Detroit Cock City

Like a chore, like a necessary evil in stagnant July air, I lift my balls like a house frau lifts a rug to vacuum beneath it. Death Valley asphalt heat rolls off, volcanic microwave steam wafting up into the darkness of the room, hot with two light breezes, one manmade and one of more of a natural origin. They sweep through the place as if they are afraid to touch my nuts and me; to give us the grace of their cooling embrace and they cannot be blamed. They’re just doing their job, albeit poorly.

My right hand, a mother’s cradling arms of thoughtful separation, attempts to shelter and give ease to the acids and bases-effect of skin-on-skin. Women thankfully will never understand what it’s like to have to peel the flesh of the sack off of an inner thigh on a night like this one, an experience not unlike and definitely akin to dealing with the most stubborn Velcro. Do it too fast and you’ve involuntarily waxed yourself. You’ll want to scream like hostages do in movies when the duct tape gags have been stripped off their faces.