Should I Powder My Balls? pt. 1

Warning: This is silly and juvenile. If you're looking for decent writing scroll to The Chunk or The Brazilian. Read at your own amusement.

I will try not to be too graphic, but ladies, let's put some things on the table.  There is a certain area on the male anatomy that, even under the wintriest of conditions, will tend to heat up. Most of the time we don't mind all that much. However, if it's the middle of summer, or if we are about to embark on a date, the feeling of 'bat wings' can be a bit unsettling. Therefore, we always make sure, no matter how little the chance of getting nekkid... even just for peace of mind... we powder our balls.  

Similar to how you ladies wear fancy, frilly Victoria's Secret underoos on first dates (even with no intention of letting them be seen) simply for your own mental comfort, us fellas chalk up for that extra level of comfortableness.  Before every date I venture on, I powder my balls like I was preparing a chicken cutlet in a bucket of Shake and Bake.  It's a careful process, as you don't want to overdo it and make your little guy look like its about to appear in blackface for a 1920's silent film.  

The thing is, whenever I powder the Onion Sack, it invariably ensures that my date will be a bust. Or, if I'm actually dating someone, shining The Jewels guarantees that she'll either A) be in the midst of entertaining her monthly visitor, B) have a splitting headache, or C) pass out before I finish suffering through back to back Friends episodes. Despite this, you still have to partake in the ritual.  It's only after you fall madly for each other that you can introduce a lady to the more enjoyable aspects of dating like not showering and Dutch Ovens.

The corollary to this is also quite true.  For example, if I somehow neglect to sugar the kiwis, then the stars will align and I'll wind up meeting a sweetheart - or the girl I'm seeing will have just finished reading the sex column in Redbook. Either way, not a good time for first appearances.

All this jibber jabber does have a reason. I recently got in touch with a girl from college. I can't understate the randomness of this. She is one of those facebook friends that you rarely talk to. I found out that she had just called things off with a short term guy and gave her the usual friendly advice. She mentioned needing to smoke tonight. This is probably not the best idea in her state of mind but to each their own. I, myself, rarely partake in the wacky tabacky but I find it amusing to watch others do so. Naturally, I figured this would be the perfect time to have a reunion of sorts. I've invited her to come by and hang out with me for the first time in about 6 years. I don't remember what classes we were in and I have no idea what her last name is but it really doesn't matter. All I know is she's cute, and seems pretty fun so why not? I honestly have no intentions of anything, but still -  I wonder if I should powder my balls.

Option C

The saying goes: Expect the Unexpected, and, when it applies to my dating life, it always holds true.  I suppose my choices, as well as the girls I date, lend themselves to a certain amount of randomness. However, I still stand surprised at how many times a particular scenario plays out with neither the expected positive (A) or negative (B), but rather the peculiar - Option C.

Sometimes a most rewarding outcome does occur. A year ago I was out with a good female friend of mine. While we were indulging in some cheap cervezas I figured (A) the typical friendly flirting or (B) the unlikely meeting of a sweet girl at the bar would occur. Certainly not for (C) her bosomy, (there I go talking like my pop again) blonde, stereotypical Jersey girl roommate to suddenly, after knowing me for a year, bring me to the beach and confess that she wanted to make out. This Option C rarely happens. 

More often than not Option C is just bizarre and/or frustrating. It ends with tiptoeing down stairs, meeting parents who I didn't even know existed, or my taking care of a vomiting girl. I've grown to hate Option C.  I never know exactly what it is, but I welcome its arrival like a wet fart. 

A quick sample of the option C happened this morning. Nikki had written earlier in the week apologizing for not getting back to me and seeing if we could maybe fit in a lunch this weekend. I told her to simply get in touch with me. I heard nothing, as expected. However, this morning I woke up and saw: Missed call - Jailbait - 4:04 am. I was ecstatic. There has never been a phone message left at 4 o'cock in the morning from a girl that didn't lead to something good. I figured at worst she was going to drunkingly say how she was smitten with my bad self and couldn't wait for Tuesday to arrive so we could jam out at the shelter, talk about rare musicians and then get a cup of java in SoHo all while discussing how overrated Ginsberg was and Obama's bungling of the TARP funds. (Listen, it's my f'n fantasy, I'll tell it as I please!) What I wasn't realizing was Option C.

The message opened up with a cavalcade of metallic sounds marching towards my eardrums and a racket like that of two trains wrestling. Then, the light whisper of a distant laughter - perhaps Nikki - echoed through the cacophony of sounds growing less and less audible.  More rhythmic metallic noises and more half hearted chatter each took turns filling up my inbox.... and that's it.  That's right, five minutes of random  subway drunkenness from her ass sitting on the phone the wrong way. Just like this post, the phone call was the pinnacle of anticlimactic action. 

Damn you Option C! Damn You!!

Still cleansing

I'm still in the midst of taking that aforementioned small breather from dating - or, more aptly, just cleaning house of some past ladies.  I find it's like shitting out a bad virus.  You need a few days to get the flu out of your system before you can feel 100 percent again...  And you have to flush twice.  

The Choke-a-Bitch Emoticon, a long week, and a TV timeout

Years ago my best friend Johnny and I were discussing the concept of e-mailing as it pertains to women and dating. Although the technology was in its infancy, the discussion seamlessly applied itself to text messages as well. We found that women have an intuitive knack for crafting a well intended and deliberate message that always allows for them to change the importance, anger, or overall flirtation of said message at a later time. They carry out these verbal loopholes with the use of well placed, strategic semicolons and parenthesis.

This little sucker, :) OR (: OR :-) and his bastard twin ;) has been the cause of more frustration and anger than Popeyes running out of their $4.99 chicken special.

For instance (actual true examples being used):

"Just having dinner with him... We dated 7 years ago! I think you're worried too much :)"
editor's note: About 5 months following this e-mail, they were engaged.

"Maybe we can get drinks after dinner. I don't have to work tomorrow ;)..."
editor's note: She actually only wanted to get dinner much to the chagrin of little Mikey.

"Hey! I'm sorry I just got your text... Batteries!!.. I know I'm tough, blame my job. Can we reschedule for tomorrow?...:)"
editor's note: See The Brazilian for more info.

It is in response to messages like these that the use of the as of yet to be invented "Choke-a-Bitch emoticon" would be applicable. The picture of one smiley face joyfully restricting the air supply of a neighboring smiley face conveys a wide variety of feelings that I, too, can change at my own whim. I believe Chris Rock said, with only a slight modicum of inappropriateness, "You haven't truly loved someone... till you've thought about killing them."

This comes to attention because, had the option been there, I might have sent this to a few select girls this past week. Unfortunately, one of them was my favorite underage contestant, Nikki the Volunteer.

Nikki's candidacy in our game show has been formally rescinded.  Too much confusion hurts my head.  A series of rescheduled dates (including one at my favorite springtime event: the Tribeca Film Festival), confusing texts at 3am, and constant hot/cold flirtatiousness depending on what hour it is, has sealed her fate. Oh, and bitch ate my Rolos.

I suppose a majority of this is my fault for asking a girl out that is two years removed from her Senior Prom, but one cannot help who one likes. Even with the age, I am slightly surprised at her spastic behavior.  She's a sweetheart who seems to have good intentions.  Perhaps women are simply predisposed to acting irrational much like a dog is predisposed to licking his own balls, even when he is neutered.

The rest of the past week was an uncanny combination of studying 1400 pages of text in preparation for for my upcoming career change, the lawyer girl halfheartedly getting back in touch with me, family responsibilities which kept me hooked up to an IV of Mountain Dew to stay awake and dealing with people who take their jobs way too seriously at work.

Despite the long week, I take everything in stride. One of the reasons being is how I ended my week. I managed to fit in some time visiting with my ex-girlfriend, my grandfather and my mother. The Big Three of Cancer. I showed up to each meeting complete with an arsenal of hugs, food, and inappropriate jokes. I'm like a traveling clown and I don't mind it one bit. If I can do anything to bring a smile to one of their faces I’ll do it and I’ll do it every weekend til they get better.

Wtih that said, I do need a small break from dating to regroup. I do enjoy most of the madness, but there is only so much I can tolerate from females before the choke-a-bitch icon ceases to be allegorical. If I’m going to be arrested I’d rather it be for underage sex than attempted murder. Don't worry, there are plenty of stories to fill up that time.