Ballbusting Women Are the Scorpion. You've Always Been the Frog.
Updated: 1 day ago
THE BALLBUSTING JOURNAL | by Stacy | protecturnuts.com/models
18+ only. Satire and adult entertainment. Everything here is fantasy between consenting adults.
You know the story.
She needs to get across the river and she can't swim. So she asks the frog to carry her. And he says — quite sensibly — no, you'll sting me.
And she gives him the reassurance. Of course I won't. Why would I? We'd both go under.
He thinks about it.
He says yes.
That's the part everyone skips past. Not the sting. The yes. He was told exactly what she was. He had all the information. And then he lowered himself into the water and let her climb onto his back anyway.
I've been ballbusting men in your frogs since ever. Let me tell you how it actually works from up here.
It's Not Instinct. It's a Drive.
People hear "it's my nature" and picture a reflex. Something automatic. A machine doing what machines do.
That's not it at all.
It's an itch.
It sits in me the way thirst sits in you. It comes about whenever I hear the word "kick" or I can see the shape of your plums through your pants. You can ignore at first. You can be busy, be polite, be in a meeting. But now, the whole time some quiet part of me is aware of exactly where your weakness is.
And now I'm standing right in front of you. Could anyone bring a silver platter too?
So, I'm in a queue behind a man in gym shorts and I know precisely where everything is on him now. I'm at a party and he's laughing too loud with his weight back on his heels and my whole body has already run the calculation without being asked. Distance. Angle. Timing...
I'm not deciding anything. I'm just now extremely aware of your weak spot.
And a scorpion doesn't sting because she's evil. She stings because she's been itching to sting ever since she saw the weak frog, and now your nuts just got close enough. Oops! Are you okay? Your nuts okay?
Yet You Got On Anyway
Which brings us to you.
Because here's what fascinates me about the frog, and it's the reason this fable belongs to us more than the people quoting it on television.
She warned him first just by virtue of her not having the balls. Then she stood at the water's edge and had an entire conversation about the fact that she can sting him and he cannot do the same to her. He even raised the objection himself. He knew.
And then he got in the water and offered her his sac... I mean back.
You did the same thing about ninety seconds ago. You saw the title. You knew what this was going to get you at the very least conceptually closer to a nutshot. You could have gone and read something at CNN of FOX, or anything that wasn't a woman explaining, in detail, how she becomes thirsty to kick you in the balls.
You're still here.
You are so deeply still here.
Awaiting the deep impact.
I'm not going to pretend that's an accident, and neither should you.
The Crossing
So we're out in the middle now, you and I.
And I want to tell you about the last half-second before it happens, because it's the only part of this that still fascinates me after all these balls, I meant years. All these years.
From up here it's nothing. My weight shifts, my hip loads, and it's over before I've finished thinking about it. Fast. Committed. Full speed. I don't slow down, I don't savour, I don't draw it out — nobody savours a drink of water, they just drink it.
But that is not what happens to you or so I'm told.
Because I've watched a lot of faces in that half-second and something completely different is going on down there. Time stops behaving. Not for me. For you. Your brain sees what's coming and starts recording at some ridiculous density, and a fraction of a second gets stretched into a corridor you have to walk the whole length of. And it just makes sense.
You see my foot leave the floor. I mean you must see it as you're staring at it. Then you watch it travel. You have time to think several complete thoughts, none of them useful, and not one of them can stop anything. Only your male brain is in slow mo here.
Keats wrote about two lovers painted on a vase, frozen an inch apart, never allowed to touch. Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, though winning near the goal. It's probably something like that. Foot is about to make contact... but it hasn't yet.
Because that's where you live, isn't it. Not in the after — the after is ninety seconds of your body doing paperwork. You live in the before. Permanently. Every woman you walk past is a half-second of her kicking you in the balls. A kick that hasn't started yet yet is potentialy true of all females, at work, at school, with friends, the woman with those that beautiful gaze atht e coffee shop, all of the women at PUN...
Wait! my foot is still, moving at full speed. Boom! Full blown crater in your masculine ego.
You may of course, at your convenience, mansplain your pain.
And Then She Stings
And then the half-second runs out.
First — nothing. That's the cruelty built into you. A blank beat where your body checks its own paperwork and you almost, almost believe you got away with it.
Then the sexual diphormism bill arrives. She got you were it counts and she knows it.
And not where you were braced for it. That's what catches everyone. It doesn't stay local — it climbs, up into your gut, because your balls were abdominal organs once and they never rewired when they moved out of the neighbourhood. Your brain still has them filed under belly. So what you're feeling isn't just a groin injury at all. Is your whole lower body. A low blow by (blank) think of her name here.
So it's also a stomach one. And your whole midsection folds around a wound that isn't there.
The heat coming up. The nausea rolling in behind it. Your mouth going wet. The room sliding sideways and getting very quiet at the edges. Your breath speeding up....
Your legs — your strong, trained, expensive legs — resign without consulting you.
There's no decision to go down. Down simply happens, the way weather happens. The way the apple fell on Newton's head. Your orbs drop closer to the ground before my very eyes.
And somewhere on the way, the sound. The one you'd deny under oath. An octave you haven't visited since you were fifteen.
Yet I'm immnuie. I'm still standing. With the proviledge to see it up close and personal.
What's Actually Happening There
Now the honest part. The part that makes this ours and not just an injury.
If it were only pain you'd have stopped years ago. Men avoid pain. It's rather the thing about you.
What's happening on that floor is far more complicated, and every one of you knows it and almost none of you can say it out loud. So I'll say it.
There's the pain. Enormous, total, taking up all available space, just like with any other man anatomically speaking. But threaded right through the middle of it is something with no business being there.
Relief.
The relief of the thing you've been braced against since you were a boy finally arriving.
All that carrying. All that flinching. The low-grade tax you've paid every day of your life for the crime of being built with sensible testicles — and now it's happened, and for a few minutes you don't have to dread it anymore.
And underneath the relief, one floor down, the thing you'd never type into a comment box: it was her.
She did that. A woman half your size who wasn't even breathing hard reached straight across every advantage you were issued — the muscle, the height, the reach, the entire biological dossier that says you win — and switched you off with one movement.
There is no other situation in a man's life where that happens. Anywhere else she'd have to beat you. Here you don't lose. Here you were simply manufactured with a door in you, and she has always, always known where it is.
That's why you're on the floor with wet eyes and something suspiciously like gratitude moving through you.
And that's why you'll offer your balls again.
Now Look Up
While you're folded down there doing all of that at once — look at me.
Not a mark. Nothing disturbed. Nothing even mildly inconvenienced. You could deliver everything you have, with everything you've got, to exactly the same place on me, and I'd be slightly annoyed.
Because mine never left. They started where yours started — same neighbourhood, same original filing — and then yours packed up and moved outside over a temperature complaint, and mine stayed in. Behind bone. Sealed. Silent. Permanently beyond anything you could ever do about it.
And you'll think about that tonight. And again tomorrow, when a woman moves faster than you expected and you feel that small ancient lift — the reflex, the half-inch, your body's entire emergency response system — firing uselessly, exactly the way it has since you were younger and exactly the way it will until you die.
Women never needed a groin reflex. Obviously you do.
The Far Bank
We made it across, by the way. That's the difference between my version and the one they tell on television.
Nobody drowns here. You're on the bank, curled up, doing the sums. I'm dry, and unbothered, and already thinking about the next river.
And next week you'll be back at the water's edge with your back turned toward me, saying something about how you've thought about it and you're really not sure this is a good idea.
I'll tell you it'll be fine. I won't kick but if I do I won't kick you too hard. It will be an "oops" accident. Are you okay?
And you'll get in anyway. Hoping. Then cupping.
Frequently Asked Questions
What is the scorpion and the frog fable?
A scorpion asks a frog to carry her across a river. The frog fears being stung; the scorpion argues that stinging would doom them both. Midway across she stings him anyway, explaining only that it is her nature — a fable about behaviour that cannot be reasoned away.
What does "it's my nature" mean in the fable?
It means the scorpion's behaviour isn't a decision or a betrayal — it's an unchangeable characteristic. The moral is that some drives override self-interest entirely.
Why do men return to something they know will hurt them?
Because the experience isn't purely painful. Anticipation, relief from long-held dread, and the power dynamic of being overcome by someone smaller all combine into a response far more complex than pain alone.
Why does a groin strike hurt in the stomach?
Because the testicles develop inside the abdomen and descend before birth while keeping their original abdominal nerve supply — so the brain interprets the injury as abdominal, producing stomach pain and nausea.
Why does time seem to slow before impact?
Under threat the brain encodes memory at much higher density, which makes the moment feel dilated in recall — the strike itself is not slower, the recording is.
Why isn't there an equivalent vulnerability in women?
Female reproductive organs remain internal, shielded by the pelvis, so no external structure exists to strike — meaning no comparable injury, threshold, or medical pathway.
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