"SABRE BLEU!" sighed France dramatically. "Zis Olympic Opening Ceremony is absolutely dreadful!"
I didn't reply. Because I was nodding off.
"WAKE UP WHEN I'M SPEAKING TO YOU!" sobbed France.
I startled awake. I was sitting on the sidelines, waiting for the Parade of Nations to finish. Gosh, it's so late and we're only on the letter I? Wait a minute! We let bad countries like Iraq and Iran into the Olympics? ! Why are they allowed? ! What, did they make terrorist bombing an Olympic event? Because they'd take the gold!
"Ugh, sorry," I said to France. "This is way past my bedtime."
"You better stay awake," he said, watching some country I'd never heard of come in. "With England busy with the Olympics, I have no one to complain to!"
I yawned. "I don't think it's that bad. Well, the part I was awake for anyway."
"Please! I have so many complaints! England has done this all wrong!"
"Like why is David Beckham's shirt on? !"
Oh. How could I forget I was talking to a pervert? When David Beckham was coming down the Tims (England says it's spelled Thames, but he says Tims, so he obviously can't spell) in that speedboat, my first thought was NOT that his shirt should be off. It was who the heck is David Beckham? I tried Googling him on my iPhone, but it kept changing his last name to 'Neckties.' True story, you guys.
"A gorgeous body like zat should be free for ze whole world to see!" said France, getting a creepy look on his face.
I played Doodlejump on my phone so I didn't have to pay much attention to him. "You'll get your sick, perverted fill during the swimming and diving events."
"Yesssss … so much skin …" When I glanced up, I saw he looked even creepier. A total raper face. "Zat will be a lovely sight. Zose Speedos are so tiny and form fitting! I cannot wait to see everyone's le penis bulge."
"Um … eew. That's messed up." I was really grossed out. But not enough to look up from my phone. "I'm gonna pray for you tonight, France. I'm gonna ask God to release you from your bathing suit ding-a-ling bulge addiction. Also that you shave tonight if you're gonna be wearing a Speedo. AMEN!"
"Ahh," sighed France as he sat down eerily close to me. "But America. I am addicted to so much more zan just ogling le penis bulges in men's bathing suits. Also, no, you will see what hair on a MAN looks like."
"I'm afraid to ask what else you're addicted to," I replied, still Doodlejumping it up. "Though I'm gonna go ahead and assume it's wieners because you're probably a filthy sodomite like England. Also, just because I don't have an afro of pubic hair doesn't mean I'm not a MAN."
"Honhonhon!" he cackled. "A sodomite? Oh, America, your Puritan roots amuse me so! It's endearing, in a way. How naïve and virginal and stupid you are. But you are somewhat right … I cannot wait for ze Wank-a-Thon! HONHONHON AT THE THON! However are you going to survive?" He smirked at me. "Also, don't be jealous of my thick masculine hair because your le testicles are as smooth as a ten year old boy's."
"Um, they are smooth like that because I shaved them! EVER HEARD OF SHAVING? ! It's what you do to go faster in the water when you swim – wait a minute. How do you know what a ten years old boy's testicles feel like?" Then it hit me. "WAIT A MINUTE! Did you say Wank-a-Thon? !"
"Honhonhon! Oui, yes, I did!"
My iPhone dropped to the ground. And broke. I was trembling. "Uh … n-now I'm not completely familiar with British slang, and also not on pervert slang … but doesn't 'wank' mean to masturbate?"
"OUI IT DOES!" said France very excitedly. "Oh, I cannot wait! So many men, completely naked, in ze throes of self-love passion, vigorously stroking and pumping zeir le cocks — thick, veiny, manly cocks — for hours on end, having orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, emptying zeir seed for ze crowd, as ze hot white liquid runs down zeir hand and zen down zeir arm, until zey do it so much zey are spent, zeir orgasms become dry, and eventually, zey collapse in a puddle of zeir own—"
"GAHHH!" I exclaimed. Why I waited so long to interrupt him, I don't know. "What the heck! A masturbating contest? ! You're joking, right? ! This is your sick fantasy and you're gonna make it into a novel and publish it and call it 50 Shades of Gay, right? !"
"No, no, it is very real. It is one of ze Olympic events zis year."
And here I thought gymnastics was gay! Somehow thrusting yourself all around a pommel horse is as manly as Chuck Norris compared to this! (Did you know that Chuck Norris once kicked a horse in the chin? Its descendants are now known as giraffes. I read this once on a guy's T-shirt so it's true facts. Also Chuck Norris doesn't check the closet for the Boogeyman before he goes to bed – the Boogeyman checks his closet for Chuck Norris. Also on that T-shirt.)
"England does Wank-a-Thons all ze time," said France. "But only for his own people. However … since he is hosting ze Olympics zis year, he decided to make it an extra event."
"H-he can't do that!"
"Ah, he did, though it's a bit of a secret. A secret, sexy event just to have some fun, honhonhon!"
Gosh, I sure hope it's a secret. Can you imagine them broadcasting a masturbation marathon on NBC with the rest of the Olympics? Brian Williams would not have very much fun covering that story. (But Anderson Cooper would, because he's a sodomite and all. Thank the good Lord that CNN did not get the Olympic coverage!)
"I refuse!" I said. "I refuse on moral grounds! God would not like it if I saw other guys touching their penises in front of me! Don't y'all know that if you masturbate, you go blind? !"
"Heh … I have had a lot of experience in self pleasure, yet I have perfect 20-20 vision. And I don't think you can say the same, no?"
I nervously adjusted my glasses. "Eew! I never masturbate. That's a sin and totally disgusting. You should know this, France! You used to be a really religious country! Didn't God tell Joan de Arc all this stuff? She never would have saved your country and freed all the slaves with Harriet Tubman if she had been wasting her time touching her … uh … um …"
"Hoho," chuckled France. "Blanking zere, America?"
"… uh, what's that thing girls have? Not the hole thing. The other thing. It's like a little jellybean and gets hard-"
"HONHONHON!" France laughed at me. "I am surprised you even know that exists! How did virgin America learn about zat, hmm?"
"You told me! And I didn't even ask!"
"Oh, zat's right!"
Just then, my peoples were walking out for the Parade of Nations. Ugh. Our outfits. WHYYYYY? ! We looked terrible :(
"Cute berets," said France.
That's why we looked terrible. Why did we wear berets? ! BERETS ARE FRENCH! Why didn't we just come out wearing a striped shirt and a twirly mustache and a long cigarette in our hands and a penis in our mouths like French people too? !
"At least this thing is finally almost over," I sighed. "I really want to get back to the hotel."
"You can come back to mine if you want …" said France, smirking at me. "We can train together for ze event …"
I sure hope I run as fast as I did right then during the track events. I'll bring home the gold, because I was jamming. Because, EEEW. I'm not a gay sodomite like France and England. Plus, if I wanted an STD I'd just rub my genitals on a toilet seat. But I don't want to so I won't do that nor will I get gay with France.
"Heeeey … England. It's me. America."
"Oi, I know it's you. We do have caller ID in this country, you know."
It was the next morning. I was still at the hotel room, in the bed, in my jammies. I had to give England a call first thing! Because there was no way I was entering some homo masturbating contest with penises. I've never looked at my WWJD bracelet and thought of THAT activity!
Because seriously. Can you get much more sinful than that? Hundreds of countries masturbating for as long as they can … such perversion and lust! When I got back to the hotel last night, I had to pray so much just to get the naked, sweaty images out of my head. Darn that France for putting them in there!
I was doing extra praying. I carried a wooden cross with me at all times. (The empty one, not the one with a little Jesus on it. I'm not some kid-molesting Catholic.) And my best plan of all to keep my holiness? I put myself on an all Jesus diet. I would eat nothing but his body and blood until I returned from this modern day Gomorrah! (AKA London.)
Oh, and nowadays, Christ's body and blood is white bread and grape juice. I got grape Kool Aid instead because mmm, Kool Aid :D (Okay, it was actually Flavor Aid, but same difference. Shut up.)
Eating nothing but these two holy things should keep me devout and holy amongst all this sinnin'. That was my plan. That and British food sucks, LOL.
"I'm calling about this so-called Wank-a-Thon," I said to England over the phone. "I refuse to go. On moral grounds."
"It's not optional," said England. "If you refuse, I'll have you kicked out of the rest of the Olympic events as well."
"WHAT! You can't do that! I trained so much! Do you know how HARD I worked? ! So much went into my brutal training, blood, sweat, and tears—"
"And now semen," interrupted England. "You can add that to your list of Olympic bodily fluids."
"Nooooo!" I whined. "This isn't fair! I'm a good Christian fellow! I shouldn't have to choose between my faith and my medals I'm so gonna win because I totally rock the Olympics! Plus don't you know that masturbating makes you go blind?"
Then I thought up a genius excuse. I am so smart.
"OH!" I said. "Actually, I can't go because I'm sick."
"Eh? With what?"
"Um …" Okay, I hadn't thought it quite all the way the way through. But that's okay. Jesus is here with me. He's always with me. Right on this hotel bed with me. Now … what would Jesus say in this situation? I'm gonna go with leprosy. He was always talking about those nasty lepers! That and because I don't wanna admit that he'd really probably say that it was wrong to lie. Shhh. I don't wanna think about that.
"Leprosy," I said. "Um, yep. Got me a real back case of the leps."
"Right," said England sarcastically. "And just how did you get a mostly eradicated disease in this day and age?"
"Well, clearly, I … uh …" I hesitated. Luckily Jesus was there to help me! Thank you, Jesus. You da man. "… did some mission work in Africa. Uh, yeah. Over in … umm … Liber … istan. Yeah. Those peoples over there are so poor they can't even afford food! Not even off the Dollar Menu at McDonald's! So I went over there, like a good Christian, and gave them Bibles and Big Macs, and they all lived happily ever after. OOH! Except for me, because I got leprosy."
"You are so full of shit, America."
"Noooooo! It's true. OOOOH! Ouch, my leprosy hurts so bad! Can't you hear my pain?"
"You're lying and I don't believe you. Your arse better be at the Wank-a-Thon, or I'll have you disqualified. GOOD DAY SIR."
"No wait!" I said. "Don't hang up! This is bullpoop! I shouldn't be punished for doing missionary work. I should be rewarded!"
"Heh … I have a missionary job for you to do …"
"Huh? You do? Well, I mean, I'm kinda busy, I'll have to check my schedule and get back to you …" Please don't make me do real missionary work. It's hot in Africa and my iPhone gets no service :(
"Oh, you don't have to go very far."
"What? Where's this missionary job at?"
"On top of me."
That one took me a minute. Then I could hear England chuckling on the other end of the line, and I knew it must have been something perverted.
"Missionary is the position where the penetrating partner is on top, and both are face to f—"
"YEAH, I KNOW!" I interrupted England. "I just didn't know what to say to your perverted comment!"
This was nothing new. England is quite the pervert. I mean, all countries except me are. Especially England. Well, also especially France. But also especially England! He's always trying to have the sex with me. Always hitting on me, making all these sexual hints and jokes and stuff, sneaking into my room and watching me sleep as he pleasures himself above me before I wake up. So annoying!
Of course, I always turn him down. Or tell him to shut up. Or toss him out the window when I wake up with sticky, white jammies because of that sneaking into my room thing. Seriously. That is messed up!
He's been trying to recruit me as a gay for years. Gays like recruiting people. It's like their hobby (along with shoving things up their butts.) England has made it very clear he wants to shove me up his butt. But that ain't gonna happen. It's a sin to shove stuff up your butt.
"I only made this an Olympic event for you, you know," said England. "I've wanted for so long to see you naked. To see you aroused. And pleasuring yourself. I don't give a rat's arse about the other contestants. I just want something to fantasize about before I go to bed …"
"Or hover above my bed …" I muttered.
"And I know you don't have leprosy, so you're going. I will not miss out on this opportunity."
"Uh, just kidding. I don't got leprosy. I got … um … whooping cough. Yeah, whooping cough! WHOOP WHOOP! See?"
"The 'whoop' is not in the actual cough, but the gasping sound you make after to recover air. Once again, you are full of shit."
"Well, I'm not a doctor! Maybe it's … um … consumption! That's gotta be it. COUGH COUGH. Ugh, yeah, I totally got the consumption."
"Why do you keep choosing such old, outdated diseases? I know you don't have tuberculosis. You lose a lot of weight with TB."
Fat jokes are not funny, GRRR!
"In any case," said England. "No matter what ailment you make up, you need an official note from the Olympic medical officer before you can be excused from the event."
A doctor's note? ! Well, there's no way I'm fooling a doctor! Oh poop. Well, this is what I get for lying, I suppose! I knew it was a sin and I did it anyway. Forgive me Jesus! I know not what I do! Okay, I did, but forgive me anyway! Plus it's kinda his fault anyway. Jesus is always with me yet he didn't even stop me! Why did I even invite him into my heart and hotel bed and birthday parties if he isn't gonna help me?
Well, now I know the solution. I just had to think up some disease or condition I really did have so that I wasn't lying. Hmmm …
Uh oh! I'm healthy! DARN IT! Why did I thank God so many times in my prayers for my good health? ! I nervously sipped my Kool Aid while I thought about that.
Then I realized that I actually DO have one thing wrong with me! HOORAY FOR DISEASES AND CONDITIONS!
"England!" I exclaimed, all excitedly. "I HAVE RESTLESS LEGS SYNDROME!"
"… the hell?"
Lots of times when I'm snuggling into bed all comfy in my jammies, all ready to go night-night, I can't. Why? Because suddenly I have the urge to move my legs! SUCH A TERRIBLE AFFLICTION! I move them and I feel better … temporarily. But it always comes back! Having uncomfortable sensations in the leg is so awful. I wouldn't wish this condition on my worst enemy (even though they're allowed in the Olympics for some reason.)
"I have it for real, England," I said. "So a doctor would write me a note! HA!"
"… and just how would Restless Legs Syndrome prevent you from masturbating?"
Gosh darn it. I didn't think about that. I was concentrating so much on telling the truth for once that I forgot what this was actually for! (Sparing me from seeing a ton of international ding dongs.)
"If anything," said England. "It would hinder you in other Olympic events that involve your legs, such as track and field, swimming, walking—"
"Noooo I actually wanna do those — wait, did you say walking?"
"Yes. Walking is one of the Olympic events. Didn't you know that?"
"HAHAHAHA! … no."
"Well, it is. So if you so called restless legs are so bad off that you can't masturbate, you certainly can't compete in any other sport either."
"NOOOOO!" I yelled. "It doesn't affect that! I'm fine for real sports! Even walking! Haha, walking is a sport … why is that so funny to me—"
"I won't hear any more of your nonsense. I know you're not sick. So you absolutely must be at the Wank-a-Thon. It's not optional. I have waited too long, gone through too much work to lose this now. I simply must see you naked, hard, pleasuring yourself, the way your face looks when you c—"
I hung up on England. OOPS! Guess I have Restless Finger Syndrome too, haha!
I sat on the hotel bed for a long time. Doing some serious soul searching. Talking to Jesus. Drinking Kool Aid and eating white bread.
"Whatever shall I do, Jesus?" I asked my wooden cross. "I can't forfeit the Olympics! But I'm definitely not going to be in some big gay international circle jerk! Forgive me for using that term. I learned it from France."
As I drank the Kool Aid I thought, is this really Christ's blood? Not because I doubt my faith, oh heavens no! It's just because in the commercials the Kool Aid Man is a big jug of this stuff. So actually I'm kinda drinking the Kool Aid Man's blood, not Christ's.
Wait a minute … IS THE KOOL AID MAN JESUS? ! :O
No, no that can't be right. Jesus wouldn't burst through people's walls like that. Bursting through walls is a sin.
This diet wasn't so bad. I never planned on eating British food anyway. I packed a whole suitcase full of Twinkies to eat! That was gonna be my entire diet while in England before I switched to the Jesus diet. Twinkies never expire. I was originally gonna also eat Ho-Ho's and Ding Dongs, but come on. Ho-Ho's must be tied to prostitution and Ding Dongs are another word for penises! And I was not gonna put penises in my mouth.
But you know what I couldn't get enough of in my mouth? DAT KOOL AID. I was so thirsty! I guess that just meant I really needed Jesus in me. I needed his help. Not sure what the Christian symbolism of having to pee constantly was, but I'm sure that meant something too.
Because seriously. I was peeing so much! Like every hour! Sometimes even more! I guess because I was drinking up that Christ's blood like it was my job. For days. Yeah, really! It was quite the hassle to have to constantly run to the bathroom to go wee wee. But at least it made me run and swim faster in the events since I had to go so bad, LOL!
One day while in the hotel room, I ran out of ice to put in my Kool Aid. So I went down the hall of the hotel to get some more.
It was in one of those little rooms in the hallway hotels have. You know, with the ice machine and the vending machines and whatnot. I was scooping some ice when France came in.
"Ohh, America!" he said dramatically as he made his also very dramatic entrance. "Ze Wank-a-Thon is ze day after tomorrow! Are you not excited like me? !"
"You know I'm not," I pouted.
"Oh? Worried you might lose? Zat offer to help train is still available, HONHONHON!"
"Shut up! That's one event I don't mind losing."
"Ahh … such a shame! You've been doing so well otherwise." Then he gave me a creepy perv look. "Tell me, America … is it true you have never once masturbated?"
I almost dropped my ice. "Wha-whaaa! What kind of question is that? ! I don't ask you how much you touch your penis!"
"Hello," said Russia as he suddenly walked in. "I walk in very interesting conversation, da?"
"GAHHH!" I exclaimed. "Where did YOU come from? !"
"Not as often as you think," answered France like Russia hadn't even walked in. "But zat is only because I don't have to resort to masturbation when I am so skilled at luring others into my bed, hoho~"
"Eeew, gross! I don't wanna hear about your perverted bed adventures!"
"Everybody touches themselves," said Russia, just jumping right in this conversation like he was a part of it. Ugh, I hate it when people do that. "I do sometimes too. Unless I have vodka dick. You ever get vodka dick? Vodka dick is not fun."
"GROSS! WHAT THE HECK! DON'T YOU KNOW MASTURBATING MAKES YOU GO BLIND? PLUS I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT IS! … what is it? … UGH Y'ALL ARE SUCH PERVERTS!"
"Is like whiskey dick," said Russia. "But with vodka. It make you too drunk to get penis erection."
"Zat is why I prefer wine," said France. "If you drink too much of it, instead of preventing a le erection, it just makes you take a very long time to reach orgasm. Ze womens love zat."
"Ooooh," said Russia. "Sometimes I get too drunk to do sex."
"Sometimes I get drunk drinking wine and I sleep with a le commoner. PEH!"
"Sometimes I get drunk and throw empty vodka bottles at the Baltics."
I was slowly backing away. I was about to get away with it, but then France threw his arm around me and pulled me and my ice back.
"Tell us, America," said France. "What has been your experience with drinks on le erection performance?"
"Da," said Russia. "What is America's drink?"
"KOOL AID!" I shouted, pulling myself away from France's hold. They looked confused.
"Is there such thing as Kool Aid dick?" asked confused Russia. "Also what is Kool Aid?"
"Are you drunk, Russia?" asked France.
Just then, Canada walked in. But for some reason, no one but me noticed. Not even when he started talking.
"Oh, hey, guys!" Canada said brightly. "How are you enjoying the Olympics? I'm having a lot of fun and — huh?"
I picked up Canada and put him where I had been standing. Then I bolted out of the room with my ice.
"Come back to my room with me, America," said France to Canada. "I will help train you all night long. I will show you how to stroke your le cock like an Olympic champion. I will teach you how to please yourself, so that you may be released from your religion-induced prison of LE SEXUAL REPRESSION!"
"EH? !" yelped Canada. "I-I just came to get some ice!"
(Canada needed lots of ice because he was homesick. He lives in an igloo back where he comes from.)
"Hehe," giggled Russia. "Have fun! Don't get Kool Aid dick!"
That's all I heard before I was too far down the hall to be able to hear anymore, thank the lawd.
How dare those godless heathens talk about the Blood of Christ (aka off brand grape Kool Aid) like that! Using Kool Aid and 'd*ck' in the same sentence is a sin! (But don't worry. Using an asterisk for bad words is not a sin.)
I don't drink alcohol like those sinners. I know what you're thinking. 'But America! In the Bible, Jesus turned water into wine!' Uh, yeah, I know! But that was okay because he was just trying to impress people. He was at a wedding and just wanted to make some friends, so that's okey.
That day in the Olympics, I had some troubles. I still had to go pee pee so much! I was constantly bolting to the bathroom. Except for the swimming events. I just went in the pool then, LOL. If you're judging me, Ryan Lochte does it too. Google it if you don't believe me, it's true facts. I don't lie. That's a sin. (But peeing in the pool isn't.)
It kept me up all night! Like every hour I had to get up and go to the potty. This was obviously gonna hurt my chances of medaling. I needed to get a good night's sleep if I was gonna do good in the next day's challenging event of walking.
Pffft … I can't help but crack up! I mean, really? REALLY? Walking? In the Olympics? Even that track guy in the Olympics with no legs can walk. And he's got no legs! By the way, that is so cool he is in the real Olympics now instead of just the cripple Olympics. Good for him :)
Still, I was gonna lose if I couldn't make it through the race without going potty. Going this much wasn't normal. I decided to go to the Olympic medical officer after all. What if something really was wrong with me? And if he writes me a doctor's note to get out of the penis party, so be it, hehe!
Sooooo I went. After all, what did I have to lose? Health care in England is free, thanks to the great Michael Moore. Good for me but psssh I sure am good I don't live there. Free health care is socialism and I don't like to be social too much because almost everyone I know is a filthy sinner.
I sat up on that cold metal table waiting for the medical guy to come in. I got really nervous. It was just starting to sink in that something might really be wrong with me.
"Dear God," I started to pray, bowing my head. "Please let me be healthy. I don't know why you're making me go to the bathroom twenty times a day, but it's kinda inconvenient, especially when I'm trying to compete in hard sports like walking. Haha, that's a joke, God. Can you believe walking is an Olympic sport? I do that every day walking my whale so he can do his whale business. I gotta bring a Hefty bag with me to clean it up, haha! But you know all this because you always watch me 24/7 like an inspiring stalker. Anyway, I'm not questioning you, Lord, because that's a sin. I just wonder why you have given me an affliction that requires me to touch my … you know … penis … every hour or so? And then I gotta shake the little pee drops off and I don't know how many shakes I'm allowed before it's indulgence and I'm sinning—"
"Ahh, America," interrupted the medical officer as he walked in, looking at a clipboard.
"I'm assuming it's three," I quickly finished under my breath. "Amen." Then I looked up. WHAT THE EZEKIEL! It was England!
"Frequent urination, eh?" asked England, flipping through the papers. "I would have thought you'd come up with a more creative excuse to try to get out of the Wank-a-Thon. Like Ebola or Mad Cow Disease or you'd tell me you have cramps like a woman."
I couldn't reply at first. I was speechless. SPEECHLESS IN HORROR. At England's outfit! Not because like his colors clashed or his shoes so totally did not go with that, but because he was dressed in a nurse's uniform! A WOMAN'S NURSE UNIFORM!
It was tight-fitting with a very, very short skirt. Like it barely covered his butt. That amount of visible skin was all kinds of sin! D:
"What's wrong with you?" asked England, setting aside the clipboard.
"W-w-why are you dressed like that? !" I stammered. "That's a woman's outfit! I know you're a sodomite but you're still a dude! If you dress like a guy people probably won't even know you're a sodomite! Not until you stuff things up your butt, at least."
"This is my medical officer's uniform." England shrugged like it was no big deal. "And right now I'm the medical officer, so I'm wearing it."
"Uh, yeah, that's another thing! Why are you the medical officer? You're not a doctor!"
"I'm England. I'm the physical representation of everything to do with my country. Including our wonderful NHS."
Just then I remembered the Opening Ceremony. How when they did the bit about the NHS (that's their socialist health care system, for all y'all non-socialists who don't know) a big forty foot Voldemort came out and it took thirty Mary Poppins to fight him off! I sure didn't wanna cheese off Voldemort. I suppose it was best to not question the NHS. Socialism is scary.
Oh gosh darn it … I said He Who Shall Not be Named …
Oh well. Those books encouraged witchcraft anyway. Have fun reading in Hell, Harry Potter fans!
(You too, Twilight fans.)
"Oh, poppycock!" exclaimed England, sounding very fake. "I dropped my pen." He turned around and bent over to get it. When he bent over like that, his skirt rode up, and I could see some butt. He was wearing a thong like a WHORE. "How dreadfully clumsy of me."
"Ugh," I said, looking away.
I knew it. That wasn't a proper NHS uniform! England just wore that to try to tempt me into sinning with him again. Godless sodomites sure are persistent. It doesn't matter how many times I say no to him, he just keeps finding ways to try to hit on me!
Like this one time, I organized a church bake sale. And England showed up drunk as an Irish Catholic, and crashed my wholesome, family friendly, pie-filled event! He shouted in front of my entire fellow ministry, including womens and childrens and other good God-fearing folk, that he wanted me to sodomize him! In the butt! With my penis! I, and the children, were mortified.
Another time, also at a church bake sale, England showed up drunk again, and brought something with him. Something him made himself. A cake … shaped like a penis! (I didn't get it at first because I thought it was a mushroom. England didn't do the best of jobs shaping the cake, LOL.) He even added two scones for testicles! SCONE TESTICLES! The childrens did not like eating that cake. They said it tasted bad.
Another time he hit on me was at a church bake sale. A big huge cake showed up mysteriously, and I was like, wow. What a blessing from God. Then drunk naked England popped out of it like SURPRISE! And I was like WHOA WHAT A BLESSING FROM SATAN! Once again, childrens were traumatized and cried. (Though they did think that cake tasted good.)
Believe it or not, I do have some non-church bake sale stories. But I can't think of them at the moment. Just trust me! He hits on me plenty of places! Me thinking of only church bake sale times is just a coincidence. And there won't be any more because thanks to angry parents all church bake sales are cancelled in the future :(
Anyway, back to the story.
England took his sweet time standing back up from being bent over. He seemed to glance over his shoulder, trying to see if I was looking at his butt. But nope! As soon as I saw it I looked away like a good hetero.
"Now then," he said, facing me again. "How long has this frequent urination been happening?"
"Just a couple days," I replied.
"I see," he said, nodding his head. "And how many times a day are you going?"
"I dunno … like twenty. A LOT."
"Oh my. That is a lot. I'm glad you came to see me."
Psssh. I didn't come to see England play nurse dress-up. I came to see what I thought would be a real doctor. This is the acclaimed NHS? No wonder Voldemort tried to destroy it. He probably hates the sodomy too.
"I just wanna make it stop so I can compete in the games without running to the bathroom all the time," I said. "Can you just gimme a pill or something and send me on my way?"
"It's not that simple," he replied. "This could be serious. Frequent urination is often a sign of prostate problems."
I stared at him for a second. I knew I had heard that word before, I was just trying to remember where. As I thought, a smirk slowly spread across his lips, and I knew in my heart it was something homo.
"Oh no," I said, scurrying back on the table to get as far away from him as possible! "You are not gonna stick your finger up my butt!"
"It's called a prostate exam, and it is an important clinical test—"
"NUH UH!" I interrupted. "NO WAY! Not gonna happen! My butt is an exit only! Only sodomites make stuff go IN them!"
"Oh, calm down," said England, rolling his eyes. "You are making a big deal of nothing. It's a simple, quick procedure that is an important part of men's health."
"NOOOOOO!" I whined.
I did NOT want to be finger-raped by nurse England. That's all kinds of gay. And I didn't cut the fag tags off all my shirts just to be fingered up the butt anyway. For you fellow straight peoples like me who might not know, fag tags are those little loops in between the shoulder blades on some dress shirts. If you don't cut them, you're gay. *THE MOAR YOU KNOW*
"What if you have something seriously wrong?" asked England. "Don't you want to know before it gets worse?"
"Umm … I guess …" I mumbled.
Gosh, it's 2012! They couldn't have come up with a better way to figure these things out yet? We've got internets and iPhones and robots Japanese people have sex with, but noooo. The best technology for checking the prostate is still a good fingering up the cornhole. Thanks a lot, scientists. Maybe next time instead of putting a rover on Mars where there's nothing but rocks and sand (SPOILER ALERT) you can do something important that advances mankind, like examining my prostate.
"Good," said England. "I'm glad we have that settled. Now drop your trousers and bend over the table."
I startled trembling. "A-already? Right now? I … I mean, I'm not mentally prepared yet—"
"I said drop your trousers!" shouted England.
I watched England put on a latex glove and snap it. Then he looked to me, watching me hop off the table and stand beside it. I unbuttoned my jeans, then glanced nervously back at him.
"No one's ever seen my beans and frank before …" I said.
"You do know that's not where the prostate is, right? It's up the arse."
I don't think 'arse' is appropriate doctor terminology. It's called the cornhole. (Opposite of the piehole, also known as the mouth. It's important not to confuse the two of them.) Fun fact: cornhole is also a very fun game! We play it at church sometimes. It's like playing bean bags. It's also very important not to confused cornhole the body part with cornhole the game. Saying you're going cornholing can have two very different meanings!
So, I didn't have much of a choice. My health was in trouble and I needed my health if I was to win the Olympics and put China in his place, that smug medal-hungry commie. So I unzipped, took a big, shaky breath, and let my pants fall on the floor.
Before England could see my weenie, I quickly turned around, put my hands on the table, and bent over it.
"O-okay," I said. "I'm ready."
"Bend over the table," said England.
Suddenly I felt England push me down more. He was really forceful about it too!
"You need to have your elbows on the table to do this properly," he said. "And spread your legs more."
'Spread your legs'? That's what you say to a WHORE! D':
And I totally felt like one when I obeyed.
I glanced over my shoulder. England was squeezing something from a tube of something, looked like a thing of toothpaste, into his gloved hand.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Lubricant," he replied.
Oh. That's definitely not a tube of Crest then :/
The stuff that came out didn't look like toothpaste either. It was all greasy looking. It made me nervous to watch so I looked forward again.
"This shouldn't hurt," said England, setting aside the lubricant. "It may feel uncomfortable, but it shouldn't be painful. Let me know if it is."
Psssh, yeah right! How could something going up your butt NOT hurt? You guys ever stuck something up your butt before? Your finger? A suppository? A vodka-soaked tampon? I wish I made that last one up. But check the Google if you doubt. You crazy kids and your crazy butt adventures.
"I-it's just gonna be one finger, right?" I asked. "I mean, you're not like fisting me here are you?"
"Where the hell did you learn what fisting was?"
"… long story."
Stupid France tricked me! He told me it was a new Olympic sport! So I went to look it up and instead I found horrible pictures and videos of people abusing their buttholes! They're not supposed to be that big! And I thought those low fat potato chips caused anal leakage … Olestra ain't got nothing on a whole hand punching someone's butthole! Thanks for the nightmares, France.
"It's just one finger," said England.
"Thank you Jesus."
I was praying to my lawd and savior when I felt England push inside. He just jammed his finger right on in! No foreplay or nothing! I mean, I know this is a medical procedure, but come on. Be a little more sensitive! Brush against the skin there first, let me know the finger is there, smoothing, soothing movements as you wait for me to relax and unclench, then circle my exit (not entrance), slowly applying more pressure until it gradually slides in—
No wait! That sounds a little too gay. Perhaps just shoving it in was the best way to go after all. Cold and clinical. The straightest way. *STRAIGHT PRIDE*
"Here it is," said England.
It being my prostate. Boy he sure did find it fast! Medical expert or sodomy expert? You tell me -_-
I flinched when his finger pressed against it. And I didn't really unflinch. Because he kept his finger there. Right on my prostate, just feeling and rubbing against it.
"Hmm," he said like he was thinking.
I glanced down in pure shock. Something weird was going on. I sure hope England couldn't see because believe it or not I was getting a … I can't believe I'm going to type this, it's so bad … a erection. An erection. Stupid grammar. YES AN ERECT ERECTION.
I swallowed nervously. I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. It was twitching to life in between my legs. How could I be getting one of those things in such a gay setting? I mean, I'm straight. I decided that years ago. So why was this happening?
Meanwhile, England hadn't let up. His finger was still completely up my butt. The tip of it was thoroughly inspecting my prostate. Like he was touching and massaging every bit of it he could reach! For those of you who don't know, the prostate looks like a little soft boiled egg. Sorry … I probably just ruined omelets for you for a while :/
But yeah. That's what England was feeling up. The bottom and sides of my egg-shaped prostate. And each touch of his finger against it made me even harder. All these twitches added up, and about a minute into this, I had a full on erection.
"Oh God …" I prayed.
It got even more intense. I felt this sudden pressure I couldn't explain. I felt so hot down there and the feeling was mounting and oh my dear Lord what is that clear stuff trickling out of it? My fists balled into the paper they'd put on the table. I could feel it coming and there was nothing I could do to stop it the feeling was just too intense the pressure was too great and it was so hot and I could feel it coming on like I was about to explode all over the side of the table and—
England suddenly pulled his finger out. I quickly looked back.
"A-already?" I said way too fast.
England pulled off the glove. "Yes. Everything felt normal. A bit full, but certainly nothing dangerous."
Still facing away from him, I pulled my pants up. I hoped so bad he didn't see! (My erect weenie.) "Then you did all that for nothing? !"
"Not nothing." England tossed the glove in a nearby trashcan. "We ruled out prostate problems. Now we can look at other possible causes—"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU LOOK AT THEM FIRST? !"
England always jumps straight to the butt. Typical sodomite, am I right? Hey that rhymed :D
"Checking the prostate is standard for frequent urination problems!" England insisted. "Nothing's wrong with yours! You should be happy!"
Oh yeah. Getting finger sodomized is a real cake walk. By the way, cake walks were also banned from my church :(
"Here." England held out some tissues. "You can use these to clean yourself up."
Well, I suppose I did need them. My butt was a greasy wet mess. England sure did use a lot of lube.
"And if you need some more for this, let me know."
When England said 'this' he pointed to my crotch. Aw, poop! I turned around and faced him without realizing it! So he knew about my ding dong situation.
"That's—I—you—I mean –" I stammered. "GOSH DARN IT!"
"Don't be embarrassed." Why was England smirking like that … "It's completely normal. Many guys get erections during a prostate exam. It's pretty much expected. After all, the prostate is directly involved in sexual arousal, it's hard to remain soft when it's rubbed for over a full minute. It's basically an arousal button, really—"
"You shut your gay mouth!" I exclaimed. "I don't need no scientific explanation! Science is for atheists."
"Fine. Don't listen to me. Repress your sexual feelings yet again."
"THANK YOU I WILL!"
England sighed. "Fine, do as you please. Check in with the phlebotomist before you leave and have your blood drawn. Oh, and this is for you." He held out a small plastic cup.
"Ooh, thanks, I'm thirsty — oh, it's empty."
"It's for a urine sample," said England, very unamused. "Idiot."
So I awkwardly left (was it weird to say thank you to him right before I left? I didn't know what else to say since he did do the procedure for me, after all.) I got my blood drawn and somehow that didn't make my erection go away. It should have, because I'm totally afraid of needles, but it didn't.
"Hey, can you draw blood from my wrists so it looks like I got stigmata?" I asked the phlebotomist.
"No," said the phlebotomist.
Phlebotomists are no fun :(
So after I got my blood taken, I went to bathroom. I had that little cup that was way too small to hold all my pee. I pee a lot.
Well, under normal circumstances I did. Except right then, I still had that pesky erection, and it's very difficult to pee with an erection. I just hovered over the toilet with the little cup in one hand, and my penis in the other.
"Come on!" I shouted at my penis, shaking it angrily. "Pee already! I don't got all day!"
After all, I had pools to swim and tracks to run and things (? ?) to walk (PFFFT) and horses to dressage! I didn't have time to be standing in the bathroom trying to pee all day.
"STUPID PENIS!" I yelled, practically choking it. "I HATE YOU!"
I got angry and punched the wall. I sighed and took a deep breath. "You can do this," I told myself. "Just relax. And the pee will come."
So I put the tip of my penis right at the edge of the cup. And closed my eyes and concentrated. I thought about leaky faucets and water falls and Super Soakers—
"Oi, are you finished yet?" I heard England's voice ask from the other side of the door.
That wasn't urine :(
As England bitched on the other side of the door, I … um … well … ejaculated into the cup. I can't believe I just wrote that. I ejaculated! Me! GOOD CHRISTIAN GOD-FEARING NON-HOMO AMERICA! Right into the cup! I was so shocked to see that sticky white stuff in there I yelped, "AAH!"
"What was that?" asked England. "What's taking you so long?"
I was so grossed out. I quickly washed my hands in a panic. UGH IT EVEN HAD A SMELL!
"America?" called England.
I wonder if I'm the only person to ever give a semen sample instead of a urine sample? :/
I raced home. I was so ashamed. I felt like everyone I saw knew what I had done. Womens, childrens, Michael Phelps. OH THE SHAME!
I ran all the way back to the hotel. I burst out of the elevator onto my floor, and down the hallway. As I tried to fit the card key into the door, I glanced down the hall. France and Canada were coming out of one of the hotel rooms together.
"Oh, what a splendid night zat was!" said France. "And ze little extra zis morning wasn't too bad either, HONHONHON!"
It was like noon, you guys.
"I-it sure was," said Canada nervously. "Also, I sure love burgers!"
"Ah, I know you do, America."
WHAT? ! Did he say America? ! That's MY name!
"In fact," said France. "You said that many times last night and zis morning."
"Oh … yeah … well, I-I just wanted to make sure you knew! Also I love freedom and the Bible and bald eagles and … um … Chick Fil A."
Oooh yeah I do love Chick Fil A. They hate gays even more than I do! And that's really saying something :I
"Good for you, America."
Why was Canada pretending to be ME? ! That made no sense! GRRRR that really buttered my biscuit!
"Bye bye!" said Russia, standing in the doorway … THE DOORWAY FROM WHICH FRANCE AND CANADA JUST LEFT. "Thanks for last night! I enjoy show!"
Canada and France waved goodbye.
Ugh. I don't even wanna know.
I went into my room and collapsed on the bed. And sobbed into my pillow.
WHYYYY? ! Why did I do that in the bathroom? ! God was surely furious with me! When I go to heaven he sure is gonna give me a heck of spankin' for that one.
"I'm so sorry, God!" I sobbed. "I didn't mean for it to happen! It just kinda did! PLEASE FORGIVE ME! I'll make it up to you! I'll actually go on one of them mission trips to Africa and help all the starving children and bring them Chick Fil A because they hate gays too! P.S. I'm not gay, God. Amen."
This was all England's fault! How dare he try and recruit me! He would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for that meddling Jesus. He keeps me from being a gay sodomite like him. (Him being England not Jesus, of course. Obviously Jesus wasn't gay, despite his rockin' six pack abs.)
All night long I prayed for forgiveness from God and Jesus and heck even the Virgin Mary. I'm no Lent-loving Catholic, but I was desperate! And if anyone could relate to my current issues, it was the Virgin Mary. After all, we're both virgins. You can't tell me she wasn't tempted by Joseph before God got to her first. I heard Joseph was pretty hot. (No homo.)
I also ate all the white bread and drank all the grape juice I could all night long. I needed as much of Christ's body and blood in me as possible! I put Hannibal Lector and those preppy Twilight vampires to shame with how much body and blood I drank! I did it all night long as I prayed and sobbed, until I cried myself asleep.
(This is the part where you go AWWWWWW.)
The next morning, I woke up, and immediately flipped the fudge out.
"HOLY CHEESE AND CRACKERS!" I exclaimed. Pardon my language. "I'M BLIND!"
I couldn't see a darn thing! No matter how wide I opened my eyes, I only saw black! At first I thought I just had a lot of eye crusties and couldn't get my eyes open. But nope! They were wide open, but they sure as heck weren't working!
"Aw, poop!" I cursed. I fumbled around looking for my iPhone (I got another since I broke the last one.) Finally my hands found it on the nightstand. "Oh my gosh! Siri!" I said to it. "Call 911! Wait, no … what's 911 in England? It's different."
"9/11 in England is 11/9," replied Siri.
AUGH! She thought I was asking the date! And England writes his dates backwards for some reason. For years I thought he thought my birthday was April 7th. I was like, LOL you dummy.
So if I couldn't call British 911, I had to call someone who knew what British 911 was.
"Call England!" I told Siri.
"Calling England …"
"Ugh, hello?" said England in a surly voice.
"England! It's me! America!"
"… Christ, why are you calling so early in the morning?" asked grumpy ol' England even though it was almost 11:00 am. "I needed to rest up for the Wank-a-Thon today."
"Forget your penis-a-thon! I need to go to the hospital!"
"Oh, not this again. You're not sick. Quit faking."
"I'm not faking! I'm blind! BLIND AS STEVIE WONDER!"
I was gonna say 'blind as a bat' but that simply isn't true. Bats aren't blind. They have normal vision. Though they use a process called echolocation to find their food. That means they send out high-pitched sounds which bounce off objects and back to the bat, letting them know where prey is and helping them navigate. I learned that from the Magic School Bus. Ms. Frizzle was the coolest. Too bad she's going to hell for being a scientist :(
"Blind?" said England. "The hell?"
"It's true! I wouldn't lie to you! Again! Jesus wouldn't like it."
"I don't believe you."
"Nevertheless, I know you're not going to admit your lie, so I will play along. I'll pick you up and bring you to the Wank-a-Thon stadium."
"What? You didn't think being 'blind' would get you out of the event, did you? You can still masturbate without seeing. Hell, I usually close my eyes myself. It's easier to fantasize that way. To picture your naked, tanned skin, your hands running down my sides, and I lower myself down onto you, taking every last centi—"
"EEEEWWW! Shut up, England! I don't need to know what sick fantasies you have about me as you penetrate yourself with a zucchini or whatever the heck you gays do!"
"Heh … my latest fantasy involved you taking advantage of me on a pommel horse …"
"I had one where I pushed you down on the track during the walking event and sodomized you right in front of all the other athletes, spectators, and Olympic officials to see."
"Holy shit. Are you serious?"
"HECK NO! Now don't you see how ridiculous you sound saying those kinds of things?"
"No. In fact, I'll probably use that image to masturbate to during the event today."
"UGH! I'm not going. Something is seriously wrong with me."
"You can't skip the event without a note from the official Olympic medical officer."
"But that's you!"
"Exactly. And I'm on my way."
He better not stick his finger up my butt again.
I lay on the bed, pouting. God was surely punishing me. I knew masturbating made you go blind. I knew it all along. And I did it anyway. Kinda.
Well, this was what I got. Godly justice. My just desserts. My comeuppance. My cum-uppance.
OH JESUS I JUST MADE SUCH A SINFUL PUN! I knew it was wrong but I did that too anyway because I thought it was really clever! I hope God doesn't make me go even more blind for that :(
Suddenly, I heard the hotel door open and close.
"Oi, get up," said England. "The event starts soon."
"… how did you get in my room? I never gave you a key."
"… uh …"
"In fact, I didn't even tell you what room I'm in!"
"N-nevermind that. Hurry now and get dressed. I won't watch."
"PSSH YEAH RIGHT! You probably got your hand in your pants already."
"I wish you would stop thinking of me as so perverted. I'm really not."
"YOU'RE THROWING A MASTURBATION MARATHON FOR THE ENTIRE WORLD!"
"… well, I'm not any more perverted than anyone else. We're all a little cheeky sometimes."
I sighed. I couldn't believe it. England really was gonna make me go to this event even though I woke up blind. By the way, peeing when you're blind is not easy. The hotel maids are not gonna have fun cleaning that bathroom up, that's for sure.
"Please, England," I said. "Please believe me. I'm not lying. I really am blind. Now please. Let me just buy some sunglasses to wear inside, get a cane like House, and get a harness for my whale to be a Seeing Eye Whale and live my life in quiet dignity."
I don't have to worry about offending blind people with my jokes. It's not like they're gonna read this, LOL. Until the internet comes in Braille, I got nothing to worry about.
"I actually do believe you," said England.
"Wha … you do? Really?"
"Yes. I actually started stripping off my clothes the second I closed your door, just to see if you would react. Obviously you really are blind, or you'd have commented on me standing here only in my tight little knickers."
"YOU WANT? ! EEW DON'T SIT ON ANYTHING!"
"But it doesn't matter," he said. "Blindness doesn't disqualify you from the Wank-a-Thon. As long as you have a cock and balls, and a hand, you're fit to compete."
"I can't even compete in the cripple Wank-a-Thon instead?"
"It's called the Para-Wank-a-Thon you insensitive idiot! … and no."
"Aww," I pouted.
"Now get your arse in my car."
The stadium was huge. Spectators packed the arena — there wasn't an empty seat in the house. At the center was the action. Men from all around the globe. Fit, naked athletes, taking their seats and getting sticky as they lubed themselves up to the cheers of thousands of fans.
I assume that was the scene. I was blind, so really I was just guessing.
"I don' feel so good, Englan' …" I said.
"Now is not the time to be faking illness," said England. "Go on and remove your trousers. We're starting in a few minutes."
Why oh why was England stationed next to me in this horrible event? Oh yeah. Because he organized it. I don't think that's a coincidence, do you?
(No, you don't.)
"I mean it …" I said. "I really don' feel good. I feel … all weak."
"Weak in a competition is not good. And I meant what I said ... remove those trousers."
"I-I need to get some water …"
I really was thirsty. I never stopped being thirsty. But really that was more of an excuse to get away from all this gayness, even if only for a few minutes.
Unfortunately being blind makes it really hard to find things. So I was just fumbling around aimlessly, bumping into people and things and childrens. (What the heck were childrens doing here?)
"Ooh!" I exclaimed happily. As I was trying to feel my way, I felt something soft and furry. "A doggie! Hey little doggie, you wanna be my Seeing Eye dog? Huh, buddy? Huh? I bet you can! Who's a good boy? ! You are! You are!"
"Bonjour, America~" said France. "You certainly are happy to see me."
I immediately pulled my hand away in disgust. "UGH! GROSS! Did I just touch what I think I just touched? !"
"My luscious masculine mane of pubic hair? Why, yes. You did."
"BLEECCCH!" I vomited on the ground. I thought it was a doggie!
"My," said France. "Are you sick? You certainly didn't act zis way last night."
"As a matter'a fact, I am sick! God made me blind because I accident'ly mastur — wait, what? Last night?"
"When we made sweet amour~" said France. "Oh, how wonderful it was! I was surprised how submissive you became in the bedroom … how you begged me to climb on top of you, how you moaned in pleasure as I sheathed myself inside you, as you rocked in rhythm to each of my powerful thrusts, and Russia sat in a chair beside ze bed and watched ze whole thing."
"AUUUURGH!" I yelled. "Gosh darn it, Canada!"
I needed to get out of there. I didn't want to hear any more of these perversions. Canada pretending to be me just to have sex with France? EEW. Thanks for ruining my rep, bro.
So I bolted. Or at least, I tried to. But I bumped into something big as soon as I turned around.
"Ahhh what'd I bump into? !" I exclaimed as I felt it with my hands.
"Hehe!" said a voice. "That tickles!"
I pulled my hands away. "Russia! Get outta my way!"
I tried to turn away again, but I got really dizzy for some reason. I stumbled and fell to the ground.
"What's wrong with America?" asked Russia.
"I don't know," replied France. "He seems rather disoriented."
I tried to get up, but I felt too dizzy, and fell back to the ground. "This's all my fault!" I sobbed. "I shouldn've mas … mas … masta — pleasured myself into that cup! God has cursed me and taken my sight as punishment! I don' know if I can go on like this … I don' want this … PLEASE FORGIVE ME, GOD! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRRRrrrryy …" I kinda just trailed off there at the end, and fell flat on the ground.
"You sound drunk," said Russia. "America, you're a drunk."
"Ah, that must be it!" said France. "You drank to help numb of ze pain of having to show up at an event such as zis zat so tarnishes your pious reputation, no?"
"NOOOO!" I cried.
"I told you about vodka dick," said Russia. "You will lose, yaaay!"
"You weren't trying my prolonged orgasm wine trick, were you?" asked France. "Tsk, tsk. Zat will only hinder you. Ze event is judged by most number of orgasms."
"I didn' drink!" I slurred. "I never touched a drop of alcohol my entire life!"
"You never felt ze decedent touch of another until last night ... who is to say you didn't add another sin to your list?"
"That wasn't me! That was Canada!"
"Oh," said France, seemingly very shocked. "… really? My goodness. By ze way he acted last night I really believed it was you."
"Mmm!" said Russia affirmatively. "He exclaimed 'BURRRGGERRRRSSS' as he came-ejaculated."
"Nice impression of him," said France.
"WANKERS!" said a very loud voice over the loud speaker. "Take your positions!"
"Oh, ze event is about to start," said France. "America, you should take off your pants."
"Urrrgh …" I mumbled, face down on the ground.
"Oh my," said France. "He is shaking."
It was true. I couldn't stop trembling.
"Either something is very wrong with America or he has a head start on all of us."
"Something must be wrong," said Russia. "He didn't say 'BURRRGGERRRRSSS.'"
"On your mark," said the announcer.
Both France and Russia gasped. They said goodbye to me in their own language (pssh, like I understand all that foreign talk) and I heard their footsteps race off to their stations.
"Get set," said the announcer.
"Blaaaargh …" I said as I lay on the ground, still trembling.
As I slipped out of consciousness, all I heard was the sounds of dozens and dozens of men touching themselves. That nasty slicky sloshy noise of lube, those skin slapping sounds, grunts and moans …
What a gay way to pass out :(
I don't know how long I was out. I just knew that when my eyes fluttered open, I still couldn't see anything, and that really sucked.
"Aaauugh," I moaned, rolling over. Whatever I was laying on made a crinkling noise, like paper. I didn't hear the screaming crowd or those gross sex noises anymore. Wherever I was, it was far from the Wank-a-Thon.
For a moment if I wondered if I'd died and gone to heaven. Then I heard England's voice and immediately knew I didn't. They don't let gay sodomites into heaven. Could you imagine? Those perverts humping each other on the clouds, playing grab-*ss in front of the Pearly Gates, shoving their halos up their butts or whatever they do, right in God's backyard! That's why it's straights only.
"America?" I heard England say. "How do you feel?"
"I'm still blind."
"Yes, but how do you feel? Can you sit up?"
I did and I realized I was back at the medical office from earlier. You know. The one England wore that whore outfit to.
"England …" I said in my serious voice. "Something is very wrong with me."
"No, shut up. I need to say this. I thought God was punishing me for masturbating. And I'm sure he is. I knew it made you go blind and I was right. But I'm already in his bad graces … so oh well. Go ahead and use your atheist science to try to cure me." I stopped and sighed. "What do I have to lose?"
(Don't say 'your other senses' … God doesn't usually take the other ones for masturbating.)
"I'm not an atheist," snapped England. "You can believe in God without being a total narrow-minded, bigoted twat about it."
"Please, England. We Christians take pride in our narrow-minded bigotry. I know you're here and you're queer, but I DON'T have to get used to it."
England sighed. "Do you want my help or not?"
"Oh … yes. Let me just get my pants off."
England's voice sounded very surprised. I'm sure if I could see his face it'd be all :O
Now I know what you're thinking. 'But America you're so pure and chaste and virginal! You're my hero! Abstinence FOREVAR' Yes, boys and girls, I do believe that. But I was blind and earlier felt dizzy and drunk and passed out despite never touching a drop of that sinful alcohol. Something was very wrong. I needed to know what.
I mean, I'm BLIND. The superpower of the world can't be blind! How will I watch Bill ORLY now? ! No, I needed to deal with this. And if getting a finger up the butt was the only way to do that, then so be it.
"I think you need to check my prostate again," I said. "Obviously you missed something."
"You … y-you took off your trousers …" stammered England. "And I didn't even have to tell you to or buy you dinner first …"
"Yeah," I said, setting the pants aside. I reached for my boxers. "Well, it's for my health. It's a legitimate medical procedure. You said so yourself, right?"
"Well, I was fairly thorough, I'm positive I didn't miss anyth — actually, yesss! A legitimate medical procedure."
England's tone changed when I pulled down my boxers. I was nervous, my hands were trembling a little, bit I tried not to let it show. I know it's for my health, and I'm already blind anyway, but it's still a sin! Did you know that God can also make your palms hairy as punishment for masturbating? True facts. I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere. Corinthians 9 .. 4 …7, something, it's in there, you guys. Anyway, I did not want to be all hairy.
Wait a minute. Maybe that's why France is so hairy …
French people only bathe like once a month. All those poor girls who got UTI's from his dirty unwashed penis … I feel sorry for them. Actually, no I don't. That's what they get for whoring around. Save it for marriage, boys and girls!
"I have the lube," I heard England's voice say. He sounded a little too excited for this …
I turned around. I felt with my hands at the table, and got into the position I remembered from before. Arms and elbows flat on the table, bent over it, legs spread.
I felt England spread me a little.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"Um … yes …" I replied hesitantly. "Just to be clear again … this for medical reasons. For science and all that."
"Of course," he said. "For diagnostic purposes."
"Yep. For SCIIIIIEEENCCCccce ….!" My voice broke because gosh darn if a finger up your butthole doesn't throw you off for a second. I mean, it wasn't painful. England had clearly lubed that finger well. But it was very cold and wet. But still. Quite a shock to the system. (The butt system.)
England pushed the finger all the way in. I kept leaning over the table, trembling. I knew immediately when he reached my prostate. I clenched up and gritted my teeth.
"Hmm," England hmmed as he examined my prostate with his finger. He pushed against it, smoothed it along with the tip of his finger, feeling the grooves of it. And it kept going on and going. I knew it was only about a minute or so, but it forever like over 9000 minutes! Him just pushing and rubbing and feeling my prostate.
I couldn't help but whimper. What was I afraid of was happening again. I felt Mr. Winky twitch between my legs. A few more slides of that fingertip against my prostate, it was almost a full erection.
"Oh God …" I … prayed. Yep, prayed. What else would that be?
"Hmm …" said England. "It still feels rather full. But I don't feel anything abnormal."
"K-keep checking …"
"I checked and rechecked. There's nothing else to check."
"I SAID KEEP CHECKING!"
For the science, you guys.
"Very well," said England.
As England kept prodding, my back arched and I made a grunting noise. "Ngh …" Boy, this sure is an intense … medical procedure! My penis was brushing into the side of the table. It was fully hard then. And leaking this clear fluid like a water fountain. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little, but it was still coming out pretty fast! But yeah it was just dribbling out of me and running down my leg.
"E-England …" I said. "What's this stuff coming out of me?"
"Prostatic fluid," replied England. "It comes out when you press continually on the prostate like this."
"It seems kinda gay …"
"Well … it's actually done as a medical procedure too, to relieve a full prostate, which you have. It's called prostate milking and it's important for your prostate health."
I think I've heard the word 'prostate' more times in the past few minutes than the rest of my entire life combined.
"Soooo … if it's a medical procedure, it's not gay … right?" I asked hopefully.
"Um … it is a medical procedure …"
OH GLORIOUS DAY! That means England could keep going without me being a gay homo sodomite. I mean, not that I was enjoying this or anything. This was just to see what was wrong with me. For my health. My prostate health. What, you want me to get cancer or something? I gotta do this. I don't look good with a bandana.
England pushed into me with a particularly hard jab. I clenched up again and whimpered. "Jesus …"
"What's that?" asked England.
"Uh … just … um … praying."
I leaned back a bit into him and trembled. "Yessss … sweet, Jesus … sweet, sweet Jesus … unf, God, yes …"
That was praying too. Mmmyep.
"Heh …" I heard England say.
"OH GOD GREAT MERCIFUL GOD OH LAWD!"
I heard England chuckle. Ugh, I knew he was enjoying this. He probably wishes this was him. We all know he likes stuff up his butt. I dunno why. I mean, clearly it's not that great …
I mean, that fluid dribbling out my penis was just for my health. FOR THE HEALTH.
"OH JESUS," I kept praying. "OHJESUSINHEAVENOHGODHNNNGGHt hisfeelsogoodIMEANGODISGOODYEAH!"
"Heh heh …" chuckled England.
And then it happened. I felt a weird tightening in my testicle places, I arched my back again, and came all over the side of the table. England never took his finger out of me as that sinful fluid gushed out of me. It just kept coming, in spurts, until finally the last of it was out of me.
When it was, England slid his finger out, and I collapsed against the table with a heavy sigh.
"Feel better?" asked England. I heard the snap of his glove being removed.
I was still panting. Took me a minute to catch my breath. "You … you noticed that?"
"How could I not? You made such a delightful whimper when you came. Absolutely erotic."
"Plus, there was, of course, all that 'praying.'"
"That WAS praying!"
I finally caught my breath. I fumbled for my pants and when I found them, starting pulling them back on.
"Well, did you find anything else? I mean, how do I know what's — ACK!" I yelped because I suddenly felt something touch my penis. That's my special private area! People don't touch there! "WHOA, what are you doing?"
But as soon as I felt it, it was gone again. "Oh, sorry. I was just cleaning you up with some tissues," said England.
I felt him wipe down my leg too, and it was awkward. Was this gay? For some reason God never wrote a section on how to do a proper, Godly, and non-gay prostate exam. Weird, how he certainly did write up detailed instructions on how to keep and manage your slaves, (true story) but prostate exams were oddly absent …
But England quickly finished and I heard him throw away in the tissue in the trashcan.
"You were saying?" he asked.
"Oh … uh, I just wanted to know if you found anything wrong with my prostate?"
"No, it's fine," said England.
"Aw, gee whiz! How am I supposed to know what's wrong with me then? !" I sobbed. Oh, and I had my pants back on then.
"Oh, we actually already figured that out."
"The blood tests you took the other day revealed you have Type 2 diabetes," he said. "I'm not sure why I didn't suspect that before. Then again, I'm not really a doctor …"
"WHAT? ! AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME ALL THIS BEFORE YOU GAVE ME ANOTHER PROSTATE EXAM? ! YOU ALREADY KNEW THE PROBLEM? !"
"Yes," he continued all nonchalantly, like this was no big deal. "You had the classic first symptom, excessive thirst and frequent urination. But it went untreated and you went into diabetic shock. The dizziness, slurred speech, and disorientation you experienced at the Wank-a-Thon was because of that. I actually revived you by rubbing pudding inside your cheeks."
"Holy poop ..." I swore. "How could this have happened …?"
Oh wait. Could eating only white bread and drinking only Kool Aid have something to do with that? :/
Gosh darn it … and here I thought I was being Jesus-like. And I turned out to be Wilford Brimley-like. And got the diabeetus.
"Your blindness was caused by it, too," said England. "You're lucky. After getting on regular treatment, your sight should come back because you're a nation. If you were a mortal human, you would likely never see again."
"Oh, silly gay England," I said, waving him off. "I'm blind because God punished me for masturbating. Don't be stupid."
"The blood tests prove you have diabetes."
"THEN GOD GAVE ME DIABETES."
"Whatever. Now zip up. They've delayed the medal ceremony because I had to help you."
"You still competed with me laying there unconscious? !" Wow. What a jerk, am I right?
"You're a country, it's not like you're going to die," he scoffed. "Besides. I've been training for this for years. I had to win it."
"Let me guess. You came in first, didn't you?" I didn't mean to make a 'came' pun … honest …
"No," he sighed. "I got the silver."
"Oh. Right. France."
"… won the bronze," finished England.
"What? Then who won gold?"
"Huh?" I said. "What the heck! I didn't even compete! I passed out right at the start! How could I have won? !"
"Not sure myself," said England. "But apparently you did. The judges were extremely impressed."
"Apparently you exclaimed 'BUURRGERRRSSSS' every time you came."
And then I realized. "WHAT – that wasn't me! That was Canada! And y'all mistook him for me!"
England shrugged. "He said he was you."
"It wasn't! He's just pretending! GRRRR!"
Pretending to be me during a fapping contest just to ruin my good rep? Darn, he trolled me good! Maybe I shouldn't have spent so much time preaching to him and judging him and telling him to stop doing the marijuana. You think that's why he might have done it?
"Now come," said England. "We must go and accept our medals."
"NOOOOOO!" I whined. "I didn't win it! I don't want this filthy medal!"
"It's not optional."
"But I don't want the world to think I'm some expert nasty sinning masturbater!"
"They already do. In fact, you're now considered the best in the world."