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Home / Fan Fiction / Fight Club / Take It Like A Man

DISCLAIMER: The following story is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of the original copyright holders, whoever the @#$% the copyright holders of Fight Club actually are. I make no claims on said copyrights. This is all in fun, try not to panic.

Take It Like A Man
by: The Brat Queen

Rated: R/NC-17 depending on how comfy you are with a brief sex scene that includes a money shot and a few four letter words.


"People in modern society have no concept of what it's like to create, to conceive things. The world is handed to them in a prepackaged, pretty, all-thought-out form with little to no assembly required except maybe putting Tab A into Slot B which is no more than any monkey could do but somehow makes them think that they've done something."

I realize that Tyler has been talking for a while now. He's looking at me expectantly.

"Uh-huh." I reply. I'm sitting on the couch. It's 5pm which means the dogs need to be fed and Tyler will have to leave for work in an hour. The light on the table next to me sputters.

"The entire world around us is no more than one big factory wherein everyone does their job and snaps together their own Do It Yourself Life Kits so we all have perfectly uniform and customized slipcovers and toilet paper doilies. Go into any house in modern America and I promise you that 75% of all furniture in it will be exactly what you have, what you have had or what you've lusted after in your own Ikea-worshipping heart of hearts."

I turn the page of the book I'm reading. I'm now on 69. "Mm-hm."

Tyler stops. He finally realizes I'm not listening to him. "And this is the very vacuum in which our society operates," he says as he takes the book from me. I try to take it back but he's faster. "What is this anyway?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing which says…." he scans the page "'A body blow to the gut (solar plexus) can damage organs and kill. This sort of punch is one of the best and easiest ways to knock someone out.'"

Great.

Tyler reads the title. "'How To Take A Punch'. A step by step explanation of how to survive and avoid damage to blows aimed at the body, head, jaw and ear." He drops the book to the floor. "Is this what it's about?"

I stare at him silently.

He moves forward. "Is this what Fight Club is all about? This is not nice, this is not pretty, this is not some movie wherein you get to have attractive scars and a mug named after you at Burger King. This is about the truth, and honesty and getting rid of all the things you think you need. Do you think you need this book?"

I stand up. The book's bright yellow cover shines up at us from the floor. "I thought it would be helpful."

"Helpful? Helpful? Helpful to have someone else write out instructions for your life? Helpful to give up on everything so that you can have some stranger tell you what it's all about? Truth is not in books! Truth is not in the edited and manipulated words that some company in New York tells you is real. Real is here!" Tyler slaps his hand flat against my chest. "Feel it now or lose it forever!"

Under Tyler's hand my heart beats. I see myself giving the speech Tyler just gave. I see myself listening to a lot of Tyler's speeches.

Tyler's eyes move. He steps away. He kicks the book aside. "You don't need it."

There's good ideas for homework assignments in there, I say.

Tyler takes another look at it. He nods, conceding that this may be true.

"But it's not real," he says. "To understand life you must live it. You must become an active member of your own existence. You cannot sit by and watch your mortality happen. Life does not catch up to you when you are cold in the grave."

I'm not certain I want the reality of my life.

"Yeah you do."

Tyler is in front of me again. He bends down to kiss me. It is unexpected. It is not a kiss he would have given Marla.

He pulls away. We're both hard.

"You're here because you want to be. I'm here because you want me to be. You know what your life is but you want to retreat into the cold comfort of everything you left behind. Babies would crawl back into the womb if they could manage it but they can't. Stop trying to crawl back into an existence you only thought you had."

I imagine Tyler hitting me, slamming me back against the wall. I picture myself falling, cracking my head against the exposed wood of the couch and slumping to the floor.

Instead Tyler kisses me again. This time harder.

"Pay attention!" he says. "This is not a dress rehearsal. This is not something that you prepare for. This is what you do. You do not read instruction books to find out how this works. You know it!"

I am against the wall now. Tyler's hands are pressed against my shoulders. "We are taken from the womb and placed into a life which is not safe and not cozy. We are born to be on the edge, constantly facing danger. Embrace it!"

I kiss him. He punches the wall over my right shoulder in approval. Our mouths open. I can feel myself straining against my pants. A leak forms by the zipper. I want to touch Tyler's cock. I want to know how long it is.

"Do you need the instructions for this?" he says. His hand is under my shirt. His thumb presses into a bruise I've had for three days. "Do you need to read this in a book? Do I have to get your boss to send you a memo? Have Home Depot send you a Fuck Your Own Self kit?"

Kissing makes him quiet. This lets me think. But I don't. My pants come down. His come open. The arm of the couch is an easy place to be propped against.

"Stop trying to be comfortable."

I take him in. As I stretch myself over him I know comfort has nothing to do with this.

"Give up what you once were. Don't retreat. Take the pain."

I thrust back. His hand is around the base of me. The tension that builds forms a blade of white pain against the scars on my thighs. I turn to avoid this but then grab on to it and move so that it hits the scars and the bruises and the bumps and the bleeding and every stab of his cock tears them open again and again. My knees are numb and my foot tingles in nerve-damaging sleep as Tyler moves and moves and moves. I picture Fight Club and Tyler hitting me and the scrape of his hand against my cock and the world becomes a wonderful multi-colored vomit of sweat and fear and glue-white semen that coats the couch and the book and the outer edge of Tyler's wrist. The muscles behind my knees twitch as the feeling returns.

"That's life," Tyler says. I feel hot/cold as he pulls out of me and releases my now-sticky penis. "That's real. Take that and stop pretending."

I listen to this and think about it. Tyler leaves me to go to work. I think about it some more and realize he's right. I wait for Tyler to come home so I can tell him.

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