There are a lot of firsts in our lives that we look back on with nostalgia. Our first day of school, our first kiss, our first 4 foot bong-hit of angel dust… you know, kid stuff. One first we rarely speak of is our first cock, and I’m not talking about the first one you tugged or sat on. I’m talking about back when I was a young, Hairless Potter casting pee-pee spells with m’ bone wand. Long before I knew my gummi worm and set of craisins would sprout hair like a werewolf and shoot tons of “loads” or “jizz.”
I realize this sounds like we’re going to a scary place, and we are, but it’s not as horrific as you’d presuppose. First, a little back story. My grandpa was a paraplegic. He was also an asshole. I’m not sure which came first. After he lost the use of his legs, he also lost the need/desire to wear pants-which I understand. If I become paralyzed, the first thing I’ll say is “welp, m’ pants can get fucked.” Even worse, sometimes I’d walk by his bedroom and see my grandma wrangling a freshly unleashed corn-eyed brown trout from between the sheets. A strict catch and release program that started from the old mans crippled legs and ended in the toilet. Now here’s where things get ugly…
Despite the uncooperative nature of his extremities, he would drag himself behind a walker once in a while to get some exercise. And as he did everything, did so wearing only a white v-neck t-shirt, yellowed from sweat and time. Clearly, this was no black tie affair. In the grandstands of this totally not merited event was the unwitting audience of me and my cousins, the eldest being 11. Now, if he’d cruised by like Ray Steven’s “the Streak“, you wouldn’t be reading this. No, this was in painful slow motion, like when Lee Majors would run in the 6 million dollar man. The commanding sound of his walker coming down on the floor, like some perverted re-imagining of the tell-tale heart, helplessly drew your eyes like moth to flame. Avast, ye matey: my grandpa’s cock!
The beast hung low between his legs, knocked forward by his lower hanging balls with each step, like some horrible 3 stooges scene. It was covered in white hair, akin to the arm of an albino yeti, and freckled with liver spots. Herculean, blood filled veins such as the ones on a body builders biceps, pulsated like rivers of unspeakable power. Every so often his meaty, mighty trunk would rear back and swat a horsefly off his belly, kicking up a dust cloud of dead skin flakes. His colossal balls, cracking together like the sound of billiards breaking, were hidden in a sack forged from beaten horse skin left out in the cruel sun. Dust mites leaped to their death, the only escape from a stench so foul it would have made Satan himself barf, gather up the barf and chug it, only to barf again
Yes. He drug his balls across our collective psyches, leaving a trail of blackheads and emotional scars in the salty wake . It was almost as if he were saying “Look at it! Here’s where all you shitbags came from!” We awkwardly laughed it off even as the time trials continued. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning. His cock ‘n balls were regularly featured up until his death. If Lorena Bobbit had been my grandma, she would have been given a medal for cutting that bad boy off and throwing it in the drive way. Then Burt Reynolds could have done a burn out on it in the Smokey Trans Am, spraying the side of the house with shredded white dick cheddar.
We never even questioned or spoke of it, so now I’m sharing the so not wanted memory of my grandpa’s cock with you and yours. Anyways, how are you guys doing?
I recently had to steady the fragile nerves of a young heathen-in-training (or “hitman”, to use the known nomenclature) as he’d discovered some hemoglobin two-stepping with a freshly dropped lincoln log. Now, after years of drinking beer like the world was gonna end (or like i was gonna be shipped off to the ‘nam, if you prefer to kick it old school,) I had to chuckle. I looked into his welled up eyes,”Oh, my little bird, you’ve laid your first candy-striped turd!” As all senior heathens know, a little ketchup in your canoe paddle is a rite of passage. I felt obligated to ease his fragile bunny psyche, as I could sense the force was strong in this one. “Have you been drinking a ridiculous amount of whiskey?” I knowingly asked. His awkward glance at his feet was all the answer I needed. “If there’s blood in your stool, it’s totes cool. Lay off the whiskey and stick to the beer, then you’ll just spray mud and wipe til you smear.” As his head slowly raised, his gentle eyes met mine. It was then that I realized-it was fucking Ryan Gosling! I sheepishly asked him to dance, and as I laid my arms around his strong shoulders I wondered, “should I kiss my handsome prom king?” Naw…it totes wasn’t Ryan Gosling, but you should check out the movie “Drive”. Dude is a dreamboat. Did you see him break up that fight in NYC? I’d like him to break up a fight between m’ dick ‘n balls. Shit…I lost my train of thought….oh yeah, the young candy-striper. Anyways, I was all “Dude, fuck it. Let’s just party.” And then I woke up with a hemorrhoid.