Love and Lists (Chocoholics) by Tara Sivec
For Tyler: thanks for letting me steal your name.
Kick some ass in the Air Force and make sure everyone knows how cool you are now.
Can someone die from a severe case of blue balls?
Yep, that just happened. I just typed that exact phrase into the Google search engine.
My mother always warned me to stay away from Google. She told me it was the devil. I’m twenty-five years old and I still don’t listen to my mother.
According to Wiki, the answer is NO. Just, no. Period. The end. No explanation whatsoever. You would think the person answering these questions could have elaborated just a little bit. Like, “No. You cannot die from blue balls, you fucking moron. Why the hell are you even asking this question? You do realize your internet history can and will be seen by everyone you know at some point in your life, right?”
Note to self: delete internet history. I need to consult my mom on this. I believe I came across a contract between her and my Aunt Liz a few years ago …
You’re probably wondering why I’m curious if someone can die from blue balls. You’re probably also wondering how in the hell I can possibly be twenty-five years old when just yesterday I was four. I know, it’s a tough pill to swallow. I’m not a foul-mouthed, cute little kid anymore. I’m now a foul-mouthed, cute adult. I take after my parents, so obviously I’m good looking. That might sound conceited to you, but oh well. I’m not one of those guys who are all “Awwwww, shucks. You really think I’m good looking? Naaaaah, I’m just me.”
Fuck that.
I walked around for most of my childhood talking about my penis to anyone who would listen. Owning it when people say I’m hot isn’t conceited. It’s me being comfortable with who I am.
So anyway, where were we? Oh, right. Penis. Blue balls. Death by blue balls. There’s only one reason for my earlier Google question: Charlotte Gilmore. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and my best friend. She’s the oldest daughter of my parents’ best friends, Liz and Jim Gilmore. She has long, dark brown hair, big gorgeous brown eyes, and a body that takes my breath away. Since we’re only three years apart in age, we grew up together. I’ve been told that we used to take baths together when we were little. Obviously the times we were naked in the tub never left a lasting impression on her since no matter how hard I try, I can’t get her to see me as anything other than a friend. The kiss of death. The “friend” curse.
It’s all her fault that I even have blue balls, although to be honest, I really shouldn’t blame her. It’s not like she knows she’s causing me extreme pain. She has no idea that every time I’m within three feet of her my penis perks up like a meerkat when it hears a noise. It’s fucking Meerkat Manor in my pants. My penis is like a magnet and she’s a hot piece of steel. As soon as she walks into a room, the magnetic pull begins and I feel like I have to hold on tight to something. Otherwise, my penis will drag my body over to her and slam itself up against her, like a dog grunting and humping some poor, unsuspecting person’s leg. I’m like a fucking dog in heat when it comes to her. My poor penis wants to hump her leg and she just wants to be friends. I feel bad for my penis. He’s had a rough life. I love my penis and he’s totally getting the shaft. Ha! See what I did there?
Anyway, I know what you’re thinking. Who doesn’t love their penis? But this is serious, yo. My mom still tells me stories about when I was a little boy and how much I talked about my penis. I’m an adult and I have to worry about inviting my mother to public events for fear she’ll tell everyone the story about how I got my first boner to Barney the Dinosaur. Do you have any idea how mortifying that is? A fucking purple dinosaur. Why couldn’t I be normal and get excited about the Victoria’s Secret catalog like all my friends? To this day, when I see a dinosaur, no matter what I’m doing, my penis instantly retracts itself up inside my body in fear. Even my penis is ashamed.
So, anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my penis. I get it. I’m a guy and guys think about their penises a lot. Maybe I’d feel better about this obsession if I had someone touching it other than myself. I grew up surrounded by girls. All of my friends are girls. Everywhere I look there are girls. And yet, I still go home alone every night and touch my own penis.
Okay, I don’t touch it every night. That’s overkill. Maybe once a week.