Guys: Cover your Nuts Before Reading this One
Men remember many important moments in our lives: our first sexual experience, our first homerun in little league, high school graduation, our wedding. But men remember one thing clearer than all other memories combined the worst time we were ever hit in the nuts.
I remember my worst time so vividly that my balls begin to scurry in a northerly direction when I even think about it, and my sack gives out an almost audible hiss as it shrivels to the size of a walnut.
It was the summer before I went into the 5th grade, and I was at my friend John’s house. John was that sadistic friend that we all had as a kid he would hold kids down and fart on them (his farts always had a faint “eggy” scent to them), dunk them in the pool until they suffered mild brain damage, and piss in random neighbor’s car windows. He was a charmer. Anyway, one afternoon we were in his carport, throwing a tennis ball up against the wall and taking turns catching it. We were both wearing swimsuits, as wed just gotten out of the pool. My swim trunks were really loose and didn’t have that protective mesh inner lining that holds your junk in – my badboys were flippin’ and floppin’ away happily, not realizing that imminent doom was just moments away.
Apparently John had become bored with our little game of catch, as he turned on me suddenly and taunted me with the ball, making little fake throwing motions.
“He he, cmon man, not cool.” I nervously uttered, sensing the bad side of John taking over like Lou Ferigno in an episode of the Hulk.
“Cmon pussy, catch, catch.” John was articulate, a future Rhodes scholar.
I dodged and weaved, but I knew from countless experiences how this little game was shaping up. Finally, I decided to just stop and make a final plea.
“Dude, if you throw that at this close range, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”
Without replying, John threw the tennis ball at me with all his might at a range of about 5-6 feet. I could see by its trajectory that I had a chance to evade disaster, so without thinking I splayed my legs out, hoping it would sail harmlessly through them. I was so, so wrong. By splaying my legs out, I left my marble bag more vulnerable than it had ever been, or would ever be again, hanging there unprotected in my still-wet swim trunks. The tennis ball SKIMMED the bottom of my innocent, trusting baby-makers, awakening them to the cruel realities of the world years before their first case of blue balls should have done the job.
Time slowed down. In fact, it may have actually moved backward for a moment, as I could’ve sworn I caught a brief glimpse of myself in the womb. A tiny Indian spirit-guide appeared before me, telling me that it wasn’t my time, that I needed to turn away from the light. When I crashed back down to reality, an explosive pain awaited me. I was sure I’d actually been castrated. On top of the brutal, pulsating agony in my testes, my sack was actually BURNT from the friction caused by the tennis ball when it skimmed my tender, babe-like flesh.
I dropped to the ground, rolling in agony. I quite literally thought I was going to have to go to the hospital. As I gasped for air, hanging on to my crotch like an injured pet kitten, John was pointing at me and laughing his ass off, unable to believe his good fortune at such a perfect hit.
Since then I’ve been hit in the nuggets countless times, and each one has been special in its own way. But nothing, nothing has come close to topping the beating they received at the hands of John and his tennis ball of castration on that hot summer day so long ago.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to coax my nuts back out of my chest cavity.
