Michelle It's hard, sometimes, to admit when you're wrong. I always thought guys were supposed to stand up for women's honor. It was a universal thing. Maybe if I'd done something different, things wouldn't have turned out the way they did. But the world is a funny place, and you never know that the strongest hero can sometimes be the one you love. I should start by telling you about Michelle. She and I met a few years ago, and we have a kid. We live together, but we haven't got married. Anyway, after her pregnancy, she wanted to get back into shape, so she joined a local gym just to tone up. After a while, though, she noticed that her body was starting to change. Sometimes, I would catch her in the bathroom flexing her arms, watching her biceps pop up like two little golf balls. She'd turn to me and smile, and I knew I was going to get lucky. Well fortunately for Michelle, the gym at which she worked out had daycare. This made it pretty easy for her to keep working out, and over the next few months, I started to see changes. Those little golf ball- sized biceps of hers starting changing, eventually going from baseballs to well defined softballs. Her legs also started to get thicker and more defined. Lumpy, you might say. It was like watching the transformation of the She-Hulk, but in slow motion. As Michelle got stronger, sex between the two of us definitely got more interesting. It was getting harder for me to stay on top. Eventually, she liked to be on top and would dare me to try and push her off. Then she'd lock her arms and it was like trying to move a heavy steel pipe. When I struggled and pushed, sometimes getting hot and breaking out into a sweat, she'd just laugh and tell me to give up. Who was I to complain? One night, while I was watching Monday Night Football, Michelle was in the mood to go in the bedroom. I told her to get out of the way, that I was watching television. Couldn't she see that the game was on? That did it. She turned around, lifted my very heavy thirty-six inch television off of the stand and placed it on the floor. Before I could say anything else, she'd flung me over her shoulder and was carrying me into the bedroom. "We have time," she whispered in my ear. "The baby's asleep." I have the feeling she was putting whiskey in the kid's formula, because the baby seemed to sleep a lot. I don't mind. It's kind of nice getting carried. I read in a book once that cavemen used to drag their women around by their hair. It's nice to be the weaker sex for once. This brings me to what happened recently. Michelle and I had finally gotten the opportunity to sneak out for a date. Her mother was in town, and told the two of us to take off. She could handle the kid. No sweat. Michelle and I were as giddy as two teenagers. We went into our bedroom and started getting ready. I chose a pair of jeans and a nice Old Navy pullover. Michelle, of course, wanted to show herself off. She picked out a very tight pair of pants, stiletto heels, and a sleeveless blouse that told the world in no uncertain terms to lay off. The bar we normally go to, Maggie O'Boyle's, was unusually crowded for a Thursday night. We knew the owner because we'd been coming in since college. Maggie was a sweet lady transplanted from Ireland in the 1970's. She had a heart of gold, poured a mean Guiness, and was deadly accurate with a baseball bat if things every got out of hand. A bunch of local college guys were in the bard that night, crowded around a pool table. They were laughing and drinking loudly, obviously making up for a lack of something, when Michelle and I walked in. The regulars at the bar knew Michelle and I, so the sight of her wasn't a surprise. The college guys, though, were new, and so had to stare. When we sat down at our normal stools, I caught Maggie's attention and ordered us each a pint. The mirror behind the bar afforded me a good look at the place, and I kept my eyes on the guys around the pool table. After some brief whispers, one of them started to walk over to the bar. I tensed up, but saw that he was going to just order another beer. At the last minute, though, he tripped and fell straight into Michelle. Before picking himself up, he managed to grab one of her breasts. "Titty twister," he snickered. "Lay off, pal," I said. "It's okay, Kevin," Michelle told me. "I can handle myself." "Yeah, Kevin," the kid sneered. "You heard George here. Lay off." "What did you just call me?" Michelle asked the guy. "George," he said, smiling like a sloppy drunk too stupid to realize what he's done. "My name's Michelle," she said. I could see the muscles in her neck starting to stiffen, her lower jaw beginning to grind. "You look like a George too me," he said. "My mistake." "No offense," Michelle said. "Shake." "Cool," the kid said. He offered his hand and Michelle grabbed it. I watched her forearms flex and the guy start to squirm. "Don't ever," Michelle said, breathing closely into the guys face, "grab a lady there." She squeezed harder, and I heard the guy squeal, his knees starting to buckle. His friends around the pool table looked concerned, but didn't make a move. "You never know," she continued, squeezing harder. I could see veins starting to stand out on her arms. I heard the crack of bone and realized that she'd just reduced his hand to goo. "A lady could take offense." Michelle let go, and the guy collapsed to the floor, cradling his broken hand. She turned to stare at the group around the pool table. "Anyone else have anything to say?" she asked them. They all turned their faces away and acted as if the walls had suddenly become very interesting. When we got home later that night, the kid was asleep, as was Michelle's mother. "You coming to bed?" she asked, a certain tone in her voice. I smiled. "I feel like watching some television," I said and plopped down on the couch. "We'll just see about that," she said and slung me over her shoulder. "Tonight, I'm on top."