Michael Phelps Slash Fiction Is Here! (It's Too Late To Run)Once upon a time, a site called The Black Table had a regular feature entitled Waxing Off, in which women gathered in an online roundtable to discuss issues of the day, and also to make fun of Will Leitch's shoes. And so we got to thinking: With so many great female sports bloggers out there, why not import the idea here? It's just crazy enough to work. So behold: The latest edition of Deadspin's Waxing Off. We found five terrific female writers who were willing to pen short pieces on a disturbing topic: Michael Phelps Slash Fiction. It hit us all like a pillowcase full of onions: Drew brothers slash fiction. J.D. Drew and his brother Stephen, committing unspeakable acts, right here on the Internets! In case that didn't scar you for life, we decided to ask our team to come up with some slash fiction of their own, starring none other than Olympic swimming sensation Michael Phelps. Reaction to my request was mixed (Metschick, I really thought that the restraining order was unnecessary). The results will haunt your soul, quite possibly into the afterlife. Enjoy! By the way, if you'd like to be part of the Waxing Off experience, email myself at Rick@Deadspin.com, or Mr. Daulerio at AJD@Deadspin.com.Head Chick In Charge: Things weren't the same anymore. Before the trip to Beijing, Michael Phelps wasn't the star in the relationship. Although it was exciting to be with a huge celebrity like Jay-Z, it never mattered much when they were together. There was never pretense. Just animal lust. But now he knew how Jay lives. The adoration, the accomplishment ... the control. And, tonight, Michael wanted to be a top. Michael saw the Maybach parked outside the loft. He knew his boy was inside waiting for him. Jay never showed a lot of emotion. And this time was no different. There was too much anticipation pent up to waste time on even a few rough kisses. As soon as Michael turned the key in the door to the loft, they got right down to it. Except this time, Michael took control. Jay was surprised at Michael's new found dominance, but Michael was insistent. And forceful. And it felt good. Michael stroked harder and faster. He stroked and he stroked and he stroked. They couldn't help themselves. "Slap my ass with your huge centaur hands," Jay exclaimed to his dominator. "Now, who's jockin' Jay-Z. Jockin' Jay-Z. Jockin' Jay-Z. Yeah!" "Yo, make that sound, yo, you horse faced motherfucker." "Neeeeiiigggh! Neeeiiiiggggh! Clop. Clop. Clop," the horse yelled. "Make your sound! Make your sound! Aww, what sound does a camel make any ... Uhhhh, I'm cumming. I'm cumming!" Just like that, Michael splashed the camel's back with his ultimate prize. After the release, Jay got out of the bed and offered the horse a snack. "You want eggs, son?" "With cheese." "Cool, I'm going to have Frosted Flakes." Michael felt awash with accomplishment and contentment. A slight smile spread across his lips and he found himself unconsciously tracing h heart c across his pillow. Horse loves camel indeed. That'll do. Still, Michael couldn't help it when a second urge filled his loins. His forbidden temptation entered his thoughts yet again. The forbidden "C" that lingered in his heart. One too many stolen glances across the pool had nourished an unrequited love. Horse loves Cullen? To be continued... Written with tremendous hesitancy by The HCIC from leavethemanalone. ————- Jen Annino: The shower fills the locker room with steam as Michael slips out of his wetsuit. He throws his goggles and cap to the side caressing his face. He is tired and weary after winning his last race of the night. His towel drops to the floor as he enters the hot water. He is alone now and begins to lather his washboard abs and slowly move the bar of soap all over is skin. Suddenly Michael is startled as Kitajima enters the locker room. Kitajima, disappointed with his swimming performance, throws his goggles across the locker room and begins punching lockers left and right. Michael walks out of the shower without turning the knob leaving the air filled with steam. He is naked and Kitajima stops pounding lockers idolizing the piece of manly perfection in front of him. “Kit, shake it off. We all have our bad days, our bad swims,” said Michael with comfort in his eyes.“You, my friend, are an amazing swimmer and look at you.” “But Mike I will never be the god that you are. I will never be perfect like you,” said Kitajima in broken English with tears streaming down his cheeks. “You, the God of swimming gods, are unbeatable and therefore I cannot touch the events you are in. Plus, just look at you physique.” “Shhhhhhh,” said Michael, pressing his index finger to Kitajima’s lips. Michael felt a burning sensation in his groin, though he wasn’t sure if it was a pulled muscle or a yearning to be with Kitajima. Michael had never been with a man before. Kitajima too felt a longing in his loin and removed Michael’s finger from his lip. He pulled Michael close, his wetsuit pressing against Michael’s naked body. Michael slowly pulled down Kitajima’s wetsuit, exposing the parts of Kitajima one piece at a time. Kitajima took Michael’s hand in his and lead Michael into the steamy shower where they locked lips and held one another. Jen Annino writes for the Bleacher Report and Suite101. She spends the rest of her time at work, training in MMA, and finishing up degrees in journalism and history. ————- Clare: When Rick pitched this week's Waxing Off topic, I went through a range of emotions. First, abject horror. Then, nausea. That was followed by disgust, and finished off with disbelief. The prospect filled me with unspeakable dread, as I am completely unattracted to Michael Phelps. How could I possibly write *heave* about his *hork* throbbing member when I find him physically unappealing? He's completely hairless, he has Fievel ears, and he talks like Mushmouth in every interview he does. Then Amanda Beard said the prospect of sleeping with Michael Phelps was "nasty," and I realized I didn't have to. Because the commentariat here is overwhelmingly male, sometimes the hive mind tends to forget that just as men have different taste in women, not all women have the same taste in men. Just because Michael Phelps is rich and famous and has a sick body, every girl in the world MUST want to jump on his dick, right? No. Fail. That's not how attraction works. Yes, Amanda could have brushed off Johnjay and Rich's question with a bit more tact, but that doesn't change the fact that if Michael Phelps doesn't crank her tractor, that doesn't make her some kind of frosty lesbo. Maybe she's into blondes. Maybe she's into beefy dudes. Maybe she's into dudes who aren't sporty at all. So, no. Neither I nor Amanda Beard will be discussing Michael Phelps' throbbing member today. Clare is the creator of Plunk Chutley, which she still has not updated since last week. ————- Claire Reclosado: He had a distinctive swagger and Michael Phelps was quick to notice. Instantly, their eyes met. “Usain,” Michael nodded as the track star grabbed a seat across from him. “Michael,” Usain Bolt said with a nervous stare. Michael avoided Usain’s gaze. The tension between them has been accumulating since the “Fastest Man” debate began. Intense hatred bubbled beneath his skin. Is it possible, Michael thought, that my disgust for Usain makes me want him? “I need your help,” Usain revealed, leaning across the table. He looked intensely at Michael’s mouth. “Show me how to gain the public’s love. They love you. We’re both fast and destroy our competitors, but you get the love. I need that love.” “Tell me why I should help you,” Michael demanded. “Because it will feel good,” Usain quickly replied with a confident smile. Instantly, Michael contemplated his next move. His right hand glided through his hair as he flashed his distinctive toothy grin at the runner. “Follow me,” Michael instructed. Michael found the light switch of the aquatic center and illuminated the room. His breathing quickened. “Let’s get down to business,” Michael said as he led Usain to the hot tub. “If you want to be loved, you need to allow yourself to be comfortable with the love people want to give you.” The decorated swimmer inched closer to Usain and soon their muscular thighs kissed. Usain suddenly craved Michael’s touch — a feeling that was unfamiliar.He noticed a change in his companion’s smile. Michael softly kissed Usain’s neck and instructed his student to relax. Usain obliged and closed his eyes. This is it, Michael said to himself. I’m going in. Again, Michael was so close to Usain’s muscular body that it made his mouth water. He leaned in and the light reflected off of his vampire fangs — now more visible than ever. With uncontrollable fervor, Michael sank his teeth deep into Usain’s neck, sealing his fate. “Now,” Michael whispered in Usain’s ear as blood slid from his lips. “The world can love you forever.” Bay Area Claire can be found obsessing over the lack of run support the Philadelphia Phillies and San Francisco Giants provide their pitchers. Jump aboard her train of thought at Bleacher Report, where she moonlights as a columnist ————- Amazing Amy: The waitress was stocky, broad-shouldered, with powerful thighs and a no-nonsense disposition. Just the way Michael Phelps liked 'em. She could carry two trays at once and keep them coming in steady succession, and if other patrons complained that they were being neglected, she knew how to handle that as well. Sonja could bench-press 300 pounds, and few people grumbled twice. First would come the fried egg sandwiches, three of them, with cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, fried onions and mayonnaise. Michael's thighs would tingle when Sonja slid the first plate under his nose. The smell was intoxicating. He wanted to pick up the plate and slide the contents into his mouth like an oyster, but no. He had to pace himself. Next came the chocolate-chip pancakes, a short stack, with extra butter. Michael's head was swimming as he caressed the strawberry syrup, the bottle so smooth and supple between his fingers. But he had to hurry, for next would come the five-egg omelette. Michael was pushed to the edge of rapture, it was all he could do to keep from crying out in ecstasy. A world of delights assaulted his tongue, and his groin twitched in anticipation of what was to come next: three sugar-coated slices of French toast, and a bowl of grits (a maize-based porridge). It was too much. Michael's belch was long, epic, all consuming, for the ages. Did the other patrons notice? He didn't care. As the warm glow of the meal began to subside, Sonja brought the usual four cups of coffee. As the waitress reached for the tiny cream pitcher, Michael caught her hand, gently squeezing her thick wrist. "No dear, not today" he said, winking slyly. "I'm in training." Amazing Amy is both a writer and front office employee of a notable professional basketball team. She has a dog named shark, and a cat named Steve.