A Shot to the Nuts

Warning: The following post features graphic violence.

I kicked a man in the balls on Saturday night, here in Las Vegas, hard enough to make him vomit, piss himself, and it felt wonderful.

This is going to be a very long post.

All about a shot to the nuts.


Back in Portland, sometime during my stay with the Charitable Hostess, I would periodically leave the house to explore the downtown core by day. Coincidentally it first began as a list of things to do, feeding the homeless, which in a way was gambling on its own; the dollar that you give, despite the stories you tell, will either be spent on food or to fuel cases of addiction or vice. There is no guarantee of what that money would be spent on, no evidence of it, and while the only merit would be a warm fuzzy feeling, in truth it means next to nothing to help others.

Sometime during my wanderings in downtown Portland, taking the MAX station into the city, walking from one point to another, I came across a man with a cardboard sign that said, simply, “Kick me in the nuts by donation”. It struck me first as a bit humorous, he had a charismatic grin on his face, despite the context of what he was doing out there on the street. He had large blue eyes, bloodshot, and a stubble; his clothes, a loose faded orange jersey, baggy pants, were all caked beneath a layer of dirt. The shoes he wore had definitely seen proper mileage and might have once been sneakers.

I remember this clearly because this was one of the more bittersweet moments, up until tonight’s ball-busting spectacle, that suddenly brought up this trivial memory. He was beneath the bridge beneath the Rose Station (I could be mistaken, that was a while ago), periodically shouting at passerbys. I approached him.

“Hey man,” he said to me. “Would you like to kick me in the balls for a dollar?”

Actually, I replied, reaching into my pocket for loose change, I don’t want to kick you in the balls. Where are you from? I asked.

“North Carolina, man, how ’bout you?” He replied. Canada. Vancouver, BC, actually. I walked here.

The man leaned back and raised a brow at me. “You walked here?” I nodded.  “You’re fucking kidding me, man.”

In all honesty, I said, I take buses between major cities. I walk the streets. I talk to people. See the world with my own two eyes.

He raised a fist to bump it with mine. “Fucking cool, man,” He said, grinning. “How do you like Portland?”

Its nice. The people are nice. What the hell are you doing out here? “I live here, bro.”
You live here? I pointed beneath the bridge. “Yeah, man, not here, but some other bridge not far away. Sometimes I can afford the shelter, bro.” I see. “You wanna kick me in the balls for a dollar?”

I chuckled and asked, what would a quarter get me?

“Shit man, you can kick me for a quarter.” I shook my head. I don’t want to kick you for a quarter. You’re better than this, my friend, and I don’t really know you but I don’t need to kick you to know you’re honestly struggling out here. I gave him a dollar.

He shook his head again, lifting his voice slightly, like he was getting angry. “No, man, kick me! I said fucking kick me!”

I’m not going to kick you.

“KICK ME!” He shouted. I held Annabelle slightly tighter. “Swing your fucking cane at me. Hit me! Kick me!”


He turned away from me, lifting one hand to his face, and somehow I knew he was genuinely crying. I stepped towards him and he turned back. “You some kind of a fucking Christian?”

I began to get angry myself, replying firmly: No, but I’m a human being just like you.

“You righteous motherfucker, bro,” He sniffed, crying as cars went by. I gestured for him to sit down. “You’re fucking something else.”

I’m not fucking anything, I said, sitting beside him.

It felt very strange then, sitting beside some smelly homeless person underneath a bridge in broad daylight. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure this wasn’t some kind of a set up. Nobody else was there. Across the road people kept walking by.

I shook my head. No, I’m just somebody who does what I feel is right and I don’t have anything above you, my friend, I’m just passing by. You’re tougher than this. You don’t need to do this. You have dignity. How long have you been out here?

“Fourteen years.” He replied.

What did you do before? I asked him.

“I was a painter back in the day.” He said. Sitting next to him, I smelled the smell of armpit odor and some pungent scent. I wondered if he had any lice or diseases to him, which would surely earn the ire of the Charitable Hostess.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out my cigarettes, asking him, What’s your name?

“Bob.” He answered.


He tried to fist bump me. I wear fingerless gloves because of fashion and style (which also look fucking cool), but offered my hand to shake it. He shook it very hard.

People kick you in the balls alot? I asked.

“Yeah,” He nodded. “But I’m used to it.”


“Fourteen years, man.”

Fourteen years of people busting your balls?

He shook his head, “More like a year and a half.”

You get kicked in the balls for a quarter or less? For a year and a half? I asked him.

Bob nodded his head.

Fuck me! I said then added, jokingly: Not literally.

“Buddy, I’ve done that too.” He laughed a little, which helped because a moment ago Bob had the look of someone who had some kind of a crushing moment of despair. I felt bad to have made him cry. It seemed like the ‘right’ thing to do to just spare him what little was left of his dignity.

“Sometimes people bring me food. Most guys at night just wanna kick my nuts, man.” He said.

Are you fucking kidding me? I said.

Bob shook his head, taking an offered cigarette. “No way, man, people love to kick my nuts.” He breathed it. “Menthols, nice!”

I reached over and lit his cigarette. It was windy. It was quite windy in Portland and sometimes it rained during my stay. It had rained the day before I think which kept me inside the basement of where I stayed, trying to write on the blog.


I wondered what it was like to be out there beneath the bridges, out in the cold. Up until that point I stayed in hotels. It was not until San Francisco that I would stay in hostels, near the Mission area, where all the peep shows and 24/7 corner stores were, surrounded by crackheads and addicts, young men in hoodies that stood by corners who you never ought to make eye contact with – young men with the infamous teardrop tattoo on the corner of their eyes, filled, the sign of convicted murderers.

You pass by when you’re walking through cities, exploring the world, the limp bodies that cower and tremble against the corners of buildings. You hear the fighting and shouts at night when staying at a hostel, in a ‘bad’ part of town, and the shouts are anything from rambling to threats.




You hear the women hollering, at invisible objects as you walk down the street at night. Imagine the terror it must be, to be a ‘pretty’ woman walking down those streets at night, alone, instead of cane-wielding black-clad male traveling from nowhere. I’m 6’2″ and tall for a Chinese man. You imagine what its like, because thats all you can do, for the people outside.

You hear the screams at night.


I watched from the windows of my hotel, nearby Folsom street, as a black woman walked down the road at 4 AM at night, tapping a hollow metal pipe in the middle of an empty street, singing to herself, then screaming at the top of her lungs something indecipherable.

I ordered a fucking pizza over the phone for $10 while some men and women tear each other apart, trade their dignity for less.

Only then, after a while, does it sink in; that awful realization that there’s the liars and the filth, the scum of the earth and the good and just that rot out in the streets, while ‘proper’ men and women sympathize and know nothing. Only then do you begin to realize, gradually, how lucky you are to be where you are.

I felt alone sometimes but I had the support of others from the fetish/BDSM crowds across the cities I went to. Simple well wishes, invites, a polite and respectful attitude; I found myself with the well wishes of men and women, individuals, all with a story to tell, hardships that led them where they were. Some of these people out there, whomever they may be, walk the earth alone.

By no means am I relating us, the percentage, against the many out there, individuals, all struggling to make a living, all fighting addiction and other bullshit conditions that are far worse than us.

I skipped a shower at times, out of tiredness, only to spend $10-$15 at cheap restaurants, glancing up at the ones that scream as they stroll down the street, pretending – like anybody else – they do not exist.

Only then did I think about, at times of loneliness, about the ones ‘below’ me on the social scale, the ones that we as a fucking society pretend they are invisible.

You can see why I’m eating so little now in Vegas, saving only enough, to eat at the $9 buffets with their day old shrimp and the pasty lukewarm chili meats and half-cooked chicken, served on those little orange and blue and green plastic plates that dating to 1978 manufactured in California. Why I try to brush past the casinos with their pretty lights, working girls, and the old retired folks in their fucking suits and fake Chanel earrings and perfumes, throwing $20’s and $50’s like it meant nothing.

Sure, maybe I’m being awfully judgmental. Maybe some of these people worked to get what they have. I know for a fact I never did because I had some savings left behind by my late father; so here I am, blowing off college funds for the sake of some adventure, for the sake of people I never knew. How I wish to scream at them at times and just tell them. How I wish I knew their stories and understand. How I wish to make them see.

It costs next to nothing to pass out a fucking DOLLAR to people out there, gamble with the odds of whether its spent on drugs or the cost of survival. Maybe I’m passing out quarters and loose change for the sake of karma, maybe its because I genuinely give a fuck about the people I see.

Maybe because it helps me sleep at night.


We judge one another because of what we ‘see’ as something we support or don’t. There’s folks within the BDSM culture that care, others just pretend they don’t. We fight amongst ourselves over relationships, perspectives, and beliefs. We argue about the same things that our brothers and sisters in the LGBT community argue about – where things are going, which groups to avoid, and other issues.

We worry about money, family, security, and at the same time we also give a shit – the actual ones, not the people who like to pretend that they do – about everyone else. There’s good days and bad days, sometimes trying out best to better everyone, sometimes stewing about how there’s a lack of communication and wanting to be left alone.

This isn’t some self-righteous bullshit realization, self-entitled and whatnot; its just how it is, a gritty realization of the hypocrisy that, everyone including myself, commit.
Its the greatest lie of them all that despite trying to help one another, we do our best to the ones we love, but for everyone else there is one awful truth: We can’t.


I met a man once in Victoria that identified the Leather Pride flag, flashed me a tattoo of the trinity symbol, and said he identified with the crowd once. He said he’s homeless. He had a leather family. I keep thinking he was Leather Vader but now that I think about it, he wasn’t the same guy.

His family died out. His leather family died out. His friends died out. His wife and children died out. He was alone. He was the only one left.

He’s out there somewhere starving himself off. I said for him to come to the munch. Get his ass to the community. We could help. I tugged at his hoodie, covered in filth. He could have been lying but he never asked for a single penny.

He just replied, he wants to see them all again, all on his own terms.

He walked off into the night.

I forgot his fucking name.


Bob wasn’t his name.

I can’t even remember his face.

All I know was that it happened sometime in my travels.

Why the fuck does it matter if that person was real or not, if the details were fucking accurate. I don’t need to prove shit to anyone. It doesn’t matter. These people are invisible, they aren’t fucking real. Believe what you want.

Go ahead and deny that then we’ll all go back to pretending that they don’t exist.

I used to lie alot but I can’t pretend. Not anymore.

I met a man that wanted me to kick him in the balls for a quarter and watched him cry, comforting him beneath a bridge. I offered him another dollar before I left.

I offered him an extra dollar and he refused.

He refused to take it.


“Dude, you’re like Forest Gump.” A man I met aboard the AmTrak from Portland to San Francisco said. “Your legs must be proper fit.”

Forest Gump was mildly retarded, I’m just a bit crazy, I replied.

“How do you do it?” He asked. “Walking between cities.”

I don’t know. After a while you just get used to it. You realize that when you start moving it isn’t very difficult.

“Did you seriously walk in Portland?” He asked.

Yeah, from the Convention Center to the Martin Luther King statue by the MAX station; from the motel across the street from the Union Jack, across that one bridge, to a pub nearby that gas station across the bridge, then all the way across the bridge south of that.

He gaped at me.

Before that, in Seattle, from the Best Western by Union Square to south of that, down the street to the wharf by the ferriswheel, where that wooden building is. Miner’s Landing I think.

He looked towards the woman working in the cafe car, that morning, who grabbed a nearby colleague. They all listened.

“Do you get tired when you do this?” he asked me. I nodded, said, sometimes I stop and hop on a bus or cab back to my hotel, rest, then get up and pick up where I left off.

“Are you doing this for charity?” the woman asked.

I shook my head.
I’m doing this because I want to see the world with my own two eyes.
I want to see what’s out there. Mostly for a group of people. Kinky people.

“Wait, like Fifty Shades of Grey?” she asked. I pressed my head against the table.

No, there’s more to it than that. Its fantasy, that book, and in the worst of ways, far from what the culture really is. If I never told you I was kinky, would you treat me any different? I’m an ordinary guy into weird things in my private life. There’s very little people actually understand. I want to find the ones out there, perhaps tell their stories, see their interactions.

I want to find what’s out there beyond that. We all have something in common. Tolerance.

I want people like you to understand, that we’re human, that some of us work jobs, go to school and have families; others like adventure, then there’s the occasional ones that just happen to be crazy enough to walk out the door and see the world.

I’m one of those people.


On Friday, I gambled money. I had a winning streak, betting the $20 that the woman on the train gave me, Dr Gomez, who said she had a talk show and was writing a book, was fighting breast cancer while shirking chemo. I think it was the same $20. I racked up another $20 then sat down to bet some more until I lost it all. I won maybe $27 and lost more than that.

Then another $20. Maybe I could win the money back.
Then another $20. Maybe I ought to stop.
Then a $5 bill. Very menial.
Then several $1 bills.

I met a guy on Friday, late past midnight, who told me a story about how he’s an alcoholic, came to Vegas after his mother died, can’t stop drinking, can’t stop gambling. Lost eighty thousand dollars in four months, gambled away her inheritance. He said he used to break legs as a collector for the mob and when the FBI cracked down, he became a drifter. He said he had the luck of the Irish, shook my hand and said here’s a bit of luck.

I stopped gambling after that.

I thought about Paul and Louie and everyone else who I’ve met.
I felt alone and afraid.

I reminded myself that this was a matter of choice.
I reminded myself that I had set out on a mission.

Remember where you’re from and what you’ve seen, why you’re here and everyone who you’d ever met up until this point.

Remember the stories that you’ve been told, the places you’ve seen, and where they’re all from.

I began to remember.

Then I began to cry.


I’ve been visiting the bar downstairs for cheap sodas and conversation ever since I arrived. There’s Manny the bartender, Tim the waiter and Tim the bartender, Cathy Ryans the actress, Matt the gambler, Dianne the croupier, and Jerry the bartender – a woman – who says she ought to have been named Geraldine because Jerry is a man’s name, her nickname.

They introduce me as the Guy Who Walks Cities.

I met a guy named Stevens who shook my hand and said something along the lines of “Damn, bro, you’re blessed. I lived four years in the street. Forty days recovering from meth. This here’s my friend, my baby’s mother’s boyfriend.” He introduced me to someone. I can’t remember his name. His friend said, “I’ve been shot nine times, stabbed, and ran over.” I thought of a guy I knew back home, who I will not identify on the blog, that had a similar experience. Hell, I’ve met two.

“Its an honor to meet you,” He said, shaking my hand. “You’ll make it to New York.”


People I’ve met in the BDSM scenes in Portland, San Francisco and LA have given me little nicknames. A leather dyke called me the Flag Carrier. Said something about how people of rank in leather carried flags in parades. A random girl, I forgot her name, called me the Wanderer from the Northwest.

I thanked them and said I’m just a regular guy, not above or below you, but Gods I don’t know how often I had to keep saying that to people that thanked me for what I was doing, paying tribute.

Someone said I was doing God’s work, a born again Christian, who was in the scene.

Someone in Portland, a leatherman I think, said he saw another close friend have the same intensity in my eyes, a friend that died.

Someone else said something about how it was in my eyes, a fire that burned, and how bright my aura was. Some kind of a switch or submissive or Domme in a latex catsuit.

Someone wrote me a message about how he came out to friends because he was inspired by my writing. He’s not the only one to do this.

Sometime ago I would have loved all the attention and fame. I would have liked the recognition. Hell, I fantasized about being in front of the Pride Parade. Now all I want to do is walk beside them, my beloved group back home, not ahead of them.


“Vegas is gonna eat you up, boy,” A black woman, a passerby who spoke with me, said in San Francisco, not far outside of Bondage-A-Go-Go, in San Francisco, one night. “It gone eat you up and spit you out like you is apple seed. Don’t you dare lose yourself in the glamor cause that’s all they is, pretty colors and nothing else. You is too honest and too young to be gambling your life away.”

She had listened to my story, brushing back tears. We met as I was walking to the BART station, outside a store, where I had a smoke. “You know what your name means, right?”

No, not really.

“Amos, in Hebrew, means to carry. So you go on and carry that flag and you tell em, boy, what you done and seen, where you from and why you’re here. You go on and tell em that.”


I had walked across the length of downtown Victoria, through the backstreets of Chinatown, the alleys with potted plants; across the length of the wharf, the fisherman’s market, and the legislative building.

I had walked from the Space Needle down to the ferriwheel, from the terminal station tunnels up to the city streets to the hill, then down to the CSPC and from the Georgetown Inn to the Square Knot, two blocks away, in the dead of night.

I had walked from the Union Jack all the way across the bridge to a pub where the PDX munch was held, around the area of Chinatown; repeatedly walked down the entire street from the Charitable Hostess’ house to a sushi bar; from the MAX tram station near Club Sesso to the courthouse.

I had walked all the way from Venecia street to Mission, near the fringes of dangerous Tenderloin, to Wicked Grounds and the Civic Building; all the way from the Zeitgeist pub, up the hills to the Marriott (or was it some other hotel?) and down the slope to Chinatown; from the Mission Station to Pier 39 then from there to Pier 1.

I had walked across the boulevards of Stonegate in Irvine to the nearby shopping center; three times around the Irvine Spectrum, out-walked my cousin by car, from the parking lot to the theater; from the motel at North Hollywood past two entire boulevards, off a bus, all the way down Sunset Boulevard; from a cafe of a munch up to my hotel, dead in the night, in Los Angeles, where I saw a moderately sized street fight break out, forcing me to navigate through the back of apartments.

I had walked all the way down from the Luxor hotel to the Circus Circus; from there to the fringes of West Sahara and gang territory, turned back quickly, then down the Strip and back for the past three days of my stay here in Vegas.

My legs were stiff. Often times I never realized how far I walked because I just kept my eyes ahead. The smell of my socks are potent and sometimes I had difficulty standing; at times, when flogging someone, my knees and shins would begin to tremble.

I had walked all that distance, carrying the flag of my culture in backpack or satchel, rode on buses and ferries and trains, up to that very moment.

My legs were very tired and I had only one clean shot at someone who was making a very bad joke and unknowingly pissed off someone who, at this point and time, was in no mood to joke around about these things.


On Saturday Night I walked down the Strip in Las Vegas. I had toured the hotels before but that’s another story. Bright lights, working girls, and Hispanic escort promoters that passed flyers and never spoke a word of English. Just shook their heads and smiled when I asked how they were.

It was outside the Hard Rock cafe or Planet Hollywood. There’s a balcony with metal rails on the patio where people sit and eat with umbrellas over their heads. It was late. Maybe ten or eleven at night, maybe later than that. The streets were packed with people walking all around, beautiful women in tight dresses that may or may not be an escort – there’s quite a few of those.

“Yo, kick me in the balls for twenty dollars!” I looked up from where I was walking, just doing the tourist thing, having taken photos throughout the days before. “Gimme twenty bucks and you can kick me in the nuts!”

The guy was well built, muscular arms, a black muscle shirt with sunglasses sticking out. He was a white guy, maybe early to late twenties. He was well built. He wore some type of jeans or track pants but it had the pockets that looked like jeans. It was baggy. I’m not sure. It was tight enough so that I caught a glimpse of the money clip and the Android phone sticking out of his pants.

His features were slightly red. He was clearly drunk. He kept laughing and looking up at the balcony where a trio of guys, mixed, were laughing and looking at him. They were shit faced too. He would say something to them from time to time. This was clearly a joke to them. I wouldn’t know the truth, maybe he was homeless, maybe he wasn’t.

There wasn’t any sense to talk to this guy. He was loud and belligerent. The guy was clearly intoxicated. He kept prompting people, sometimes calling out after they ignore him. Heck, if I tried to talk sense to him, again I may be acting judgmental, he probably would have tried to fight me. It wasn’t worth the risk.

But this was the perfect opportunity for ‘reason’ indeed.

He had a perfectly legitimate business proposition and I was about to take him up for it.

I remember these details because I’ve been miserable for the past few days, beating myself up with enough cigarettes to kill a man, contemplating everything that has happened. This isn’t to win your support or gain favors upstairs. I had set out on a mission and I’m going to stick to it.

Hey man, I said walking up to him, you for real?
The guy started laughing, breathless, and said, “Yeah, bro, help me out.”
Sure, I replied. You won’t fight back?

“No, bro, its cool, twenty bucks and you can KICK. ME. IN. THE. NUTS!” He yelled the last part for emphasis, then laughed, held the sign in my face. I think it was cardboard, maybe a magazine cover. It was very poorly done. He kept looking up at the trio and I had seen enough.

You sure? Any way I like? I asked.
“Yeah, bro, twenty bucks.” He said.


The Man-Who-Isn’t-Bob said something that I vaguely remember. He said that when people kick you in the nuts, you brace your footing and take a deep breath. You breathe out as when they kick you. Most people miss and kick his gooch, that area between ass and crotch, which he sometimes pads out with tissue or towels. He had a sports cup that he wore as protection which helped, up until it broke.

He said never to hold your breath or close your eyes because that makes it worse and that you could pass out. “You wanna try it?” He asked. Fuck no, I said.


A small crowd of people stopped and clear enough room. I checked around for cop and cameras. There weren’t any that I noticed or saw. I stepped back and looked around. From a nearby bush, I found a sizeable rock that I stuffed into my shoe; his friends, at least I think, all started cooing at the sight. I looked up and one of them gave me a thumbs up, shouted, “DO IT!”

How long have you been out in the streets? I asked.

“Five years, bro!” He said, slurring slightly.

For real? I asked him.
“Yeah, man, kick me already!” He said, louder.
Hey, I replied,  paid you $20 remember? Wait and answer my questions.
He waved a hand to hurry it up.
I knew right away this was a dare that was going horribly out of control.
“You gonna kick me or what?” He said. I made sure to look up, saw the trio laugh, clap slightly, watching. One of them booed at me.

Alright, I said, stepping back enough to get room to run. I sidestepped in a semi-circle, preparing my momentum.

“DO IT!” one of the drunk trio said. From the crowd above, two women, both white, one blond, the other dark haired, laughing pushed towards the balcony. One of them said, loudly, “Oh my God!” then covered her mouth to hide a grin.

You done this before? I asked. Five years?
“Yeah, bro, five years.” He said.
Close your eyes, I said.
He closed his eyes.

Pull up your pants, make a shape, I added.
He pulled up his pants and I saw the bulge of his crotch beneath the loose pants.

Hold your breath, I said.
He held his breath.

I took half a step back, reared, all the while as a crowd of maybe twenty to fifty people all formed a semi-circle around this spectacle. Everyone seemed to hold their breath. I’d been in fights before, back when I was younger, being mixed with a bad crowd. I felt tense with alertness, adrenaline giddy for all the wrong reasons.

What’s your name? I asked.
He began to reply, eyes closed, “My name is

Artist's depiction.

It was worth every penny.

Before he could finish, from where I stood beside him, I sprang forward at full running speed and kicked him upwards, in the lifting arching motion of a football punt; the momentum carried by the weight of the rock at the tip of my shoe lifted up in an instant, followed by the ball of my foot. To add further motion, I yanked my arms back as I connected upwards, further adding to the effect of the impact.

The bro lurched forward as the crowd, synchronized in effect, let out an ‘ooohhh‘. Some guys reeled with their hands on the crouches, the girls above shrieked at the sight of this event; the drunken trio reeled their heads laughing, hysterically even, clutching the rails for support. One of them held his stomach and dropped to his knees. There was a dreadful silence before people everywhere began laughing. I didn’t.

His hands moved to his cock, losing balance, tripped over the side and nearly into the bushes nearby. He fell down onto the sidewalk, keeled over onto his side, never once letting go of his crotch. One of the trio moved, laughing nonstop, for the stairs, trying to make his way down to us. Suddenly this practical daredevil was no longer smiling or laughing, instead moving his hands onto the pavement, reeled back his head and began to vomit.

There was a puddle on the concrete and his thighs were wet with substance. There was no blood. The fluids that trailed down there spread over his pants, creating a stain barely visible against the light gray or white of his pants; his hands were moist with urine, dribbling down his knees. From above me at the balcony, the two remaining members of the trio began to howl with laughter; all the while as several other people joined them, clapping, trying to compose themselves. Some woman said, “Oh my God.”

I looked down at him then, I shit you not, I simply said:
My name is Paul Louie from Victoria, BC.

That's how we say hello to lying douchebags in Canada, asshole.

Sadly no wine glass was involved.

The bro rolled around in agony.
You need an ambulance? I asked.
“No, its cool,” He added. Seconds later he vomited some more.
Pleasure doing business then, I said.

His drunken friend staggered towards him, stopped and laughed harder. I ducked into the crowd, made my across the street, towards one of the many bridges over the traffic lanes, and watched from a distance at the group. I carry a first aid kit at all times, first for my toy bag, in case of emergency during a play party; these days I carry it everywhere, in case someone including myself needed first aid.

No ambulances, no cop cruisers; people continued to walk by, minding their own business. I watched him get helped up by a friend, saw two of them hop around, clapping and laughing, point at him, gradually watching them turn around the corner as he limped and disappeared.

After that I moved, invisible like a ghost, back into the crowds.


I didn’t know who he was or how it was that he got there. Frankly I didn’t care and, in my own eyes, I had literally seen enough.

He didn’t know I am a self-identified sadist that knew how to hurt people, consensually, mostly for pleasure.

He didn’t know the things I saw or the people I’ve met worse off than he was.

Well, not vomiting and pissing yourself in Las Vegas, in front of your friends because of some stupid immature dare that isn’t very funny to people in that neck of the woods, that’s for sure. I may have killed several lines of his future offspring and ruined his trip to Vegas, this much I do know.

Even if he tried to press charges, benefit from some kind of a lawsuit should I publish this memoir into a book – which, in all likelihood, I probably will – one can argue that he was paid for his ‘services’ on Saturday night. Before you condemn me for going against my initial word, that is this journey not being for benefit, try to at least imagine the expenses so far. I admit it was a very reckless thing to do. I’m not telling you this for your support, not for the sake of boasting – this is merely a small part of my journey, part of a bigger picture.

A Dominant should never play with someone while in a bad headspace., never let their anger or emotions be manifested in a scene save for discipline.
It wasn’t exactly safe or sane but it was definitely consensual.

This wasn’t assault. This wasn’t a scene.
This was simply business.


On Saturday night I kicked a man in the balls hard enough to make him piss and vomit all over himself, and enjoyed every second of it, like a true sadist should.

I wish I took a photo or video of it.

This entry was posted in Journal, Personal Thoughts/Insight, Reckless Behavior and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to A Shot to the Nuts

  1. Nurdified says:

    Powerfully written. Thank you.

  2. Pingback: The Follies of Youth | Tales of a Masked Deviant

  3. Justine says:

    Wait did this really happen or is it made up? Can you do it again and record a video of it next time please?

  4. Justine says:

    Did you really do this? Have you ever kicked anyone else in the balls?

    • It happened a very long time ago when I was traveling. I would rather not repeat the experience again so no, there will not be a video. However, I’m sure it might be somewhere out there – some people had their cameras out at the time.

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