No clever double entendres. That there entendre’s a single. I’m talking about my testicles, my balls, my goody bag, etc.
Earlier this evening, I was sitting in my computer room in my boxers, browsing the internet, and finding an interesting site in which waitresses complain about celebrities that they’ve waited on, when I suddenly had the testicle itch.
For the untesticled, there are many different forms of testicle itch. Most are simply an excuse to touch yourself. A lot of testicle itches are more of a testicle longing. Your testicle sends out tiny little waves of yearning, telling you that they need to be touched, fondled, pushed from side to side, pulled away from your thighs. They need to be rubbed, and that’s how you let them know that you love them. Sometimes a testicle itch is just that, an itch. And sometimes, its fungal.
But that’s gross. This was more of a “how do you do” nut rub, just to let the little guys feel special. During my groping, for reasons entirely unknown to me, I decided to give the little fellas a glance.
Testicles, and in fact, most sexual organs, are not attractive. The people that they belong to can be attractive, but the goodies themselves are generally not pretty. Try as you may, dress them up with piercings, or clever shavings, or tattoos, or even a little bowtie if you’re an outie, genitals just can’t be made to look like much more than random globs of skin.
Imagine my surprise to realize that I have not just an ordinary ugly pair, but in fact a great pair of testicles. They are big, without being ostentatious, firm and round, not gorilla hairy, but having a nice furry quality. Red and veiny, but not dangerously engorged and distasteful. The ever so slight piquancy added to their mystique. I admired my testicles, bouncing them to and fro.
“Blimey,” I thought. “I got to show the wife!”
So I traipse into the bedroom where my wife is reading on our bed, hike up one leg of my boxers, pull my now-suddenly-unremarkable-looking penis aside, and exclaim to wife “Have a look at this!” I stood on tip-toe to try to give her an eye-level view of my goodies.
Wouldn’t you know it? She thought I was trying to show her *something wrong * with my nuts. She squinted at them, cocked an eyebrow, and shrugged.
“They’re remarkable, aren’t they?” I asked, my hope dwindling. Apparently, they weren’t. She turned back to her book. She did not admire their heft, their exotic aroma, their aesthetic qualities. In fact, she did not admire them at all!
Pity me, for my wife does not appreciate my wonderful nuts.