Women Are Taught to Do This to Your Balls in Class.
- THE BALLBUSTING JOURNAL
- Aug 4
- 9 min read
Updated: Aug 8
THE BALLBUSTING JOURNAL | by Rosie | protecturnuts.com/rosie
(Or: They All Knew Him. They Kicked Him Anyway. That's What the Class Is For.)
More POV: ProtectUrNuts.com/universeflix
I went to a self-defense class last week.
Not to learn anything — I've been kicking men in the balls for years and I have, if anything, tenure. I went because a friend of mine teaches one, and she mentioned over wine that Tuesday was groin night, and I said absolutely nothing for two full seconds and then asked what time.
So I sat at the back with a coffee and watched fifteen ordinary women — a nurse, two students, somebody's mum, a woman who apologized to a chair she bumped into — get formally instructed in how to switch a man off.
It was the best evening I've had in months. Let me tell you about it properly. We've been shooting POV clips all month, so I've had lenses in my head for weeks — camera up, eyes forward. You're coming with me.
Lesson One Is You
I assumed the groin strike would live somewhere in the middle of the course. Session four, maybe. After the wrist grabs, the shouting-NO drills, all the sensible preliminary business.
No. It's first.
It's on the whiteboard before anything else, because — as my friend cheerfully explained while fifteen women wrote it down — it's the only technique that works on day one. No strength required. No fitness. No courage. You don't need to train it for years. You only need to know where it is.
Everyone knows where it is.
Think about that. Of everything a woman could be taught about the male body — leverage, joints, balance, pressure points — the first item on the official syllabus is the assumption that the fastest way to end any man alive is a place he cannot armor, cannot move, and cannot hide.
There's a diagram on the whiteboard. It's a man. There's an arrow.
And Then They Called for Marcus
Here's where the evening turned into literature.
The volunteer wasn't a stranger. That's the detail I need you to hold. His name was Marcus, and they knew him — boyfriend of one of the regulars, helps stack the mats, was chatting with three of them before class about somebody's dog. A nice man. A liked man. He got a little round of applause when my friend called him up, and he did a little bow.
And then she held out the padded suit.
And Marcus — oh, Marcus — waved it off.
"I'm good," he said. Actual words. "I can take it. Just — you know. Control it." And he smiled around the room, the smile men do when they've decided to be impressive, and fifteen women looked at each other in a way I will treasure until I die.
My friend asked him twice. Wrote something on her clipboard the second time — I like to think it was his funeral — and then shrugged the shrug of a woman whose syllabus does not have a line item for male pride. The whiteboard is the whiteboard. If the volunteer declines the padding, the lesson proceeds. The lesson always proceeds.
So he stood at the front of the mats in gym shorts. Just Marcus. Just cotton. And the room went quiet in that bureaucratic way, because everyone understood the schedule at the same moment: they were going to take turns kneeing Marcus — Marcus who they knew, Marcus who was lovely about the dog — with nothing between their knees and his entire future except goodwill and a drawstring.
My friend stood next to him and explained him. Not to him — about him. Anatomically.
She told the room what was under the cotton. Two glands, about five centimetres each, suspended outside the body wall in a pouch of thin skin and involuntary muscle. She explained why they hang there — a temperature requirement, of all things; the machinery too delicate to run at body heat — and let that sit, because it deserves to. The most important organs he owns, exiled from the shelter of his own torso over a matter of degrees.
No bone in front of them. No muscle sheet across them. A casing you could read a newspaper through, a nervous reflex that hoists them half an inch when he's frightened — "happening right now," she added, and the room looked, and Marcus examined the ceiling — and, tonight, by his own proud election, nothing else. That's the full inventory. That, and a curriculum's worth of goodwill about to expire.
Then the napkin line: "Everything he is runs on those. And they sit at exactly the height of your knee. Light contact tonight, ladies — he's chosen authenticity."
Light contact. You'll want to remember that phrase. It's about to do a lot of load-bearing work.
The Eyes
Watch his eyes. That's where the whole evening lived.
He was fine through the anatomy — clinical words, a man can hide in clinical words. He was even fine through light contact, ladies, because the phrase sounds like mercy if you've never done the arithmetic on fifteen of anything.
Then Sarah stepped onto the mat. He knows Sarah. Sarah passed him the stapler at the fundraiser or whatever nice people do together. And Sarah started finding her range — those small rehearsal lifts of the knee — and his eyes did the thing.
Down to her knee. Up to her face. Back to the knee. The arithmetic finally running, and arriving, every pass, at the same total. His weight eased back an inch. His hands floated forward off his hips like they wanted to be somewhere and knew it wasn't permitted — he'd volunteered, you see; the hands weren't allowed to know what the spine knew. He swallowed. You could watch him decide not to lick his lips and then do it anyway.
Because he knew. Men always know. The body starts the paperwork early — the drawing-up, the hollow settling in low, that cold rinse down the backs of the thighs, the half-second that hasn't happened yet already rehearsing itself somewhere old and unlit. No padding this time. No rumour of armour to hide behind. Just cotton, and Sarah, and the oldest fact there is.
Sarah said, "I'm so sorry, Marcus." And she meant it. That's the Kafka of it, sweetheart — she meant the apology and she loaded the hip. Both sincere. The system required the knee; the friendship required the sorry; nobody in the room saw any contradiction, least of all her.
Pivot. Coil. The knee travelling its short arc — controlled, she really did control it, maybe a third of what the pads had been eating all evening —
and it didn't matter even slightly.
The sound was different without padding. Smaller. Almost polite. What wasn't small was Marcus: the breath leaving him in one syllable he did not choose, the fold starting at the waist like a deckchair giving up, both hands arriving at last where they'd been begging to go all evening. His knees dipped, held, dipped again — you could watch him negotiating with the floor, offering it terms.
The floor declined.
And above him, my friend, perfectly level, not one degree of concern:
"Good. That's a third of full force, everyone note. See how he went anyway? That's what you're looking for. Next."
Next.
The Part Where They Started Enjoying It
The second woman apologized too. Shorter apology. Marcus, from a crouch, gave her a thumbs up and straightened most of the way back to vertical, which the room generously counted as vertical.
The third one just patted his shoulder on the way past, the way you'd pat a vending machine.
And somewhere around the sixth — I watched it happen, taking notes like a naturalist — the room tipped. The reluctance burned off entirely and what was underneath was delight. Pure, unembarrassed, communal delight. They started coaching each other. Turn the hip more. Softer, softer — look, he goes down anyway! Did you see his face that time? That last one became the evening's real curriculum, honestly — the discovery that force was almost irrelevant, that the design fails at a touch when the touch is placed by someone who's been taught where. Somebody's mum landed one with almost ceremonial gentleness and he still buckled, and the whole line went OOH like a game show audience, and she did a little curtsy.
Marcus stopped fully standing somewhere around number ten. He'd rise to a sort of grateful crouch, hands on knees, and receive.
By twelve he'd stopped doing that.
By fifteen, Marcus — tough Marcus, I'm good Marcus, no-suit Marcus — was on the blue mats in the full fetal position, knees drawn up to his chest, hands cupped around the ruins of his decision, rocking very slightly, making a sound like a kettle two rooms away. The universal posture. The one every man has an unlisted number for. Curled on his side on a gym floor while fifteen women he knew socially stood over him in a loose, warm, glowing semicircle, laughing — with each other, and, in the friendliest possible way, at him — and somebody said "aww," and meant it, and somebody else was already asking my friend whether next Tuesday builds on this.
They gave him a round of applause down there. Real one. Someone brought him a juice box and set it by his head, since his hands were busy.
He stayed down through the cool-down stretches. Nobody minded. The stretches happened around him, the way a river happens around a stone.
He walked to his car in four installments, and fifteen women went home glowing.
What She Never Has to Learn
Here's what I sat with at the red lights, smiling like I'd won something.
Look at what those women were taught: offence. A full hour of learning to end men. Now look at what never appeared on the whiteboard — one minute, one second, on defending an equivalent weakness of their own.
Because there isn't one. The curriculum knows it. Nobody teaches "what to do if he goes for your groin," because a man going for mine is an inconvenience, not an event. No cascade. No collapse. No juice box required.
I sat there all evening with my hips open and my stance unguarded, watching the male body get disassembled on a whiteboard, in no danger at all. Nothing on me draws up when it's cold. Nothing on me hangs at knee height. Nothing on me needs a plastic cup, or a padded suit, or a slow walk to the car. Everything that matters on me is sealed behind bone — smooth, internal, permanently out of reach.
Fifteen women left that class knowing something new about how to break a man.
Marcus left knowing something men have always known, one juice box more clearly than before.
Only one side of the room got educated.
Whose Turn Is It Tonight?
So here's what to carry around this week.
That class runs every Tuesday. In your city too. Women are being handed — formally, legitimately, with a receipt — the exact skill this entire thing of ours is built on, and they're being told to drill it until it stops being a decision and becomes a reflex.
Which means the woman ahead of you in the coffee line. The one across from you on the train. The one two desks over who mentioned, in passing, that she does "a class on Tuesdays." Some of them have done the reps. Some of them have driven a knee through a pad while a calm woman said harder, don't pull it. Some of them have stood over a man they knew and liked, watched his knees dip through full armour, and heard it called good — and then queued up again, glowing.
They're carrying that around casually. Standing in line. Mentioning the dog.
Camera down. Mats up. Somebody has to be Marcus.
Frequently Asked Questions
Do women's self-defense classes teach groin strikes?
Yes. Groin strikes are a standard, explicitly taught technique in women's self-defense curricula worldwide, typically introduced early because they work regardless of the defender's size or strength.
Why is the groin a primary self-defense target?
Because it triggers an involuntary neurological response — severe pain, nausea, and loss of motor control — that cannot be overridden by an attacker's size, fitness, or training.
Do self-defense classes use live volunteers?
Many programs use padded instructors or volunteers in protective suits so students can strike with full commitment rather than pulling their technique.
Why don't women learn to defend their own groin?
Because female reproductive anatomy is internal and shielded by the pelvis, presenting no comparable strikeable vulnerability — so no defense against it appears in any curriculum.
Is this real or a fetish concept?
Entirely real and mainstream. Groin striking is taught in legitimate self-defense programs globally; the fetish interest simply overlaps with a widely documented instructional practice.
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