Scenes From a Marriage: Vol 3

Our apartment - approximately 6:15 PM.


Me: Honey, can you cook that pork loin for dinner tonight?
Wife: Why don't you go fuck yourself!

The Life and Times of My Left Testicle

While I doubt Daniel Day-Lewis will be starring in a movie about me, the last two weeks have been mighty interesting for old low-hangin' lefty. During that time my balls have been touched, handled and basically groped by two strange older men. Exhilirating? Hardly.

It all started during the simplest and most common of male activities: I was laying in bed playing with my balls. Why do we do this? I don't know, but it definitely leads into the fact that we don't understand why women aren't always touching their breasts. But I digress. I noticed something on my left ball. Something like a lump.

Obviously, I was a little freaked out by this. I knew I would have to go see a doctor, which was in itselft a strange thing, as I hadn't been to a doctor since the fall of 1997 (over 11 years ago). Ironically, the last thing done to me that time was a hernia check.

So I went and I told him what I'd felt and he said it didn't sound too bad but he would give it a "thorough examination." Just a tip, that's not something to laugh at. Like I did, as I found his use of the word "thorough" unneccesary - but as I quickly found out, accurate. The "thorough examination" consisted of his right hand, my left testicle and 4 long minutes of erection supression, after which he decided it needed more tests. So I had to get an ultrasound. This I found amusing as I think most people equate an ultrasound to pregnancy. At least I do. And the idea that the same machine that's used to determine a baby's sex was about to be rubbed all over my scrotum was fairly amusing to me.

So the following week, I get my ultra sound. First, I meet Sergei, a pleasant older gentleman with a thick Russian accent who put all the emphasis on the second syllable: tes-TI-cle. So there I am, laying on my back in a gown with a surprising amount of rear coverage, I must say, while Sergei rubs my nuts with this machine.

When most men find themselves in a position like this, they're only thinking about one thing: Please don't get a boner. I know I was. Unfortunately, when you start thinking to yourself about not getting aroused, the first thoughts that come running, sprinting into your mind are of course deviantly sexual.

Thankfully, in mid-February, baseball season is fast approaching, so I was able to sufficiently distract myself - from the obvious sexual nature of my surroundings, especially when I was asked to stand up so he could get the back of my balls - with thoughts of an upcoming fantasy baseball draft. Once again, baseball to the rescue.

So the test mercifully comes to an end, leaving me with an uncomfortable goo-like substance all over my sack. I ask ol' Sergei if he saw anything. "Yes, I did" he said. "What did it look like? I asked. "I just take picture," he responded and then added "It no look too much like tumor."

Sweet. Not too much. Well, that's good. I tried to ask how much "too much" was, because in my opinion, it could look "just enough" like a tumor and that would be a problem. Charles Manson doesn't look "too much" like a serial killer, but he sure does "just enough." Thanks for the tip Sergei.

A couple days later I finally get a phone call from my doctor telling me good news. What I was feeling down there is called a Varicoscele.

So that was a relief. Problem is, now my balls feel lonely all the time and when I look at sonograms, I get aroused. Moreso.

Was He Hitting On Me?

So I'm at the gym. I don't want to get into it, because I hate it when guys talk about working out. It's irritating. And very douchebaggy. It's something I try to avoid, like Sarah Jessica Parker movies or guys who put gel in their hair.

The gym always plays awful music. And almost everytime I'm there, I hear a song I've never heard before or since. It's always some kind of 80's techno-opera-country. It never makes any sense I don't know where it all comes from. I've heard a woman singing about her sandals and a man crooning about roller skates. I always wanted to ask what station they had on, but I never did. That's probably because I was usually complaining about the water fountain not working or the A/C going out. Or both.

Okay, so I'm sitting on a bench, listing to a particularly odd sounding song that seemed to be combining a synthesizer, a harp and a triangle to a woman's voice that could best be described as "sounding German." I'm sitting there, furrowing in my brow with confusino and looking up to the speakers when it happens.

There's an older guy on the bench a few feet to my left. He has a mustache. His clothes aren't memorable, just a t-shirt and shorts. I hear his voice.

"Hey," he says.
I turn to look at him.
"What is this crap?" He motions up toward the music.
"I have no idea," I offer.
"Well, I think you and I could make better music together than this."

I nodded and thought nothing of it. When I mentioned this to a friend later, he said "dude, that guy wanted to fuck you." Now, I have no idea. For all I know, he could be a great drummer. Or play a mean guitar. Maybe he was looking to fill out a band. Or maybe he actually meant better music and not slow, passionate, candlelit sex. I'll never know. And you'll never care.