The Making of a SuperHero.

I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I became a ‘Superhero’ with the stroke of a pen. Well, that’s what my wife and her relatives said. 

You see, my now wife is a stunt-woman and sometimes during our courting days - perhaps I should have said ‘Catching Days’ as many times she would throw me off of buildings and trust the air-bags would catch me - all in the name of later exciting teenagers and other people with nothing better to do, in movie houses. But I love her. She actually carried me down the aisle for fun. Truly, it was for fun, she’s not one to establish dominance at the start of a relationship, at least I don’t think so. Of course, she drives our car very speedily. Well, why wouldn’t she? She specially trained for it and was on good terms with the traffic cops around our district. Perhaps they were scared of her! She can hold me over her head using just one arm, and I’m not a small man. But, as I said, I love her.

I was an extra on a set when I was first ‘woman-handled’ by her. It was in the script. You’ve no doubt heard of the now, seemingly, barbaric practice of throwing dwarfs, well, this was throwing fully grown humans. What used to be known as the ‘Flying Mare,’ a ju-jitsu move of holding the coat lapels putting a foot in the stomach and falling onto one’s back but propelling the victim with the said foot. This was used by a bunch of ‘braggarts’ - this was a movie, mind you - to see how far this simulating drunken collection of the ‘heavily muscled’ variety could chuck someone through space and into a pool. My, what would later be, my darling, won because I had the presence of mind to roll up in a ball and it seemed as if this did the trick in her winning the contest. Of course, the script said she would win, but she actually won and was so pleased with me that she dived into the pool to rescue me as she realised I couldn’t swim and was drowning. At least, not then. But also, as I said, I’m a Superhero now and all superheroes can swim, unless of course they suck up all of the water and blow it out to an accommodating area where it cannot drown people.

Felicity, that’s my wife’s name - her real name - but that wouldn’t really do for a stunt-woman of 6 foot 4inches, or she thought it wouldn’t. So named herself Karma to go with her family name of Kendall, or as she is generally known, KK. It suits her. With our marriage, she kept her family name and which for convenience I chose also. I mean, what is love if it is not about sacrifice. I don’t think she has any praying mantis tendencies. 

Our honeymoon was mountain climbing, in which naturally, she was an expert. Not only an expert on the mountains, but she had studied and practised Wim Hof’s breathing method and is able to tolerate extremes of temperature. I was wrapped in thermal gear and my darling just had a cotton T-Shirt and shorts on as we ascended the icy slopes. She has given me a year to practice and says if necessary she will carry me up to a snowy peak with me being absolutely naked. Unfortunately, I think she means it. I believe Wim Hof is a nice man, but I wish he’d kept his ideas to himself. She also threatens to, if I last that long, for us to walk almost naked through Death Valley in the middle of summer as a celebration of our fifth wedding anniversary. 

Now you may be asking, is it love or extreme fear that I married my Amazon? No, definitely love. She’s absolutely gorgeous. Sex with her is a marathon affair. None of this, bam, bam, thank you, mam, with her. She has trained me into orgiastic heights that go on for 20 minutes a time, and there are quite a few times during a twelve-hour period. I’m addicted. I really have become a superhero in this department. 

Her relatives don’t realise the bonuses of my being married to my big stunt-woman. They pat me on the shoulder and congratulate me for my resilience and perseverance and don’t understand the elation I feel at being driven home and carried upstairs to be thrown on our extremely large bed and you could say, ravished. Felicity is a woman with a large appetite for living and loving and I love it.

I’ll never be as tall as she is, but what are ‘shoe-lifts’ for if not to be too embarrassed? 

Did I say, my darling has brains? I mean, she must be in the genius class. Well, she chose me, didn’t she? That’s brains for you. No, just joking. But she is very intelligent and has moved on to directing movies. Not only directing but writing the script as well. However, on the horizon, I can see a possible problem looming which may take some of my newly acquired super-powers to render it null. 

Felicity, or Fel as I call her at home when visitors are not around, is about to develop me into a leading man of the ‘heart-throb’ variety. I admit to a slightly rugged exterior, and a face that wouldn’t be out of place on an advertisement for haemorrhoid cream - before application - mind you, but hardly a visage to being taken seriously by the beautiful dolls that grace our screens. However, when my bird says ‘leading man,’ I’ll not argue. Perhaps I’ll wheedle a bit, but mainly I’ll get on with it. My woman will have her way. However, that’s not the real problem, I’ll be in a very delicate position that really requires a kind of Wim Hof solution. Because of my increased, almost ‘superhuman’ status, I’ve developed into an uncontrolled ‘super-sexual’ performer. I say uncontrolled, because it is. I only have to be in the presence of one of these super-sexy looking women from our screens and I, you might say, rise to the occasion. The difficulty is, and I have been warned by my darling, that if she sees a projection that shouldn’t be there in my on-screen dalliances, my head will be eaten that very night, a la praying mantis. After copulation of course.