Marriage Madness – by Anonymous
Meanwhile, all Tami could think about through her forced smile was the terrible luck she’d had. Sure, her first time ever on television, and it had to be filmed right in the middle of a particularly bad case of PMS. She’d had it bad since she could remember, but this was one of the worst. Tami had packed the Midol in her purse but didn’t want to take more than the minimum dose so she wouldn’t be all doped up in front of the cameras. “These cramps are a bitch,” she was thinking as the host of the new show introduced himself.
“Hello, America, and welcome to the first ever edition of a new show all its own… part reality, part game, with lots of unbelievable twists and turns for our unsus- er, our lucky newlywed contestants. It’s Marriage Madness! I’m Kent Klinkelman, but enough about me. Let’s meet our contestants.” The only things more phony than his smile were the cheap suit and toupee, concealing a dark, playful, and sinister power beneath.
He read off the card as he introduced the first unlucky couple. “Starting from my left, we have Curt and Angela Romano. They’re from Boston, Mass. Tell us about yourselves.”
Curt Romano, a 34-year-old hotshot executive who had recently given up bachelorhood to settle down with his new “hottie,” had decided to try out for “The Newest Newlywed Game” on a lark. He didn’t need the money, but he lapped up every moment in front of the cameras with his cockiness. “My name’s Curt. I’m an investment trader who just made the luckiest trade of my life, trading for this lovely lady,” he said, slicking back his jet black hair with one hand while gesturing toward Angela with the other.
“Tell us, Angela. How did you meet?” the host asked.
Angela was 26, tall, shapely, with fine features, lots of curves, D-cup breasts, and gorgeous blond hair. She had been a professional model full-time but cut back drastically on her work schedule since tying the knot. “At a club, Kent. Curt bought me a drink, we made small talk, and the next thing you know, well….”
As the audience reaction to Angela’s suggestive remark, the host moved on to the next couple. “Sitting by them, we have JeRon and Stephanie.” These two contestants stood out from the rest, who were all white.
JeRon was an African-American in his late 20s, born and raised his whole life in southern California. He was smart and hip and quick on his feet. “My name is JeRon Jackson, from L.A…,” pausing to get audience approval, “I work in the music industry.” The statement was true but intentionally vague: his cousin got him the job as a junior executive. It was a living, to be sure.
Kent’s well-polished teeth sparkled as he turned to Stephanie: “Who’s the lovely lady sitting next to you?”
“I’m Stephanie, and currently I’m a med student at UCLA.” You’d have to forgive the host if he was tempted to remark on what an unusual couple they made. JeRon was tall, black, slick, an off-the-cuff kind of guy. His wife Stephanie was petite, of Filipino ancestry, modest, and reserved.
Instead of making the remark he wanted to, Kent turned to the audience. “Aren’t they a pair?” He moved on quickly. “Who do we have next?”
“Hi, I’m Brian, and this is my wife, Melanie. We’re from Mason City, Iowa, a lot of sweet corn up there. I run a small hardware store, and Melanie here,” he said, patting her obvious belly, “is getting ready to stay home with our little girl… two months!”
“That’s exciting,” the host replied, though the words dripped off his lips with a boredom that belied what he was saying. “Finally, from Knoxville, Tennessee, let’s give a big welcome to David and Tami!”
“How’s it going, Kent?” Before he finished his sentence, it was obvious that David had the word smart-ass written all over him. He wasn’t inclined to play by life’s little rules.
“Just fine. So what do you do for a living, David?”
“I come on game shows like this stupid one so me and her can win big bucks.”
Plagued by her cramps, and embarrassed by her husband’s public performance, Tami lashed out. “You stupid sonofabitch! Can’t you act normal on TV?”
“This is normal,” he replied matter-of-factly. Then turning back toward the host with his hand up between himself and Tami, he said, “Between you and me, Kent, she’s on the rag.”
“You jerk… you asshole… you….”
Curt laughed and pointed while his beautiful model wife threw her shoulders back and stuck her nose in the air in disgust. JeRon’s face wore the classic “better you than me” look, as Stephanie quietly looked down at her feet. Melanie began ruing the fact that they were appearing on a cable TV program and Brian was ready to say, “Let’s get on with this already,” when the camera quickly panned away from the bickering couple and back to the host.
“Folks, you are in for a real treat tonight, for the first edition of the wildest newlywed game you’ve ever seen… Marriage Madness!” Quickly, the screen changed behind the host, and so did his demeanor. With one eyebrow raised, Kent spoke in hushed but threatening tones. “For this first game, we are going to have the gentleman step away….” The automated set quietly removed Curt, David, JeRon, and Brian backstage as their better halves remained in front of the cameras. “Questions for the ladies. We are going to ask you something about your husbands. Depending on how closely your response matches that of his, when he returns, you all could be in for some startling surprises. Now the husbands are in sound-proof booths backstage and can’t hear or see us here onstage. It’s time to turn to our questions, specially designed for each of you.”
Pulling a card from a compartment on the side of the podium, Kent turned to the supermodel. “Angela, the first question goes to you: which of the following magical transformations would most effectively take away your husband Curt’s macho swagger?
A. Swap his genitalia for that of a four-year-old,
B. Give him full, fleshy breasts a full cup size larger than your own,
C. With the bodily self-control of a four-year-old, take away his knowledge and ability how to use the bathroom without you there to hold his hand and tell him what to do, or
D. Make him cry, whimper, and mindlessly suck his thumb whenever he’s in the company of an attractive woman besides yourself.
Those are your four choices.”
Angela’s mouth hung open agape – she was totally unprepared for this sort of a question, and wanted to laugh nervously. She felt like standing up and sashaying off the set, but a force she couldn’t even reckon held her nylon-encased butt to the seat and her high-heeled feet to the floor.
“I’m n, n… not going to answer that,” Angela chuckled.
Looking into her eyes, Kent responded, “You know you want to. Pick the choice that you feel is right…deep inside of you.”
The 26-year-old supermodel was frozen in place, overwhelmed by the powerful sensation of a dark shadow impressing itself in the innermost layers of her consciousness. Resistance wasn’t even an option. Picking one of the four choices seemed like the most natural thing to do in the world. “The one where he cries and sucks his thumb….” And before she knew it, she was writing the letter ‘D’ on the posterboard sign they had given her. For a flourish, Kent made sure that Angela tucked the sign down the front of her blouse, into her lush cleavage.
“Stephanie, you’re next.” The petite Asian woman was cowed into complete submission. “Here’s a special question just for you. Remember, you probably want to pick the answer that JeRon is most likely to pick. Here goes. Stephanie, what magical transformation could happen to your husband that would make life with him most interesting?
A. To make him walk around everywhere with very feminine posture and mannerisms, including limp wrists, a swaying butt, and crossing his legs at the thighs when he sits down,
B. To give him the overwhelming obsession to always have his body shaved completely clean and smooth and to have his fingernails and toe nails painted in bright, girly colors,
C. To give him the inability to be aroused or have an erection unless he is wearing sexy lingerie, or
D. To have a voice that will always be mistaken for a woman’s and to wear the most feminine hairstyle he can find.”
Stephanie couldn’t imagine imposing any of them on her husband, to whom she was so attracted for his, well, masculine endowments. “But, it’s just a game,” she reasoned to herself. She held back a snicker at a funny mental image she had of JeRon and quietly wrote ‘C’ on the card, out of the audience’s view.
“Very good, Stephanie, someone getting into the spirit of the game. And now we move on to Melanie, who is… how far along are you?”
“I’m 28 weeks pregnant, Kent.”
“That’s wonderful. Your special question is also for your husband, Brian. You, too, have four choices of which magical transformation you would like to see him experience:
A. For every pound you’ve gained during pregnancy, Brian would gain five pounds and in all the same places,
B. That he would willingly trade in all his underwear for large, super-absorbent, plastic adult diapers, use them faithfully, and act if it was the most normal thing in the world to do,
C. That whenever he was hungry in public, he would be overwhelmed by the urge to drink milk from your breasts in front of a room full of people, or
D. That he would only be able to talk with a childish lisp and a childish vocabulary at all times, even about sex, and would have to ask you for permission to have sex.
And I know you’re ready to write that answer down.”
By now, the power of the host’s sinister mental shadow had grown significantly. Melanie loved her husband very much and didn’t want to inflict any of the choices on him, yet she felt impelled by this inexplicable inner mischievousness. She wrote down her answer and smiled wickedly, clutching the concealed sign to her growing womb.
“Last but not least, we come to Tami. Here’s your special question… four magical transformations from which to choose for your husband David:
A. That he would go through his own period every month the same time as you do, with cramps twice as bad, and whenever he buys maxi pads he would have to tell at least two people they are for himself,
B. That for every dollar he spends on pornography, he would have no choice but to spend 10 dollars on cosmetics with the desire to make up his face like a prostitute, without ever knowing why,
C. That he would only be able to wear oversized poofy, little-girl dresses, seven different colors for seven days of the week, without feeling the most intense pain throughout his body, or
D. That he would be doomed to always act like a stereotypical, comical teenage ditz girl, with all his knowledge of cars, tools, and sports traded for knowledge of fashion, makeup, and cheerleading.
The frustrated, PMS-ridden wife wasted no time in scrawling down her answer and tucking it away.
Kent turned toward the cameras, “And we’ll be right back to see how many of these ladies picked the same answer that their husbands will pick. It could get pretty exciting. Stay tuned to Marriage Madness!”
During the commercial break, the men came back onto the set and assumed their places next to their wives, all of whom had been married for less than a year. Under the power of Kent’s curse, the women were unable to tell, or even hint at, what sort of questions were awaiting them. Meanwhile, the host gave some very persuasive instructions.
“All right, guys. Here are the ground rules. Your wives answered some multiple choice questions about things that could happen to you. Pick the same answer as she did, and consider yourself lucky. That’s the only thing that happens to you. Pick a different answer than she did, and both what you picked and what she picked will happen to you. If you refuse or are not able to pick an answer within 15 seconds of the end of the question, ALL the choices happen to you. Capiche?”
Some of the guys traded concerned glances with each other, especially Brian and JeRon. Curt maintained his cocky attitude and folded his arms as if he wasn’t going to play along. David tried to make a lame joke out of it. Kent ignored them all, until the cue came for the show to return.
“Welcome back to Marriage Madness. We’ve just asked the ladies some interesting questions about what sorts of magical transformations they wouldn’t mind seeing happen to their husbands, hoping they get the right answer. 100 points to each team that gets the right answer….” But as he looked at them, they were reminded of the extra consequences riding on their responses.
“Let’s start with Stephanie and JeRon. What do you expect is going to happen, JeRon?”
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to camouflage a growing anxiety building up inside.
“Well, here was the question we asked your wife: what magical transformation could happen to you, Jeron, that would make life with you most interesting?
A. To make you walk around everywhere with very feminine posture and mannerisms, including limp wrists, a swaying butt, and crossing your legs at the thighs when he sits down,
B. To give you the overwhelming obsession to always have your body shaved completely clean and smooth and to have your fingernails and toe nails painted in bright, girly colors,
C. To give you the inability to be aroused or have an erection unless wearing sexy lingerie, or
D. To have a voice that will always be mistaken for a woman’s and to wear the most feminine hairstyle you can find.”
“You can’t be serious,” he replied.
“It’s just a game, honey,” Stephanie whispered to him.
“100 points are on the line,” the host said casually. “You have 10 seconds… 9… 8… 7…”
“Can you repeat the choices?” JeRon bought himself enough time, but he didn’t like the choices any more than the first time he heard them. “Uh, I don’t know, I’ll say, uh… B.”
Stephanie let her head drop in disappointment as she held aloft the card that read ‘C.’
“You mean the one about the sexy lingerie?” he spat out, aghast. But before he could scarcely finish the thought, his mind was overtaken with some overwhelming urges. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m on TV… my fingernails are so naked and ugly!” He could feel the unpleasant itch under his armpits that until just a moment ago felt quite commonplace. “And yech, is that hair?” he asked, holding up his arm to look down his sleeves. “Steph, how did you let me out of the house?” At least he was comforted to feel the silky purple French-cut panties he had decided to wear this morning.
Brian could only stare in utter disbelief, wanting to believe that his new acquaintance JeRon was that good of an actor not that what seemed to be happening to him really was. He was roused from his distraction by the host’s voice asking the next question.
“This is what we asked Melanie. Your four choices of which magical transformation she would like to see you experience, and what you think she said:
A. For every pound she gains and has gained during pregnancy, you would gain five pounds and in all the same places,
B. That you would willingly trade in all your underwear for large, super-absorbent, plastic adult diapers, use them faithfully, and act if it was the most normal thing in the world to do,
C. That whenever you’re hungry in public, you would be overwhelmed by the urge to drink milk from your wife’s breasts in front of a room full of people, or
D. That you would only be able to talk with a childish lisp and a childish vocabulary at all times, even about sex, and would have to ask your wife for permission to have sex.”
Brian tried to tackle the problem calmly, but quickly. Any one of those would be bad enough, but if he could at least pick the same one Melanie had, it would be just one of them… or so it seemed. Not giving an answer at all would be stupid, just in case what the host had warned them was true. And looking at JeRon, it sure seemed to be true. Most all of them seemed to be pretty humiliating, but at least the one about putting on weight he could retain some dignity. No, on second thought, he’d have to buy all new clothes and…
“Five seconds, Brian.”
He didn’t realize he had been so lost in thought. “I’ll say ‘C’, Kent,” he answered, throwing up his hands.
The expression on Melanie’s face plummeted. He picked the wrong answer, and so had she. As she held up the sign with one hand, she covered her mouth with the other. She turned her head as the changes started taking a hold of her husband. She knew that she had gained a good 35 pounds since she became pregnant. Numbed, Brian was unable to move. He could feel the rolls of fat pushing out at his increasingly uncomfortable clothes. His once taut stomach billowed forth in folds, popping the button and zipper on his khaki pants – he undid his belt and ripped it off just to gain some relief. Meanwhile, his butt expanded into a soft, flabby cushion, splitting his pants and making them useless. His boxers were stretching past their limits, so much that he hardly noticed the chubby swellings on his chest that looked – except for the lack of large, brown aureolae – to belong to a woman.
Circumstances quickly got even worse, as Brian felt a rumble in his stomach. Hunger in public meant only one thing: it seemed the most natural thing in the world to suck from his wife’s tit in front of hundreds of people (all of whom were trapped in their seats by a power they couldn’t begin to comprehend), even better yet with a nationally-televised audience watching. Melanie found herself deeply humiliated and embarrassed but unable to resist the otherwise normal-seeming act.
“Are you hungry, sweetie?” she asked, but she knew that longing expression on her chubby hubby’s face. She was glad she remembered to wear her nursing bra, which she pretty much always did. In no time, her shirt was pulled up and the bra flap open. Brian dove in head-first, sucking the nipple desperately as if it were the last meal he was going to eat for days. “Oh, careful now, not so hard on mommy’s nipple…” Melanie giggled meekly, as if it were the most natural language for her to use. Her fat husband nearly fell out of his clothes leaning into her. She was going to ask him to lose some weight – Brian was about crushing her lap!
“On to you, David!”
“That’s a good one, uh, sir….” All the smart-aleck in the Tennessean had evaporated. He wanted to stand to his feet and run, but an unseen, shadowy hand kept him from budging an inch. “Do I have to… I mean, uh… you don’t….”
Kent went on as if everything was proceeding normally. “Here’s the question we asked Tami. Now, remember, you want to pick the same answer that she did. Really. The four magical transformations from which Tami had to choose for you:
A. You get your own period every month the same time as Tami does, with cramps twice as bad, and whenever you buy maxi pads you have to tell at least two people you’re buying them for yourself,
B. For every dollar you spend on pornography, you would have to spend 10 dollars on cosmetics with the desire to make up your face like a prostitute, without ever knowing why,
C. You would only be able to wear oversized poofy, little-girl dresses, seven different colors for seven days of the week – to try to wear anything else outside or around the house would cause the most intense pain throughout your body, or
D. You’ll be doomed to always act like a stereotypical, comical teenage ditz girl, losing all your knowledge of cars, tools, and sports and gaining knowledge of fashion, makeup, and cheerleading to make up for it.
Are you ready to decide, David?”
Guessing how bitchy Tami had been today, he assumed she would pick ‘A’, but he sure didn’t like the sound of that one. Relatively speaking, ‘B’ seemed pretty mild, but he figured that she wouldn’t have picked that one and he’d just be adding more misery to himself. ‘C’ seemed the most ridiculous and humiliating of all – he wouldn’t pick that one for anything. ‘D’ was frightening, even more frightening than some of the others.
“Your time is almost up. Hurry up and make a choice, David.”
“I’m guessing that Tami went with ‘A’.” He cringed his face and watched as his grinning wife held up the sign… ‘A’.
“100 points for Tami and David! Way to go!” And the number 100 popped up on the electronic screen in front of them.
David was lucky he would only suffer one of the fates, but that’s as far as his luck would carry him. Within three seconds of hearing, “Way to go,” the Tennessean doubled over in pain, his arm instinctively clutching his mid-section. “Oh my God, this is so horrible!”
“Don’t be such a baby, you sonofabitch!” Tami scolded him. She knew the other symptoms that came along with PMS, too—the water retention, the moodiness… the moodiness.
Hit with the wave of an emotional roller coaster twice as strong as the one hitting his wife, David was unequipped to react to the tremendous humiliation he was feeling from the eyes of thousands of people watching. The tears came flowing out instinctively. “I don’t want to have a period…. Ow! I don’t want to buy my own… maxi pads…. I, I….”
“First time can be the worst,” Tami snapped back. “Maybe you’ll be a bit more sympathetic of what I go through.” Then she began to wonder if David having a period meant David having a pussy. That might not be so good. The unlucky couple later would discover that his one week a month of pain, bloating and bleeding also meant the one week a month that his normal penis transformed into a fully functioning female reproductive system. He would learn to get over the emasculating feeling of having a piece of cotton with a tiny string hanging out of his temporary vagina. But by then he would be convinced of Tami’s advice that living life close to normal as possible (especially for David) would mean tampons rather than pads.
Having fought back the tears, the former smart-ass turned red-faced and leaned over to his wife to whisper something into her hear. The studio and TV audiences got to hear her gleeful, demeaning reply. “Why, yes, it does, my little man. Ha! Lucky you I brought an extra one in my purse.” The stream of tears now burst through like water through a breaking dam. The producer had to turn down David’s microphone.
“Are you ready, Curt?” Kent inquired, peering darkly into the brash Bostonian’s eyes. Cocky bastard, he thought to himself. “Here’s your question…”
Curt interrupted. “I’m not playing your phony mumbo-jumbo….”
“I said I’m not playing your phony mumbo-jumbo, full of shit game. Yeah, edit that out, if you want….”
“Don’t worry. We’re on cable.”
“Whatever,” Curt shot back. His wife Angela didn’t share his profound confidence. She bit her lip tightly.
“Now, if you refuse to answer the question….”
“I don’t want to answer the question.”
Angela, normally awed by her husband’s forcefulness, butted in. “Curtie, you’d better play along….”
“Shut up, woman!”
The supermodel wasn’t used to him treating her so cruelly, nor acting like such a sexist. She folded her arms in disgust. If he was going to act like this, then maybe he did deserve all those choices the host asked her.
Kent cleared his throat. “I’m giving you another chance, Curt. You’ve got five seconds….”
But the cocky executive sat there with his lips tightly sealed, his arms crossed, and a stare that said: “Bring it on!”
“You get what you ask for,” the host casually inserted.
Strangely, the four transformations occurred to Curt in the order they were presented as options. He first felt a strange uneasy sensation in his pants. Trying to dismiss it at first, he started to sense that something was terribly wrong. His manly bulge had disappeared and his testicles had receded, yet he refused to believe he had a tiny prick.
The subsequent changes were harder to ignore. Curt’s Armani shirt had its front stretched beyond capacity, and buttons began to pop. He very rapidly began to develop breasts, breasts that started out as tiny bumps, turned into a perky little pair, and just kept on growing. The mounds of flesh were exposed to all to see, even before they finished their expansion. Angela actually felt a tinge of jealousy when she saw the DD’s, before she quickly recollected that those DD’s were stacked on her once studly husband. She would have to take him bra shopping later that evening.
But then Angela realized she would have to take Curt somewhere else even sooner. The recently assertive, swaggering executive began to fidget in his seat. A little earlier during the show, he’d felt the beginning urges of the need to pee, but now it seemed so much harder to control. He just knew he had to get to a toilet… and fast. Glancing over at his sex-goddess wife, Curt felt an inexplicable wave of relief come over him as he realized she was there. He was beginning to shake and squirm. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Angela felt embarrassed for the both of them. “Can’t you wait a minute?”
“Two minutes to commercial,” the host interjected.
Two minutes? No way, Curt thought, it seemed like an eternity. He didn’t want to wet himself in front of millions of people. “I need you to help me go to the bathroom.”
Angela conceded to the curse, taking her well-stacked but poorly-endowed husband by the hand and began to escort him toward the stage door. “If you’ll excuse us….” The audience couldn’t help but laugh at the unlikely scenario.
For his part, Curt was glad they were off camera and heading away from Studio B, as he felt dribbles of pee into his underpants. “Hurry up, Ang….”
They got to the doors of the restrooms, men’s and women’s, and instantly she knew they were faced with a dilemma. “Which one do we go in?” Angela asked.
“I usually go in the men’s, but….”
“Look at yourself.” The two DD’s on his otherwise manly frame would make using either bathroom a problem. “Let’s use the ladies.”
Barely able to hold on and totally unable to remember what to do once he got inside, Curt had no choice but to relent. “Okay.”
“Husband coming in,” Angela shouted out. She heard a woman shout, “What?” from one of the stalls, but that seemed a minor inconvenience for the moment. She took Curt into the farthest stall, the one designed for handicapped people, so they’d have the most room.
“Hurry… hurry…” he wailed, his legs shaking and his hands covering his tiny crotch, where he could now feel the diminished vestige of his once potent manhood.
It must have been a comical scene for the other woman in the can, considering what she heard.
A grown woman saying, “Stand still, so I can undo your belt and your zipper….”
A few seconds and then the sound of a zipper and pants and underwear sliding to the floor.
A grown man’s voice protesting, “No, I gotta do it standing up.”
The woman meekly replying, “Oh, yeah, let me get the seat up for….” Then a tiny scream. “Your weenie… it’s so….” Then another kind of scream. “You peed on my hand, you little… weenie!”
The embarrassed man’s voice, “Sorry, I just couldn’t hold it any more.”
The sound of a piece of toilet paper being ripped off so she could wipe off her hand. “You’re getting it on the floor.”
The man again. “Sorry, I’m not used to it being so… so little….”
The last few drips in the bowl and then a few seconds of silence. “You need to flush, sweetie.”
The man, disbelieving the sound of his own voice, “How?”
At last, the sound of flushing stirred the other woman in the bathroom out of her listening distraction. She cleaned up and flushed her own toilet and came out to wash her hands at the sink. The 30-year-old aspiring actress had just come to the studio for an audition for a daytime drama, and ended up overhearing something more from the realm of perverted science fiction. “Yech,” the attractive actress muttered, trying to pretend like she wasn’t fascinated by the little affair in the last stall. But then she noticed her eye makeup needed to be redone, and she just couldn’t go outside without fixing it. So after she washed and dried her hands, she opened up the compact in her purse.
Meanwhile, Curt and Angela emerged from the stall, the former looking uncharacteristically sheepish and the latter urging him to move along and wash his hands. “We don’t have all day, sweetie. We’ve got to get back to the show!”
“The show? You mean, we have to go back….” The power of the shadow extended over them, even into the ladies’ room down the hall.
Even the other woman felt it. She couldn’t help but glare at the pathetic couple, the man with bigger breasts than the woman. “My God, woman, can’t he use the bathroom by himself? What are you guys… some kind of perverts?”
But just then the fourth phase of the curse kicked in. In the presence of another attractive woman besides his wife, Curt felt overcome by a wave of timid emotions he couldn’t suppress. Tiny tears in his eyes started to roll down his cheeks, and the only thing that interrupted his audible bawls were the plop of his thumb that he stuck in his mouth. Angela was aghast. “You haven’t even washed your hands!” Turning to the other woman, she shooed her away. “Get… get out of here!”
Running out into the hall, mascara brush still in hand, she was more than a bit unsettled as she ran down the hall away from Studio B. A tall black man asked her if he could borrow some nail polish. A grotesquely fat person, coming out of his (was that a guy?) clothes, nearly ran her over in the hall. She was going to audition somewhere far, far away.
The TV audience at home thought that only three minutes had gone by during the commercial break, but it had taken a bit longer for the producer to gather the contestants for the next round of competition.
The well-bosomed and weepy Curt wanted to go home and suck his thumb. He didn’t want to go back on “that stupid show” (he muttered meekly). But deep inside he felt a mischievous urge to return. The once cocky Bostonian sensed intuitively that life would only be worse if he didn’t finish the taping of the episode.
David walked out of the men’s room, his hands still visibly shaking and the life drained from his pale face. Having popped six of those pills his wife gave him, the moodiness and cramps subsided somewhat. But he was still overcoming the embarrassment of having to duck into a bathroom stall and affix a maxi pad with wings to his Hanes briefs. He sighed with relief, noting that only a tiny drop of blood had stained his underwear. He was just in time.
JeRon was flustered by all the strange looks he got from women asking to borrow their nail polish. When he zipped around the corner for some clear and “Passion Purple” polish – as well as a Lady Gillette, shaving cream, and some lavender body lotion – the clerk did her best not to snicker. He had to be dragged back onto the set, all the while insisting he hadn’t had a chance to shave off “this hideous body hair.”
Last, but not least, Brian took a trip with his wife to a Fashions for Plus Sizes store and found some unisex-looking apparel to fit his new, unnatural fat curves. Only once did he have to get a good swig from Melanie’s milking melons.
“Welcome back to Marriage Madness, everyone,” Kent Klinkelman announced with a hint of wicked glee in his eye. “Now it’s time to turn the tables and send away the lovely ladies while their newly-minted husbands get to answer a few questions.”
A few seconds to pull off the logistical switch and the freak show quartet sat alone in their separate compartments staring at the host—everything from the meek Curt to the miserable David to the uncomfortable Brian to the repulsed JeRon.
“Let’s start with you, JeRon,” Kent opened as the cameras zoomed in on the African-American man’s brightly-painted fingernails. “Purple really suits you,” the host said with a tinge of sarcasm.
“Passion purple, Kent. It’s passion purple!” JeRon batted his eyes dismissively and sighed audibly. Members of the audience couldn’t help but chuckle at the girlish reaction. Surely it must be an act, some of them reasoned. But they were wrong.
“Let’s get to it, then. You know how it works, JeRon. You want to pick the answer that Stephanie will select.” The contestant nodded impatient recognition. “All right, then. We know that Stephanie is proud of her borderline genius IQ and her years of valuable education. The question for her husband is, which of the following would she most likely be willing to trade them for?
A. Large, firm breasts that are so big for her frame they make her back ache constantly….” JeRon could feel his stiff member stirring in his silky French-cut panties.
“B. The need for an orgasm at all costs every 12 hours,
C. An inability to wear any kind of underwear ever again, or
D. The compulsion to dress and wear makeup like a prostitute every time she leaves the house.”
JeRon stared back silently for a moment before opening his mouth. “You sure don’t make this easy, Kent.” The choice was easy for him as he scrawled an answer on the card and tucked it away from audience view.
“On to Brian…. Feeling hungry, by the way?”
“No, Kent,” he replied lamely.
“Unhappy with how the last round turned out for you?” Brian simply glared back, the rolls of fat on his hips and stomach stirring up the angst within. “You can make Melanie pay a little bit, too, you know.”
No, he thought to himself. I love Melanie… I wouldn’t want to hurt her, not ever. She didn’t mean to, er – Foreign thoughts crept in slowly and overwhelmed him. That lazy, stupid bitch thinks she can do this to me, well, she has got another thing coming. All sorts of devious thoughts began to fill his head; he was blinded by rage. Now, magically, Kent had his multiple-choice question ready to ask.
“Very interesting, Brian. Very dark and, well, very strange. Here’s your question. Which of the following scenarios do you think Melanie would pick for herself, knowing it would be the most tolerable of the four?
A. During the day she loves to piss her pants in front of people for the sexual thrill, while at night she wears a diaper and wets the bed with all the shame of a recently potty-trained toddler,
B. She adopts the unbreakable rude boyish habits of frequently scratching her crotch and her butt, belching loudly, being amused by farts and other bodily functions, and picking her nose,
C. She is overwhelmed by the illusion that men think fatter women are more beautiful and thus begins a ravenous diet of gorging Twinkies, pizzas, beer, and ice cream, even after the pregnancy is over, all the while being ravaged with guilt, and
D. She loses all ability forever to figure out how to put on or take off her clothes correctly and has no sense of fashion, color coordination, or propriety in choosing a wardrobe.
Wow, Brian, what an imagination!”
The obese Iowan chuckled gleefully as he wrote a large ‘B’ on the card.
“On to David, our friend from Tennessee who has joined his wife on the rag….”
“You sonofa…” he lashed out before a force too powerful to comprehend clamped his tongue.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, PMS runs in this family, for sure.” A nervous audience broke out in a full-throated, roaring laugh. “We’ll waste no time in getting to his question. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to take a little revenge on Tami for his newfound predicament.”
And David felt it inside him. He knew it was so.
“Tell us, David, which of these unfortunate uncorrectable quirks would Tami choose as her lifelong fate rather than any of the others? Listen closely now.
A. Daily waxes and electrolysis won’t cure her facial hair problem scheduled to grow twice as fast as your own,
B. She can only wear oversized, poofy, little-girl dresses, petticoats, hair ribbons, camis, underwear, socks, and Mary Janes at all times – except to bed when she wears pink Winnie the Pooh pajamas…”
David remembered his own question and felt this represented near perfect justice for a choice she almost, but didn’t, pick.
“C. No matter how often corrected, explained, or told otherwise, she will always reverse her understanding of the men’s and women’s bathrooms whenever she has to use the toilet, and won’t realize her mistake until the point she is in the act of using the toilet, or
D. The most important goal fixated in her mind, at all times and places, will be to figure out how to lick her own vagina.”
The man from Tennessee with a temporary pussy grinned from ear to ear as he wrote his answer on the card.
“How could we forget little Curtie Wurtie?” Kent said mockingly. It took all the once swaggering executive had to fight back a stream of little girl tears and histrionics. “Hope you two do a bit better than last time.” Curt nodded sheepishly. “Here’s your question. Which of these transformations would your gorgeous, supermodel wife Angela find the most tolerable of the four presented?
A. A Neanderthal skull shape, horribly misaligned teeth, an irremovable monobrow, and a severe, chronic case of mouth-breathing,
B. Completely uncoordinated hands and feet at twice their current size, with ears and nose equally out of proportion,
C. A loss of all womanly curves, including breasts and hips, to give her a pathetic boyish figure, or
D. A constant emission of the following uncorrectable odors: homeless man body odor, advanced stages of rotten garlic breath, and jalapeno & cauliflower flatulence.”
Knowing he had to pick one answer, Curt struggled to choose as he wondered fearfully which would get him the worst retribution from his now-dominant wife. “C-could y-you rep-p-peat the choices?”
He had forgotten them so quickly. ‘D’ wasn’t so bad, I think, and blindly decided to write that one down.
There was no commercial break this time, as both the live and television audiences sat on the edges of their collective seats wondering what would happen next. Within a moment, the ladies had emerged from the soundproof room backstage and rejoined their places next to their freakish spouses.
“Remember, everyone, a matching answer earns the lucky couple 100 points and only one transformation instead of two or more. Melanie, you’re up to bat first.”
Fear filled the pregnant woman’s gut. She knew what a terrible choice she had had to make in the previous round and now the chickens were coming home to roost on her. She could only imagine what awaited her as the host repeated the question.
“Which of the following scenarios would you pick for yourself, knowing it would be the most tolerable of the four?
A. During the day you’ll love to piss your pants in front of people for the sexual thrill, while at night you’ll always wear a diaper and wet the bed with all the shame of a recently potty-trained toddler,
B. Adopt the unbreakable rude boyish habits of frequently scratching your crotch and your butt, belching loudly, being amused by farts and other bodily functions, and picking your nose,
C. Be overwhelmed by the illusion that men think fatter women are more beautiful and thus begin a ravenous diet of gorging Twinkies, pizzas, beer, and ice cream, even after the pregnancy is over, all the while being ravaged with guilt, and
D. Lose all ability forever to figure out how to put on or take off your clothes correctly, as well as all sense of fashion, color coordination, or propriety in choosing a wardrobe.
Which will it be, Melanie?”
None of them sounded good, but after watching Curt she knew that playing along was safer than resisting. And maybe if she could guess what Brian had picked, there might be the chance of winning the game and undoing everything at the end. It was her only hope. The more Melanie reflected on the choices, the more she began to think it was too easy. One choice was too similar to what she had selected for her husband in the last round.
“I’m going to go with ‘C’, Kent.” But before she could finish, the look on the host’s face told her she had erred.
“I picked ‘B’,” Brian said flatly. Before she could recall what that choice was, Melanie felt an invisible dark hand reach up inside her, like it was rearranging ideas and preferences in her mind. But at the same time it felt totally natural. Of course, that’s just what was cool. She reached back to scratch the mild itch in her butt, something she would never have imagined doing in public before, releasing an audible reaction from the end of her digestive tract.
“Who cut the cheese?” she laughed obnoxiously, pointing at her husband. Then her face winced as she tried to force out an even louder fart. It was louder, but also much messier. “Dude, that was a wet one.” And then all she could think about was what to eat. “Where can I get some Twinkies around here?… Heh, heh… fat chicks rock!”
The blind revenge that had absorbed Brian now melted away into humiliation as he watched the woman he loved acting like an overblown caricature of an obnoxious, 10-year-old boy – and one addicted to junk food. But the game kept rolling on, even if the couple from Iowa still had zero points.
“It’s your turn, Tami, what you’ve been waiting for,” Kent interjected. “Without further ado, which of these unfortunate uncorrectable quirks would you choose as your lifelong fate rather than any of the others?
A. Daily waxes and electrolysis won’t cure your new facial hair problem scheduled to grow twice as fast as your husband’s,
B. You can only wear oversized, poofy, little-girl dresses, petticoats, hair ribbons, camis, underwear, socks, and Mary Janes at all times – except to bed when you’ll wear your pink Winnie the Pooh pajamas,
C. No matter how often corrected, explained, or told otherwise, you will always reverse your understanding of the men’s and women’s bathrooms whenever you have to use the toilet, and won’t realize your mistake until you are sitting there relieving yourself, or
D. The most important goal fixated in your mind, at all times and places, will be to figure out how to lick your own vagina.”
Tami snapped back. “That’s disgusting!” Then she glanced sideways at her dickless husband, wondering which choice his perverted and possessed mind might have chosen. They already had the lead with 100 points. To answer another one right would put them in the final bonus round, for sure.
She was thinking to herself how she didn’t care for any of the choices one bit, how they all seemed equally bad and repulsive, when the host told her she had five seconds to make her choice. Something is better than no choice at all, Tami, she encouraged herself. “B,” she blurted out. David, still irritated by the lingering cramps, tore up the card and threw it down.
Right before the eyes of the live studio audience and the untold thousands watching at home, Tami’s blue sweater and beige slacks transformed into an oversized version of a four-year-old’s party dress, a bright yellow crinoline with poofy shoulders and lace on the fringe. The worst part was the feeling of the dress riding up as if it had not been designed to protect her womanly modesty. But there for all to see were her new adult size 8 pink Barbie cotton panties. Tami found herself fighting the thought of pride that she didn’t have to wear her Pull-Up trainers that day.
Where did that come from? she thought in panic-stricken horror. She hardly noticed her bra change into a large version of a little girl’s cami or her normal tan socks turn white and lacy or her leather sandals morph into oversized black Mary Janes.
Tami felt the guilt of having picked ‘B,’ but even as she tried to remember what choice ‘C’ was, her mind went fuzzy. It must not be a big deal….
“Next up is Curt and Angela, stuck at zero points. Here’s your chance to turn things around.”
Angela, the gorgeous supermodel, was already conflicted with the newfound maternal urge to gladly help her husband use the bathroom whenever he needed to do so. But she wasn’t sure if she were ready to choose a fate for herself.
“All right, Angela dear. Which of these transformations would you find the most tolerable of the four presented?
A. A Neanderthal skull shape, horribly misaligned teeth, an irremovable monobrow, and a severe, chronic case of mouth-breathing,
B. Completely uncoordinated hands and feet at twice their current size, with ears and nose equally out of proportion,
C. A loss of all womanly curves, including breasts and hips, to give you a pathetic boyish figure, or
D. A constant emission of the following uncorrectable odors: homeless man body odor, advanced stages of rotten garlic breath, and jalapeno & cauliflower flatulence.”
It took Curt’s wife a split second to notice that one of the four choices was not like the other. The first three would all hideously rearrange her appearance, something which she idolized greatly. But then she started to rationalize about the final option and imagined that just maybe there would be a way, if she tried really hard, to overcome the odor problems. And if not, for some reason, the pictures of her would still be beautiful.
“Of these four choices, Kent, I’ve got to go with ‘D’.”
Curt took his thumb out of his mouth long enough to smile a mile wide and hold up the card that showed the correct answer. The Bostonians had earned 100 points and pulled into a tie with Tami and David. The bonus round might just be in their future.
But the pleasant thought was quickly overrun by the horrible stench that sat beside him. He began coughing and gagging and crying. Angela herself felt like melting away into a wallflower as she caught a huge whiff of the putrid body odor emanating from herself and winced a bit at the rapid succession of “silent but deadly” flatulent releases she couldn’t hold back. The curse of choice ‘D’ meant she would never grow used to her own smell and would suffer the chronic pain of ostracism and self-loathing combined. No amount of showers, lotions, soaps, shampoos, deodorants, toothpaste, breath mints, and Lysol would alleviate the problem for more than 5 seconds at a time.
Angela wanted to run away, but once again the dark force kept her nylon-encased, flatulent butt nearly pinned to the cushion.
“Phew,” Kent bantered with the supermodel, “what made you want to choose that one?”
Clenching her nose with one hand, like everyone else on stage, she replied, “I thought it was a no-brainer…” before weeping in pure shame.
“Speaking of no-brainer,” the host beamed, somehow suddenly oblivious to Angela’s putrescent stench, “let’s go to our final couple. Stephanie, oh boy, do you want to see what JeRon picked out for you?”
“Go on with it,” she said, futilely trying to wave away the fumes in front of her face.
“Here’s the question. We know how proud you are of your borderline genius IQ and your years of valuable education. In light of that, which of the following would you most likely be willing to trade them for?
A. Large, firm breasts that are so big for your frame they make your back ache constantly,
B. The need for an orgasm at all costs every 12 hours,
C. An inability to wear any kind of underwear ever again, or
D. The compulsion to dress and wear makeup like a prostitute every time you leave the house.”
Angela’s lip quavered. “W-what do y-you m-m-mean trade ‘them’?”
“You’re a smart girl. Well, not for long, though. Let me prepare you for how people are going to treat you after this question is answered.” The host started to speak in very slow, patronizing tones. “Your big brains will go bye-bye. What you want instead?”
The young Filipino woman was furious. She wanted to storm at him but felt pinned to her seat. As an internal defense, Stephanie began pondering on some of the facts and knowledge she was comfortable with. But slowly, she could feel the equations, the ideas, the concepts, the vocabulary, already starting to slip away. She covered her mouth with the hand that was previously covering her nose. “It can’t be!”
“Yes, it can. And if you don’t choose in 5 seconds, you will have traded your intelligence and education for all four choices.”
“All four? Huh?” The woman who had scored a perfect 800 on the math portion of her SAT and earned an A in Calculus II now had to pause to count on her fingers. “Wha… Which one… What?”
“I’m sorry, Stephanie. Time is expired.”
Her brains had indeed slipped away. “Me sorry… me stupid….” But the effects of the four choices one by one began to take hold. “Look,” she said with a big, dumb expression on her face. “Me boobies… big… more big… me boobies!” The small swellings on her chest quickly dwarfed even Curt’s knockers. The G-cup breasts actually started to pull her petite frame forward. And then – a pang in her back. “Owie!”
Then Stephanie began to rub her lithe legs together, the lack of panties feeling perfectly normal – the only acceptable condition for her, really. “Me hot… mmm… and wet.” She looked at her husband and couldn’t even remember his name. But her jaw dropped and drool raced down her chin as she greedily stared at his groin. “You… you… do me now. Do me now….” And she hopped into JeRon’s lap, grinding her pelvis vigorously as she struggled to figure out how to unbuckle the belt on his pants.
“Not on TV, girl,” he said, barely able to fight back the potent urges as his French-cut panties tented drastically out of shape. Finally, he relented as he watched her fingers try to tug the belt off without undoing the buckle. “Let me do it!”
The compulsion to dress like a prostitute now filled much of the tiny gray matter left in Stephanie’s head as she longed for the screwing of her life. “Me ho! Me you ho! Me big… mmmm…. Ho!” It seemed unlikely that medical school would be a welcome place for the Filipino woman ever again.
The camera zoomed in on Kent. “Quite a show, ladies and gentlemen… quite a show! Our two couples with 100 points each – David and Tami, Curt and Angela – will be back to join me for the bonus round…after this!”