The Chastity Belt Club

All I heard was the sound of the car stereo playing “Victims of Love” with its ear-piercing chorus. There were so many songs available in the entire pop music history I wondered why the jocks couldn’t choose a more suitable one to play. This was not the first time I heard that particular song play in Bloody’s stereo.

Maybe the song had a personal message had I only listened carefully instead of exchanging glances with Bloody behind the steering wheel.

This was the second Joyride. And the topic was Puppy. I never saw Bloody this excited over something that stoked his ego. It made him feel superior above all God’s creatures, including the squid. Nothing beats the thrill a man gets from squashing an opponent in a race to a woman’s heart. In Bloody’s case, he did not even have to lift a finger. It was I who sent Puppy off the ring already peeing in his pants.

Of course, Bloody wouldn’t dare mention his latest victory. He knew I easily get turned off by sheer arrogance. So he played it safe in a kind of reverse way. You know, like why not pick Puppy over him. He’s handsome, single and about to get rich. He seemed serious about making babies with me while he, Bloody, was already a very complicated family man with a string of girls willing to be knocked up anytime. He might even have AIDS. I belong to a different caste, he said. Like The Chastity Belt Club. It made him feel unworthy. I didn’t know that his testosterone had reached the pious level already.

But the mere thought of me dying a virgin distressed him. I might catch ovarian cancer, cervix cancer and all types of weird diseases attributed to unused reproductive system. But he swore on other people’s grave not to hold my hand either. The electricity the contact generates could mess up his brains and send alerts to launch that “baby arm” down there. So he made us a deal. Just in case I changed my mind about the postponed trip to The Flower Farm, he would gladly oblige me with a tour.

I punched his six-pack abs and the devil laughed.