Hard Knock Life

It’s the life I lead, and you’ve got to be tough-skinned to live it. You’ve got to be big, but lean, curved at the right places. Yeah, you’ve got to be a rugger ball. You’ve got to be me.

I was born into a broken family, grew up in a broken home, in a broken neighbourhood, with a broken air pump. They had to hold down the pin with their bare hands to get me breathing, but I toughened up and I can take it from a balloon if I have to. But I don’t know if I want to anymore.

There comes a time when you begin to wonder. When you’re left alone for so long, forgotten in some corner of a dusty room, you start to think. And I have had thoughts. Profound thoughts! On the nature of life itself, on the nature of nature! Thoughts of how every rugger ball has led their life, what they’ve aspired to be. To be tossed around at the Six Nations, Tri Nations, and the WRC. But does it mean anything at all? What is the purpose we serve?

Rugby is a game played by men with odd-shaped balls, I once heard.

Am I odd-shaped? Am I… queer?

Suddenly I feel insecure, when I look at other balls, I shrivel.

How can this be happening? I thought I was tough! I thought nothing could break me down. But I’ve been shattered, I could cry.

But rugger balls don’t show their emotions, we keep them locked up inside. Sealed in tight, we don’t let a breath of air out, and not a sigh. That is just how we are. And that is how we’ll always be. Until the day we deflate.

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Dust

Dust.

It clings to the walls of this place. It falls thick and thin at the same time, neatly furring the walls, and roughly caressing my mind with it’s dampening…dustiness.

Dust transcends space. It is greater than the sum of its pants. Dust is, and always will be, my world. Dust does not care for things, it just lies on top of them, like a dead rat. Except dust covers dead rats too.

Everywhere I look, the world is just a little bit dimmer for dust. Everything looks a little dead, lifeless and dead. Cold. Fear. Solace.

I remember days when I knew people. You might think this an old ball’s tall tale, but hear me out. Long ago, I used to be thrown around on beaches and bounced on footboards on buses. I spun through the salty air of the south coast like a young sparrow shooting through a hail of Suricata suricatta being thrown at it. I was nimble. I was agile. I tempted twins with my guile.

It pains me to see what I’ve become now. A ball with no purpose. I cannot even remember where I am right now. Such is the decay that has beset my old mind.

Take heed, readers. If you ever have a ball, use it. If you stop needing it, please. Please, do not let it fall into this state. Kill it. Slit it straight through. Spare it my fate. This fate.

Balls

Jerry’s balls, to be precise.

It all started on Saturday night. Fallen threw a party at his place since his parents were away, and most of the gang were there. There was some booze and weed, and a lot of loud music. But the highlight of the night was when most of the guests had left and only the one’s sleeping over were left. RealSkullZero was rolling up the last few joints while Fallen and his brother were cooking dinner, at 2am, and we were all gathered at the table blabbering like most stoners do. Jerry was the main contributor, and he wouldn’t stop talking.

He was drunk, and loud. And he wouldn’t stop talking about balls.

None of us can really remember what he was saying since we were all pretty intoxicated, on one thing or the other, but we were all laughing our asses off at whatever it was he was saying. Maybe he didn’t realize what he was talking about, maybe he was finally coming out of the closet and revealing his secret love for all things circular. At one point Dinna brought up something about Jerry holding onto a pair of balls, and then it zooms out to show us Jerry with a cow. “I love you”, Jerry says. “Moo”, says the cow.

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Even more hilarious was when someone commented on Fallen being dressed in black, and Jerry had to add that Fallen sometimes “comes in a burst of white”. TMI, would be an understatement.

Good fun though, it was. And no one will forget Jerry’s balls.

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Saved!

Finally!

After 2 months of suffering beneath the bed of the Unsilent, I have been rescued. He came in bursting through the door, kicking it in to find the Unsilent enjoying a quiet wank whilst watching gay porn on hotmale.com, and swiftly dove under the bed to find me and rescue me, deftly avoiding all the wet tissues and fagmags, he is my hero. He is St. Fallen.

I’m now here at his place, using his pc for the first time, it’s… so… white! My nonexistent eyes squint at the screen. I think I may be going blind. Maybe it was all those Godforsaken days and nights spend in the darkness of Unsilent’s bed. I feel happy now, though I can’t see a thing. It’s a good thing I learnt how to┬átouch-type.

Tomorrow the guys will be taking me to Buba after what seems like eons, but first I need a good pumping. St. Fallen will be taking me to the bike repair kadey to get me blown. Unsilent didn’t seem to grasp the concept of blowing balls. Blowing cocks though, especially his own pet cock, he is a master at. Master Bater, they call him.

Oh tomorrow, you seem so close yet so far away.
Bu…
Ba…

The Hike

They’re leaving me out again, heading to the hills this time to explore the Knuckles range and violate some cave. Sigh…

I feel so left out, at least Unsilent doesn’t leave me out in the garden to lose air and be pecked and sat on by birds and squirrels. I’m going to try look on the bright side, as impossible as it may be from underneath the darkness of his bed.

For one, I don’t have to deal with Jerry manhandling me. And I don’t need to squint at PapareBoy to get past his horrible hair. Also, I don’t have to worry about The Whackster stealing all the female attention from me. Not that I get any attention, let alone female, under here.

Once in a while someone comes by to sweep Unsilent’s room. She doesn’t bend over, so I never see her face. She hums some tune as she sweeps the floor, and I choke on the dust, dying slowly of asthma. Who am I kidding, balls can’t have asthma.

Dying slowly.

*cough*

I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!1

This cannot go on. I can’t live like this. No ball should ever have to suffer as I have. I have been here for weeks,┬ámolding┬ábeneath the bed of the unsilent, suffocating, choking on the excrement of this world. What have I done to deserve this? Nothing! I have done nothing yet I am made to suffer like this.

God does not care about rugger balls.

There, I said it. Strike me down if I have said wrong! You won’t, I know you won’t. Why? Because you don’t even listen to me! As I cry in pain, screaming agony, cursing the day I was inflated, to deflate into this ugly mess that I have become. Sigh… WHY GOD, WHY!?

Why must my fate be so? I never did anyone any harm, never thought a wrong thought, I have always been innocent. Even whilst being smothered against the bosom of many young women I have never even thought of exploring their genitals, not even once! I am not a football, I am a rugger ball, I have dignity.

But there seems to be no use of this dignity, this honor, this false pride. For I am nothing but a mere plaything. Yes, I admit it. I was not crafted by some higher being, I was created by humans. I am no divine creation, I have no Adam nor Eve, I have no… God. I have no life.

I am just a rugger ball.

Alone

Living under Unsilent’s bed is an ordeal. It has changed me.
I am a different ball for it. I am a different ball in spite of it.
I am a ball.

That is all I have to hold on to.
The occasional breadcrumb or adult magazine comes to visit me down here.
But I fear I am losing it.

I also seem to write very different, but that is normal. I am different.

I am a ball.

I thought I was a rugger ball. I am not so sure any more.
I thought Unsilent was a human male. That is what I thought.

The bed. It is a different world unto itself. I am under this world. All the filth, the excrement, the waste of that world is thrown to me. I huddle under it. I have no arms. Huddling is impossible.

I stay stationary under it.

I fear for my air every time a sudden movement is made at night. The Unsilent, he kicks. He bucks, pummels and engages in animalistic bestiality all with his little red pillow. The pillow occasionally falls over the side and we are, for a brief moment, face to face. He pleads through his stitches, ‘help me’, but I am a ball. I cannot do anything.

The unsilent one then grunts and drags the pillow back up. I catch a glimpse of his Hello Kitty boxers as he mutters ‘get back here, bitch‘. I am a ball, I cannot do anything.

In this prison I await, to be rescued by my companions. They have not come for me yet, but I know they will. They give me hope. That hope alone keeps me from losing everything.

The Unsilent is to me, some kind of outlandish beast only intent on pleasuring itself. In women’s underwear.

It must die.

But I am a ball, I cannot do anything.

I am alone.