My roommate’s out of town for three weeks. I’ve got this gigantic apartment all to myself. Thus begins a twisted little ritual of mine that I’m usually remiss to tell anyone about because it disturbs even me. When no one’s around, I like to put my balls on things.
It’s nothing sexual, I assure you. Simply a little game of two degrees of separation between you and my balls. It’s also sanitary, I keep an extraordinarily clean set of testes. Double washings, extra lather, the whole shebang.
When people come over to my place, I keep a little mental catalog of the few places where I’ve dropped nut and then laugh quietly to myself should anyone every graze the spot, step on it, brush up against it, or in my youth when I was more brazen, when I marked a doorknob.
It’s usually just two or three places, my aging and withered mind really can’t handle any more locations in memory. They’re never obvious. Usually the underside of something, like a counter or desk chair, something that would require a strange situation in order for it to be touched. Sometimes I get literary and mark a specific book, not the most interesting one in my collection, but usually a large text that most people would ignore. The target must have a low percentage of success.
That way, if and when I see contact, I get instant amusement. Though it’s a quiet inside laugh that no one knows about but me.
Except for the few friends of mine that I’ve let in on the joke. For them, trips to my apartment are a little like traipsing through a field of land mines, constantly looking at me to see if they’ve hit a trip wire. They’re terrified. It’s a little like winning a slap bet and getting to slap someone but never telling them when it’s coming.
Man, seeing it written out like that makes it even worse. Excuse me, I have to make some tea.