Thought I would contribute. So I found this site where this guy tells 365 fucked up stories from his life. A year of fucked up ness. And they are all hilarious, you should check it out. Heres the 365th story, try not to laugh.
Of course this story had to be the 365th.
Given that when I was 18 years old I had not exactly had a gaggle of people who had taken a good look at my nutsack, I think it was my first college girlfriend Jenni who pointed out that the big yellowish zit looking thing on my balls was sort of weird and fucked up.
Look, dudes get zits on their junk. Tiny little ones. It’s a fact of life. But this one was not small. It was big and sort of swollen out of my sack, like half a dime around or more. I’d noticed it before and chosen to ignore it. Ok, that’s not true. I’d actually tried to pop it which make me sort of dizzy and unhappy, so then I’d tried to ignore it. But having someone else see it, especially someone that I was, you know, getting it on with, made it impossible to ignore, and with it, a certainly underlying paranoia about sex I’d done a lot to repress.
So I started thinking about when this thing appeared and what exactly it could be and I thought about having sex with Vicious in her filthy van and the exactly eight seconds I had unprotected sex with Andiee and the other fooling around I’d done and more or less rode that train to “I have some sort of horrible STD”-ville, a place that in my late teens and 20′s I revisited frequently any time I had sex with someone creepy or couldn’t stop being sick for weeks at a time.
Still, I refused to schedule an appointment about my balls, but since I had an ingrown toenail that needed to be removed anyway, I decided to ask the doctor about it.
“Um, I have…” I tried to think of a good way to say it. “…a thing, on my stuff.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” the doctor said, and slapped on the gloves. I had never seen this guy before and haven’t since. “Why don’t you show me?”
I am always convinced that the sheer awkwardness of such situations, the same awkwardness that leads me to laugh during really melodramatic indie films about horrible middle-class white families whose dysfunction makes everyone sad and drug addled and/or gay, would cause me to get hard when someone of either gender touches my dick, sort of like a gag reflex or something. But I took a deep breath and put my balls into his hands.
After considering it for a moment, the doctor let go and said, “it’s a blocked pore, like a big zit, not a big deal. I can lance it if you want but I’m guessing you don’t want me to.”
Big sigh of relief.
So I had this thing. It was there with Jenni, and with Jess; it hung out sophomore year and junior year and long into my relationship with Aly and the forced execution of any shame I had that made me feel ok about playing rock shows naked in front of people and whipping my nuts out as party tricks. It would get bigger and smaller and I don’t remember if it ever really went away for a while because I just got so used to it. I mean, it first came a calling in 1993 or 94. It was just a thing, and who gives a thing about a thing?
Then one day, it disappeared. Well, not entirely–everything inside it had gone, leaving this little pink, shriveled flap of skin like a deflated balloon. I asked my current Doc, he of the ejackeration into a cup, what could be done and he mentioned cutting it off. This scared the living shit out of me, so instead I got used to the flap too.
Kira was born in later 2007 and I spent the first couple months of her life freaking out that I wasn’t doing anything with myself and that years of playing it safe had now backed me into a corner where I was unhappy, had made nothing of myself, and was responsible for not screwing up this amazing little innocent person who kept me up all night. So I started searching for something more, and one day, in a particularily bad mood, I went to the gym for the first time in months and did some crazy dead sprint on the elliptical until I thought I was going to almost puke. When I got home, I had this chafing pain downtown and checked–a loose string from my workout shorts had wrapped around the flap of skin and irritated the hell out of it and in addition to hurting like a bastard, it was now swelling to the size of a marble. A really painful marble that stuck to my leg.
This was the last straw. It had been a decade and a half–it was time to say goodbye to my little friend.
So I went to the doctor with this and a bunch of other stuff I’d been putting off. “Hey Big Guy, how are you?”
“Good, Doc, good,” I said.
“So you have problem with something on your testicles?”
So I showed him the new swollen marble and he said, “I’ll just trim that off.” I got on the table, pulled my pants to my knees, and then laid back holding my dick while he numbed my nuts. Numbnuts, ha-ha.
Me, uncomfortable, giggling. Doc looked at me. “You know I laugh when I get nervous.” “Hold still, Big Guy.” And then, with a scalpel, so fast I didn’t feel a think–the numb nuts helped–he sliced the thing right off. He showed it to me in a little jar. Removed from me it looked shriveled and grey, more the size of a pea than the marble size it had hit a few days before.
“Ok, big guy, it’s done. Now I will use silver nitrate to stop the bleeding and seal the wound.” He started painting this stuff on, me wishing there was a mirror on the ceiling so I could see what the fuck he was doing. Then: “Huh.”
“Huh what?” I asked.
“Well, you are bleeding a lot.”
I thought about getting my tongue pierced in 1994 and every scrape before and after. “I’m kind of a bleeder.”
“Is it a problem, like a condition?” He sounded concerned.
Me, flat on my back, still holding my dick: “No, no, I just bleed.”
“Well, the silver nitrate, it should stop the bleeding, but it’s not, so I will try some more.”
Now, I’ll leave it up to you to look silver nitrate up on the old intraweb, but it stops bleeding by chemically burning the flesh it touches. “It’s still not working, so please hold here…” and Doc put my hand on my balls, “…I’ll be right back, I’m going to use a special tool we have here to cauterize the wound.” The wound, of course, on my nuts.
He left me flat on my back with both hands on my junk. It was about this point that I decided to sit up and figure out what was going on, to find that he hadn’t shut the door completely. I did this just in time to catch someone in the hallway getting a big old eyeful of me in all my bleeding genital glory. I thought of the first time I had sex in a bed in a crappy hotel that got torn down a few years ago and the door that didn’t shut all the way. Then I just laid back down, only to hear: “Does anyone know where the cauterizing gun went?”
“Um, I think it’s broken,” said a woman’s voice, the same woman, I imagined, who hadn’t expected to see my full frontal when she woke up that morning. “We have the hand held, though, do you know how to use it?”
Now, that is usually a yes or no question, but Doc replied, “It will be OK.”
My balls were still numb, and at this point nervous giggling was the order of the day, so when Doc returned with the cauterizing gun I just said, “It can’t get much worse, right?” with a big smile on my face.
He got to work. The gun made a quiet mid-frequency humming and not the welding torch-like sound I had imagined. I still didn’t feel a thing. Everything seemed to be going well. Until the smell hit.
The smell of burning public hair.
At this I gave up any sense of decorum and just started laughing, tears in my eyes, as he patted my junk with gauze making sure my pubes didn’t burn to the root, a little bit of smoke rising and that acrid smell that somehow reminded me of the incense we used as an altar boy at church when I was a kid.
And then: “OK, big guy, we’re all done.”
I sat up. “So it’s ok?” I looked down. An entire section of my scrotum was cleared of pubic hair, black from the silver nitrate with a dark brown spot in the middle from the cauterizing gun. “Uh, it is supposed to look like that? Do I need to do anything to care for it?”
“Yes, no problem, it’s fine. Don’t do a thing. You can do whatever, go to the gym.” He didn’t mention the fact that, in the night, my nuts would rest on my leg, the still-caustic silver nitrate burning a huge raw spot in my inner thigh.
I was unsure. It was weird to think that something I had been carrying since I was a kid, something I’d forgotten about and noticed more times than I could count, was gone in just a few minutes, replaced by flesh that looked like scorched earth, a burnt feeling that only time would heal. “So we’re good, then?” I asked.
“All done,” he said.
Heres the site, enjoy. http://modern-radio.com/365fuckedupstories/
And just ignore the fact that there is absolutely no spacing, copy pasta is not so great.