How NOT to eradicate blue balls

My undergraduate fraternity held its annual formal in New Orleans.  My junior year, Bob and I rode together and took a couple of girls we weren’t dating but had some interest in dating.

By the time we’d finished the drive and gone to dinner, the two of us realized we’d incorrectly chosen, and I began hanging out with Ashleigh, while Kate and Bob paired.  I was ready to find an excuse to get away from the group with Ashleigh, so when a pledge disappeared in a seedy strip joint, I volunteered to go find him.  Ashleigh followed.  We located the pledge, lost him again, and spent the next couple hours engaged in heavy drinking and inappropriate dancing at several bars along Bourbon Street.  We later rejoined the group at The Cat’s Meow, where the band’s singer told Bob he “needs more dick in his life” repeatedly through a far-too-loud microphone feed.

Suddenly, Ashleigh decided she needed to run up to the room for something.  Being a gentleman, I said I’d run up with her, because it was late and–you know–dangerous outside.  That, and a Cub Scout troop had erected a pup tent in my khakis about an hour or so prior, and my balls were throbbing to the point that I was thinking about raping the bar back.

We got in the elevator, and I made my move…only to have the car stop after two floors and let a room service waiter board.  More agony.  We walked into the room, and I tried again.  The scouts began stomping on my balls with even greater furor; I was certain permanent damage was being done to my testicles.

Ashleigh:  “I need to run to the bathroom for a minute.”

Me:  “Okay…”

A:  “And then I think we need to get back down to the group.  I mean, I’m supposed to be Bob’s date and all.”

Me:  “Bob won’t mind our spending time together, I assure you…”

A:  “I really don’t think…I’ll be back in a minute.”

There are only a couple ways to get rid of the affliction commonly known as “blue balls.”  One way takes a partner, and the other way does not.  When she disappeared into the bathroom, I began to accept the fact that I was going to have to use the latter method.

My balls were a couple of gorged golf balls, and there was no way I was going back down to the bar with this circus tent planted below my belt for all to see.  I scanned the room.  On the other side of the bed by the balcony was a dark corner.  I dropped to my knees in said corner and took matters into my own hands.

I was about .5 second from being finished when she walked out of the bathroom.

A:  “Okay, I’m…hey!  What are you doing down there?”

Me:  “I…um….lost a contact and am looking….

A:  “Well, let me turn on the light and—

Me:  “NOOOOOOO!  I’m fine.  Just hold on….”

By this point, the wallpaper was singing “We Shall Overcome” as it was hit with a pressure washer that could knock rust off a hub cap while I half-assedly pat the carpet around me like Velma on “Scooby Doo” episodes in which she dropped her glasses.  I sprang up and tried to pull my shirt over my still-shooting pistol.

Me (still facing the wall and acting as if I’m shoving something in my eye):  “Found it!  Why don’t you meet me in the lobby, so I can get this back in.”

A:  “Oh…kay.  See you in a minute.”

And then I swore to myself that I’d never get drunk, hook up with a prude, and publicly jerk off again.  If only I’d kept said promise…

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