Steve Austin's Cock

By The Humble Gent

Brushes with celebrities can be disappointing affairs. That chance meeting with your hero/tissue fantasy can lead to such utter comedown. Why? Because, quite rightly, you expected so much, and that young lovers is why, if Liam cocks you a snook or Fern calls you a queer, it can be as painful and hard to bear as getting your face nailed to a table. Be it a footballer stubbing a cigar out in you eye, or a chef calling you a prick, it doesn’t matter. It’s still hard to take. However, if you handle it correctly, it can be the night of your life. 

I’ve met many celebs, tasted the high life and sipped the finest Cava with B listers, C listers and tongue grappled with the odd A lister. Her off ’Rita, Sue and Bob too’ even wanted to buy my trainers (Green Adidas SL76), I’ve told that blonde haired kid off ’Cutting It’ to fuck off. But the high point of my celeb mingling days, the zenith of my career, happened one hot and steamy night in a country far far away.

Sat in a sports arena with my elder brother, a dark and handsome man of some character, drinking ice cold beer (Budweiser) and making small talk with a couple of Cuban models, our ulterior motive one of nefarious intent i.e the sole intention making the encounter anything but brief, we  realised that if sexual intercourse was coming up next grapple fans, we needed to purchase a latex sheath (johnny). To share obviously. So off I pop in search of the nearest latrine. Imagine the scene if you will. An arena filled to capacity with blood thirsty wrestling fans, moustachioed and hairy with enough acrylic and hairspray to make the place a time bomb. One spark, one stray match and kaboom, it’s over. And more than enough blubber and overactive sweat glands than I could handle. So I had to tread carefully. Also, being challenged height wise was a severe disadvantage. The journey was perilous. But still, I search ceaselessly. Eye of the tiger, the thrill of the fight…Nuts nuts gerrum gerrum, nuts nuts gerrum gerrum…as the squirrels they do say.

Oh look, there goes Sylvester Stallone. Crikey, there’s James Caan. It meant nothing to me. I was here for one reason and one reason only. My mission: Toilets + Sheath + Cubans = Do the nasty. That was my job and I was here to do it. Distractions everywhere, it was a fucking carnival. Bizarre dwarfs, midget gimps, shaved monkeys on uni- cycles smirking tabs, three titted women lezzing off. Any other time this would be joy but today…not today, not tonight, not now. Brushing past the colossus mass of giant burgers, chilli dogs and council estate sized pepsi cartons I could see my Xanadu no more than 100 yards away.

Eye of the tiger.

I turn to look for my brother. Was it for his benefit or for more selfish reasons. Would he still be there or was his ‘you get the rubbers I’ll keep ‘em talking…’ just a cunning and elaborate ruse to get me, the only competition in the gladitorial arena, out of the way. The cheese eating bastard. 

It’s ok. I see him, he’s still there. He’s doing fine, reeeeeal fine. They’re hanging on his every word, he’s an artist, he’s Gilbert and George. God bless him. He looks up and we make eye contact. He smiles. I smile back. I feel like saluting. We are soldiers of fortune, The A-Team, we’ve discovered the new world. I turn and head towards my America, this America. Not long now my brother, not long now. 

There’s a queue. Shit and piss. It’s snaking out of the toilet. The waters are boiling, soon to overflow. Fuck fucking fuck. Keep focused. I have no choice. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I barge past the plebs. Holding my mouth as if to be sick people scatter like I’m spraying lead from an AK47. Bingo. Not be long now. I see the trough, it’s tractor beam's pulling me in. I squeeze in between two beige suited gunslingers and unzip the lad. I turn to acknowledge my pissing companions. Fucking hell fire…that’s Steve Austin. The Six Million Dollar Man. I freeze. It’s not often you find yourself having a wee-wee next to your hero. I look up at him with a ’I wish you were my dad…’ look in my eyes, he looks down at me with a ‘Hey kid, what the hell you looking at…’ look in his eyes. Again I freeze. Again eyes meet. He smiles. I smile back. And giggle abit. I lean forward. I snatch a glimpse of his cock. He’s uncomfortable now. I’ve made him uncomfortable. The toughest man on earth is freaked out. He blinked first. He forces his wee out. It’s like a freekin' horse. Christ Almighty. He shakes it. Violently. Like he’s trying to kill it or at least render it unconscious. A renegade splash of his wee-wee careers away from it’s target and like a heat-seeking missile scores a direct hit…boo-yah…right on the side of my rosy red cheek. The dirty bastard. He zips up and leaves. I feel elated yet deflated. Here I am not wanting to ever wash my cheek again yet I’ve got Steve Austin’s piss on my face. I leave it on. After a few minutes it starts to sting. So I wash it off. A single tear rolls down my pissy cheek.

I’ll never forget you Steve Austin, you’ll always be a part of me.

I was seven years of age.

Some of the above is made up. Some of it isn’t.