The affliction known as “blue balls” is the worst frickin feeling a guy can ever endure. For the ladies out there who have not, and never will, deal with this pain…think of appendicitis in your crotch. Yep…that’s what it feels like. My first encounter with this dreadful sensation will forever be burned into my memory after what seemed like a sure-thing ended in a night of blue-balled horror. The night was just normal as any other night…blasting the latest Lil Wayne album with a sprinkle of some Girl Talk. My friends came over to pregame and we started putting back shots of Grey Goose and chugged a couple of Four Lokos. It was my buddy’s birthday so we were planning on getting wasted. At around 10:30 PM we departed on our journey to Drunkville – Population: six butts and a birthday boy.
We got to the bar and immediately get free shots of Patron for our boy’s birthday. Thanks, bro. Actually, thanks to the busted condom that led to your birth…or else we wouldn’t be getting rowdy right now. After throwing back a couple Long Island Iced Teas, my boys and I decide that it was time to go creepin’ for some girls. We did a few laps and saw some potential in a few. A girl came up to my boys and me and started talking to us. Ugh. It was Mary, a girl I slept with who was apparently on her period at the time…or as my boys renamed her, “Bloody Mary.” Hysterical. I tried to hide behind my buddy while she continued to slur her words worse than an alcoholic using Hooked on Phonics.
After avoiding another murder scene, we walked passed a trio of girls dancing with each other. One of them bumped into my boy and knocked his drink out of his hand. She turns around and quickly apologized as if she accidentally shot him. He mentioned that it was his birthday and that “now he doesn’t have any more money to continue drinking.” REWIND…We went to an ATM where my boy said, verbatim: “It’s my frickin birthday, and I’m taking out a hundred!” He only spent twenty bucks tonight…touché my good sir. The girl apologized again and bought a pitcher for us. There were two girls who were extremely pretty and one little garden gnome. Our boy, who has a girlfriend, takes care of all the brutes who interfere in our game. We call him The Janitor cause he gets all the stuff out of the way so we have a clean hallway to go down.
While The Janitor entertained the gnome, we bought some Blue Hurricanes and shots for the other girls. I had been playing some eye-tag with one of the girls, so I make my move. We started dancing and hooking up at the bar and about an hour later, we left. This girl was very frisky while dancing so I was guessing that the night was going to end pretty well for me…and hopefully for her, too. She lived on the opposite side of campus from me, so we decided to just go to her room because it was closer. We got to her room and the action immediately got hot and heavy. After making sure she wasn’t on her period (I learned from past errors), I took Nike’s advice and just did it. After going for about five minutes, she pushed me off of her. What the fudge?
Then came the bombshell: She said she forgot that her boyfriend was coming home at two from being home to see his sick grandmother. Are you kidding me? I’m standing there with a dumbass-Eli Manning-looking face on, and my soldier at full attention. I got my clothes on and headed out to my room. After passing a nerdy, ninety-pound fudge (who I pray to God is her boyfriend), I started feeling an awkward sensation in my…balls.
The pain kept getting worse and worse as I staggered through the entire campus. It felt as if some sick fudge was stabbing my scrotum with many microscopic knives. About halfway back, the sharp pain suddenly turned to throbbing, like Barry Bonds was having a derby on my junk. I swiped into my building and dragged myself into the elevator. I got up to my room where I opened the door to find all my boys watching the Smurfs…of all things, a village of blue frickin mutants. I collapsed into the room, almost in tears. My pre-med roommate determined that I might have appendicitis. That would be good and all, except for the fact that I already had that stuff taken out, and that the pain isn’t in my side, it’s in my ball sack. He sat me on the couch and started asking me questions about how I’m feeling like motherfrickin Dr. Phil. I told him my symptoms: An aching sack and shattered manhood.
He diagnosed me with blue balls. It is not a myth…it is a real thing, and it is God-awful. He said that there is only one cure: Go to the bathroom for a little bit and spend some time with the wonderful Bree Olsen. Two and a half minutes later, I’m cured! So pretty much my last few nights consisted of a bloody mess, blue balls, and thanks to Bree, a relieving of my white sailors into the trenches of the toilet…Hey, at least I was being patriotic. For all the guys out there: Blue balls is NOT a myth. If you have not stumbled upon this gruesome feeling, I tip my cap to you. And ladies, if your boyfriend is being a scumbag or a dick…blue balls will put him in line like the frickin Marines, so give a little…But not the whole thing. The moral to this story is to make sure you always finish.
