It has been a few weeks since the events described in this post, which has allowed the pain to recede slightly into the realm of history and fiction. Almost, but not quite. To quote an idiot self-quoting former co-worker, "Reality is whatever fantasy I choose to believe."
Boys learn at a very early age that a wound to our special place is more than just the immediate, agonizing shock, but a long lasting pulse of constant pain. I think we can all agree that a kick in the balls is not quite as bad as a cut on the tip. But let's peel this tale back a little bit and set the scene.
The past month has been quite cold, wet, and stormy as we have entered the Bay Area's miniature and slightly more liberal monsoon season. I run in a ritual known as the "Man Run." In our effort to appear manly and virile, the "man runners" run every day, rain or shine, night or day.
All runners know and fear the chafing of our beady Nippsey Russels. The chances of this are magnified exponentially when you run in the rain as wet clothing leads to increased chafing. It was quite funny when a fellow man runner entered the locker room oblivious to the two blood spots on his shirt, located directly above each of his man teats.
"Haha!" I thought. "Boy, his nipples must hurt."
The following night we ventured out again. It was cold and raining. I wore traditional boxers. Usually the enhanced freedom is not an issue. Around mile 3 (of 5) I noticed that things just didn't feel right on my "down theres." I adjusted mid-stride but it just didn't quite solve the issue. Little did I know at that point it was already too late.
We entered the locker room soaked and disheveled. We immediately began making nipple jokes in light of the previous evening's man mammary blood bath. Mild laughter ensued from the mildly funny joke. I undressed to hit the showers and I noticed the front of my boxers had blood on them. A lot of blood.
Think about that for a second -- if you see anything bloody near that place you are going to start questioning life, the decisions you've made in it, and what the immediate future holds. It's a bleak existence at that very moment with no hope of escape.
I broke open the towel around my waist to take a desperate look at Little Grant. I've never been to a real homicide crime scene, but I do on occasion enjoy the joys of CSI: Miami. The horrible things I've seen on this show pale in comparison to the mutilation below my waist.
I can only imagine Horatio's one-liner as he tears off his sunglasses while gazing at the bruised and battered Little Grant: "Looks like we've just uncovered the tip of this case."
Indeed, we have. Look forward to Part Two of "The Tipping Point" in the near future.
*Alternate titles included "The Bleeding Edge" and "The Penis Post"