Honestly, I mean what the ****. I mean I'm banging away at the keyboard like a cracked out monkey. Maybe I shouldn't have cracked out and rolled around in fur, but I'm not getting any younger. Kind of like when you really have to grab your crotch, and people are watching, but you do it anyway, and as blatantly as possible. I mean there have been times when I've sat in a waiting room and readjusted myself for what must have been 45 minutes. People stare, yeah. But is it any worse than the fact that I wear nothing but a "SUCKHOI" t-shirt and sweatpants with the ass cut out?
My balls are hot. I mean they are beyond toasty. Like burning stars, giving off a luminance that rivals the sun of our own solar system. Often times when I grapple them, no matter how gently, I singe the hair on my palms. Too many young women have been sent to the hospital by the heat of my testicles. I almost feel bad. But I do not; they venture into uncharted territory, much like legendary Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the Starship Enterprise. The risks they take are their own.
I once had a swollen testicle at the age of six. It was quite amazing, to say the least. I had been fondling myself, as I usually did, and looked down while making a "poo-poo" to see what had to be a large softball implanted in my left testicle. The doctors had never seen anything like it, and several dropped to their knees, in repentance, praising the Eucharist and Hailing Mary. I have been enchanted with this deeply rooted heat ever since. I have the ability to warm a room like no other machine. When we camp, we often sit around my shaven testicles, roasting marshmallows and ironically, wieners. I am blessed like no other man.
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