I have no shame. Truly I don't.
Case in point, of the more fun stories I like to tell about myself is a story most would shy away from. You see, at one point in my very young life there was a very real possibility that I would lose a testicle.
How is this a fun story you may be asking? Because I cannot do anything in an ordinary way.
Living in the dorms during your freshman year in college provides ample opportunity for... creative activities. I'm talking about nights where we created downhill stairwell skiing. These were MENSA moments I tell ya.
One of these nights we were occupying our time by throwing things at each other. It was a manly game to determine who could either have quick enough reflexes to catch said object or to see how could endure the most pain from not catching it. Again, genius stuff right here.
In the midst of a flying batteries and small bouncy balls, my buddy decides to take aim at myself. Using moves straight out of The Matrix, or at least I thought so, I jumped and twisted in spectacular form... and promptly was nailed directly in the nuts.
This was no glancing blow, the object thrown had the accuracy of a heat seeking missle. What made things worse is that in my attempt to look uber cool, I had left said testicle hanging freely in the air.
It was like waving a big ole chocolate cake in front of a hungry fat kid.
Immediately I collapsed as the typical wave of nausea and pretty colors flooded my senses. Being the young and cocky male I was at that time, I put on a tough face and continued on with the night, although with a noticeable limp for the next couple days.
That was that. Or was it?
About a month later, my girlfriend at the time and I spent a weekend day at an amusement park. It was a fun day, full of exhilerating rides, over priced food and screaming children.
I awoke the next morning in our hotel room with an odd pain in my loins. Attempting to climb out of bed and stand up, I promptly collapsed back onto the bed. Once I finally willed myself erect, I found myself walking bow-legged. You'd think I'd been riding a horse all day or something.
Thinking I had broken something, we drove the two hours home on a bumpy freeway as I plotted a visit to the local urgent care. Every bump felt like a hot poker being shoved in... well my poker. My girlfriend at the time initially found it funny and, had it not been for her legit concern as the day wore on, I probably would not have went to see a doc.
Again, cocky young male at this time.
Once in the exam room, I was hit with a barage of STD (or STI or whatever you want to call them now) questions. It was almost as if he was trying to trick me into admitting to cross-dressing while working a hooker specializing in midgets. Question after question after question as I sat there with my fun parts throbbing.
Finally he decided that I wasn't sleeping with half of the city and that I needed to produce a urine sample. I was promptly given, at the time what seemed like, a 20 gallon bucket to fill up. Normally this wouldn't have been bad except that when I went to go I was walked in... three times.
The last time I was tempted to ask the woman if she wanted to help, but was too afraid she would actually say yes.
When the doc finally comes back, he tells me that he thinks that my testicle is twisted (like a meatball in spaghetti he says) and that I may need to have surgery immediately to remove it. First, he wants an ultrasound to double check the damage.
Naturally the woman doing the ultrasound was a woman in her mid-50s. Also naturally, the gel they used was fresh out of the freezer. Shrinkage plus near Medicare-aged woman is not the dream situation of a young guy. Luckily the woman was very professional and I slowly began to forget that she was massaging my gel covered balls.
Never did get her phone number though.
Seeing the inside of your manhood is an awe-inspiring experience. You almost wanna pat the screen on the back and give them an 'Atta boy!'.
After my exhilarating massage, I found my way back to the exam room. The doc came back a few minutes later with a diagonis.
What had happened was that the trauma of being nailed in the junk had caused urine to back up the urethra and into the epididymis. More or less, my nut was infected.
To make things even more interesting, I later found out that the doc who treated me was the brother of one of the pharmacists I worked with. It made for an interesting meeting when he stopped by one of the store a months later. Judging from his face, I was obviously a memorable case.
So let this be a life lesson for all who read this. Hitting a guy in his jewels, while perhaps funny and stress-reducing, can lead to serious complications. I paid several hundred dollars to play 20 STD questions with a doc and have a testicular massage by my grandma.
It's not fun.
Alas, I still have my testicle... actually both of them. Now aren't you glad you know that?