant in close and said that the second piece of advice he could give me is to not tell another living soul about the story. Bury it. Forget it. Save myself any future embarrassment. Put it in a rocket and fire the fucker into deep space.
I thought his advice was bang on the money, so I’m taking it to heart. I’ve bought some HCG, and I’m not going to tell any fucker about my Deca Dick ever again.