Now is not the time, which means now is the perfect time. I think it was Neale Donald Walsch who said, “What you resist persists.” How clever, you crystal rubbing prick.

In response, I say, “What hurts my ball stitches includes dreams of hot bitches.” (Yes, I am aware that Jay-Z will not be calling me and my flat-billed, crooked cap isn’t helping.)

I’m not allowed to have sex until after April 1st: April Tools Day. I can’t think of any area I’d like to heal more perfectly than my scrotum, so I am following doctor’s orders to the letter. Still, my subconscious is fucking with me. It always does.

OK, put this into the TMI column, but as I sit here with a microwaved gel pack on my lap I have to wonder why I have untimely dreams and if women experience anything similar. Dreams are difficult to recall, but I’ll do my best.

I meet this sexy dance instructor and she confesses that she’s about to break up with her boyfriend. He hasn’t been good to her, bringing her down with stinging criticisms. I lather on the compliments. Yada, yada, yada … roll forward and we’re in bed. She keeps saying how naughty it is and how she can’t believe we’re doing it.

Then I wake up.

I notice three things:

  1. I have a hard-on, which is stressing my stitches.
  2. I do not have a sexy dance instructor in my bed.
  3. I have to pee.

I imagine women have no problem peeing when aroused. It doesn’t work that way for men. Ignoring the obvious challenge–avoiding urinating on the ceiling–there are physiological issues. Willy says, “One fluid at a time there, champ. Pick one.”

Easier said than undone.

I lie there hoping the turgidity will subside, but it won’t. I cycle through random non-sexual thoughts including bracketology, western omelets, and why Russell Brand’s face annoys me. Still stiff. I agonize about extracting myself from my warm, flannel cocoon. Finally, I sigh and stagger in the dark, walking like John Wayne after a twenty-mile horse ride. I can’t turn on the light, as it would cause serious retinal damage. I lift the lid, carefully peel down my gauze-padded briefs, and proceed to pee all over the toilet rim and floor. I’m not proud. The Simple Green treatment can wait until sunrise.

At last, things begin to loosen up and my stitches remain intact. Thank goodness. I’d hate to schedule an emergency visit listing cause of damage: morning wood. Gosh, I hope this is all worth it. I’m constantly reminded that sterility does not protect against disease. No shit, Sherylcock. The bedside condoms will not be discarded, though I long for the night.

Doctor Snip assured me I’d be back in the game within two weeks. Until then, no lifting anything over ten pounds. Fine. I’ll enjoy my time on the bench, encouraging my teammates as I study the game and scout for talent until I can draw my unloaded gun.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.