Wimp-Bit 2.0 mini story

Thanks to Wimp-Bit, I Outgrew My Abusive Boyfriend 

I used to love bad boys. Big, bad, buff bad boys. The bigger, the badder, the hotter—the better! There was just something about them. The tattoos, the leather, their hogs—I'm talking about their motorcycles, and there also was just something about their swagger and the way they strutted about they owned the world. And of course, those hunky bad-boy arms—the kind that made you want to purr flex those bad boys for me, and watch as they’d show off just what they had. I’d sit behind them on their big, loud motorcycles, my arms wrapped around his buff bad boy bod, riding bitch—because that’s what they call the back seat. And, oh, they loved to joke that the only time I wasn’t bitching was when I was riding bitch. 

And I laughed along, because I loved it. 

I loved the danger, the speed, the power. I loved the thrill of being with a man so strong, so bad, so utterly untamable. And I loved the passion that came with it—because when you date bad boys, the fights are loud and the make-up sex is louder. We fought like banshees, we f---- like rabbits. Or, well… he fought like a banshee, and I got treated like a punching bag. That was the downside, wasn’t it? The bad boys weren’t just bad in the fun way. The same big hands that flexed for me clenched into fists too easily. His barbed wire tattoo looked so hot wrapped around his biceps—until those biceps were swinging at me. 

And I know what you’re thinking. I know some of you are sitting there, shaking your heads, saying I should grow up, stop chasing bad boys, stop thinking I could ever transform one into a gentleman. 

And for the longest time, you’d have been right. 

But then I did transform one. 

I transformed my big, buff, bad-boy boyfriend into a soft, sweet, gentle little gentleman. And not because he had some great awakening. Not because he suddenly realized how to treat a woman right. No, no. He had no choice. Not anymore. 

Because I outgrew him. Literally. 

I owe it all to Wimp-Bit, which—just like its claims—turned my bad-boy stud into a wimpy little dud. One minute, he was flexing in the mirror, joking about how he owned my sweet little ass—and the next? I owned all his muscles. Every flex he made, every ounce of strength he had—it was all mine. I sapped and siphoned it away, bit by bit, until there was nothing left of that big, bad biker boy but a frail, trembling little man. And just like that, I went from riding bitch—to being a queen muscle bitch. 

And now? Now I’m the one with the swagger and strut, walking like I own the world—and you better believe, I own that sweet lil’ ass of his now, too. 

While he got smaller… I got bigger. 
While he got weaker… I got stronger. 

And oh, I had fun watching him for days, stuck in a daze, whining and complaining about how he was getting smaller and smaller—while I just bided my time, growing buffer and buffer, bit by bit. 

It wasn’t long before I could handle him with one hand, and if he ever got short with me—his temper, I mean (though that’s not the only thing that’s short now)—I just flex my big, bad girls. 

That’s what I call my biceps now. My big, bad, bulging, beefy, beautiful bad girls. And, oh honey, they are so much bigger than his arms ever were. 

Just like he is so much smaller than I ever was. 

He whines about it now. He bitches—oh, how he bitches. About how he can’t ride his motorcycle anymore because it’s just too big and too badass for him to handle. Just like me. But that’s fine. Because now? I ride his motorcycle. I steer. I am in control. And he? He rides bitch—which, of course, he never stops bitching about. 

Oh, and that sexy leather jacket he used to wear? The one that made him look so studly? Yeah, it looks even better on me. Not that it fit at first—I had to cut the sleeves off just to get my bad girls through them. But now? Now I look like a real bad girl. 

A big, bad, buff, beefy bad girl. 

And to really drive the point home, I got myself a little something extra—a matching barbed wire tattoo. Just like his. Only way, way bigger. Because, well, my arms are way, way bigger than his ever were. 

I joke with him that maybe we should get his redone. Something more befitting his new… stature. Maybe a pretty little ribbon? A delicate bow? Or maybe we should turn that barbed wire into a little ball of yarn. Something soft. Something harmless. Something just like him now. 

Because, see, I don’t need bad boys anymore. 

I’m the big, bad girl of this relationship now. 

And okay… maybe he’s not truly a gentleman now, but he is a small, little gentle man—and that’s close enough. 

I can’t believe I actually outgrew my bad boy phase—but I did. 

And it really is all thanks to Wimp-Bit.