Friday, December 23, 2016

Assorted Balls And Nuts

Sensitive People Who Don't Like Reading About Men's Genitalia Probably Shouldn't Read On

I am not advocating nor endorsing...I just find it oddly fascinating.

From what I've heard and seen through the decades, men are fond of their cocks and balls, sometimes proud and happy to share and other times rather protective.  Painful experience from accidents have demonstrated that when our nuts meet a hard, solid object, we understand pain.  Many of us, if not most of us, try to avoid that pain really hard.

When I was a kid, I'd watch wrestling on TV.  Every once in a great while, some nearly naked guy would get a boot or fist to his nuts.  Yes, of course, it was dirty wrestling, but it was also somehow exciting.  The barber shop in my small town had all kinds of soft-core girlie magazines, sports magazines, and The Police Gazette...I was never really sure what that was, but the men enjoyed it.  But I found my thrills in wrestling magazines and, even better, the thicker digests.  Grown nearly naked men, many who were furry-chested and either in pain or dishing it out, were right there in black-and-white.  I had to be in their middle and upper single digits in age can get hard-ons at the least provocation.  When I noticed that a wrestling magazine (or better yet, a digest) was lying around for the last couple of visits, I'd ask the barber if I could have it.  He seemed amused and would always let me.  I may or may not have been able to cum, but they made for inspired fantasy.

My man wasn't able to have sex for the last several years because of his back and the medications he took for that and for his mental anxieties.  Let us say I discovered the joys of internet porn a while ago.  One time I googled vintage porn.  My first roommate had all kinds of explicit gay magazines usually with people our age or a little older. He kept his stash around for the young guys who came home with get them primed, I guess. He let me enjoy his stash, too, and I tried to find the pictures of my earlier "sex friends." No luck with that.  Then I googled gay wrestling.  I discovered I had to narrow it down. Ultimately I found naked men who wrestled, sometimes completely naked, and they'd get some nut shots in from time to time.  cbt...cock-ball-torture became even more explicit, although the two were rarely on the same video.

Back when I was in the psych ward, there was a really compact, good-looking young guy who loved to fight...legally through Mixed Martial Arts and fight clubs and such for not those not so legal moments (there's a general story about him elsewhere here, "The Chair Is Not The Answer").  I was startled a bit, and I recovered by saying he didn't look like he got hit in the face.  He contradicted me by saying he'd been smashed, even KO'd, from punches to his face or head.  He was in for anger issues.  We walked the halls a lot and it really felt like the two of us were friends.  A couple of times he sought me out to talk.  I'm a good listener.  One time I asked him if he ever got kicked in the balls.  "Oh, yeah," he said and started to laugh.  OK, I thought, let's pursue this.  And then he said, "I like to make it part of my training sometimes.  The pain is amazing.  I got a friend who knows how to kick me in the nuts really hard.  After a couple of kicks, I have to stop and then deal with the pain."  I confessed to my wrestling fetish.  He laughed again and told me he understood.

My partner died last summer.  I'm starting to feel horny again, and so I've returned to naked gay men cbt, no-holds-barred, low blows, nut kicking wrestling.  After watching some of that, something came up recommending me to Nut Shots on YouTube.  YouTube? Srsly?  So I went there and was astonished.  Guys in their 20s to mid-30s are punching each other in the balls and having a great time doing it.  Not quite the one's naked.  Still, there's one guy who has by design been kicked in the nuts, or had them otherwise tortured, more than 5,000 times.  He's straight, married, and has a daughter. He can also be gorgeous.  He has friends who do a lot of Jackass stunts on each other. "On" rather than "to" because there are times when it really feels like it's their way of having sex.

Then I noticed "young dudes" nut shots.  OK.  A little young, maybe, but they probably know the score about ball injuries and are willing to take and/or give.  (I was told it's more blessed to give than to receive.  I think I'd pretty good at the giving; to be on the receiving end of a fist, heel, or foot, not so much.)  Then I saw that there are those who like to do it to themselves.  Jumping down from a platform or porch roof and landing straddling a sort of protected fence, throwing a heavy object onto a shovel and getting banged by the handle, running up to a light pole and jumping up and spreading his legs just before impact.  There are a couple of country boys who have devised some interesting, rural variations on nut self-torture.

They now have games.  One is Knife, Paper, Scissors, Nuts, in which two guys play that hand game and the loser is punched or kicked in his balls.  Some videos show the participants blindfolded so they don't know who won until one of them is in pain, which is an interesting variation.  Does it hurt less when you see it coming?  The one rule is that if you wind up on the floor, you're out.  There's Nut Ball, with two guys sitting opposite each other and either rolling or tossing an object, usually a ball but also oranges, Rubik's cube with additional corners, basketballs, bowling balls, whatever is handy, aimed for the family jewels.  Another is Rashambo,  This is Knife, Paper, &c. without the hand game a sort of cut-to-the-chase with just the kick or fist to the nuts.  Sometimes the game is over when one guy falls, other times they just go at it, whether he touches the floor or not, until one of them can't get up...period.

Usually, everyone is laughing.  They are also drunk or stoned or both.  I expect it's all a show of what a man you are.  Most of them play with their cock kept up by the elastic waistband, some of them are physically impressive (the games tend to be played bare-chested and in boxer shorts), some of them are pain-impressive, and after the guy falls, he's laughing, stunned, or pissed off, and definitely in pain.

It's one thing for adults or college-age boys or drunks (or drunken college boys) or even high school guys to do this, but I'm seeing kids now, and I find that kind of scary. Obviously, they've seen this on YouTube or somewhere else or have been talked into it by one's friends or a "more mature" middle schooler.  I'm not sure about the middle school guys, but the young kids still in elementary school, some of them in their middle or upper single digits.  Oh...wait...that's when I was jerking off to pictures of nearly-naked men just after a low blow or in pain or inflicting it.

Things have changed.  Things have not.

Monday, December 5, 2016

Pity Party

Probably the first of many.

The beard disappeared yesterday.  Except for the mustache.  The mustache stays.  Always.  The beard, not so much.

I got tired of the Santa Claus jokes.  Facing the season is hard enough.  It's the first holiday season I've had without Jack for 37 years.  I'm not looking forward to it. Neither of us particularly liked Christmas...more to be tolerated than anything.  In more recent years, both of us were in bed before 00:00 New Years.  Hallowe'en was Jack's favorite; Groundhog Day was mine.  I don't know that there are any special days to be observed now.  I certainly don't feel like there are.

"Hey, Santa!"  "What're giving me this year?"  (That was always from an adult.)  "Hey, Santa!  Ho-ho-ho!"  I don't really feel like putting up with their ho-hos.  Not that I don't know the similarities between this Claus person and me.  I worked checkout at Kmart for about 6 months, months that started out with holiday shopping.  I have to admit it was fun when kids would look up and stare.  Jingle bell hat?  Check.  Old guy with beard?  Check.  Shakes (when he laughs) like a bowl full of jelly?  Check.  I loved the stares, but if a kid asked if I were, then no, I wasn't Santa, I was one of his big elves. The kids, for the most part, bought it and the parents thought it was funny.  And it was. I have a friend who is maybe around 5' tall and has had a beard forever, so it's long, white, and perfect.  He tells me he gets "the look" from kids even in summer.  I'm having trouble being jolly this year.    

I'm not doing as well as I thought.  I've withdrawn from everything.  I still take walks. Patches, our cat, is one of my few focuses of attention, and she gets a lot.  I fill time with putting music into Finale, the computer program.  I pretend it's important.  I pretend I still matter.  I spend very little time on Facebook, as opposed to being there about an hour daily.  My friends are now the people who inhabit  It's difficult to stay away from JMG.  They really are my friends.  No doubt I could get in touch with people who have been my friends and casually ask if maybe we could out.  There is one woman who does that.  Does anyone else come forward?  Not anymore.  Perhaps they have assumed that I don't want to see them.  Perhaps they've assumed that I'm OK. Perhaps they feel that if I needed something, I'd ask.  That is not part of the Walker Syndrome, back into which I've landed.  I need someone to take the initiative.  It's not that I'm frail; I just wish someone would call and ask me to be part of their life for a lunch or a movie.  But what good does sealing myself off do?  Makes for a great pity party.

I am a rock.  I am an island.  I so identified with those lines from the Simon and Garfunkel song Back Then.  It was what I wanted to be, what I felt I needed to be.  The last part of the song either did not apply to me or wasn't anything new, depending on the day.  I was gay in a world of straights.  I was the fag, ripe to picked on.  And that meant I had to steel myself to know and accept and live with the fact that no one would ever be my friend or, heaven forbid, my special friend.  I was drunk and/or stoned all four years of college.  I can now see that it was self-medication.  However, it was also 1964 to 1968.  To the medical and psychological and psychiatric worlds, I was sick. I. Was. Sick.  I had given up on religion by that point.  It wasn't yet the age of the Jerry Falwells, but I heard I was an abomination.  The way I felt about religion and the religious, I knew I'd ultimately be isolated all my life, no matter how straight I played it. So be it.

Things changed considerably, of course.  There were other gay people not only in the world but nearby.  I was not alone.  And then Jack and I met, and I discovered that two gay men could love each other, could spend their lives together, share, watch out for, defend, and do anything for. 'Til death do us part.  He died.  We're apart.

So, time for you, my guests, to leave.  Pity parties are like that.