Balls Out

My fucked-up balls flopped out a rip in the crotch of my pajamas. It happened as I sat in a short story class my freshman year of college. I’d acquired a habit of dressing like a man whose blind horse picked his outfits — shredded sweats and tops with holes tore through each armpit.

I refused to wear socks but donned sandals even in the depths of winter. I carried a can of knockoff Febreze and gave each foot a blast on campus. When I stepped to a dorm I told each occupant that my feet might reek. That if they smelled the stench of death to let me know before their skin sloughed off. That I’d give each moldy toe a hot shot of chemical.

I also rebuffed the concept of underwear. Dressed in pajama pants with khakis on top. Sometimes I didn’t wear the outer layer. Jam jams but no shell. Beneath that no nut sling slathered in skid marks. Just slimy balls and oozing ass on skin. The world’s worst Slip ‘N Slide. No more than a thin thread between me and my name on a sex offender registry. It’s how I found myself in a small class with my sack fighting for freedom.

We formed our desks to a tight circle for discussion. Roundtable thoughts on that week’s readings. I donned the usual striped pajamas, my barely-there effort extending to all of my appearance: shaggy hair and unshowered. As we talked I flapped thighs and jittered legs.

As I jostled I looked down and saw my jizz bins. Pink skin on plastic. Wrinkles and hair to rival an Italian grandma’s chin. They pressed against just a few shredded threads. Chunks of sack tunneling out a cloth prison. Each ball a blind eye guiding the way. Through a gift from god their toxic reek abated.

I quick looked up to the circle. To how half the class had their desks pointed right at me. None seemed to notice that the butt of a gun had come undone from its holster. Had stomped the unspoken bond to not expose your scrotum in public. Lucky me.

I pushed my thighs tight. Scanned to see if anyone looked on in lust or disgust. I kept them pressed as we left so my sack wouldn’t swing like a church bell.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

I should’ve gave thanks that no freak came along and jacked my sack ’til it squirted. Squeezed each ball like a grape made to mush. Instead I still donned the jammies each day. Now with fresh pants as a shell. Beneath these layers my sludge-filled nuts a loaded gun. One rip and they’d shoot their way to freedom.

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