Viewing the local antiquities

As others see us 

"I like it when you suck my balls, and maybe now you will do it for longer."

That's what I imagine telling Angel the next time we meet. My smoothness will give her another reason to call me her baby.

So, this morning, I shaved my balls, as had been my habit in the past when I had money.

My system is to have ready:

  • newspapers

  • blunt scissors

  • a little round bathroom mirror like they sell at Target

  • a razor (electric)

  • A tensor lamp

After showering, nude I put the newspapers down on the floor, near a plug: sit down with my back to the wall, propped up the mirror in front me, plugged in the lamp, and pointed the lamp at the mirror. I'd call it a miniature surgical theatre—the bright mirrored light, the readied flesh—were it not for the absence of meat-locker cold and the lack of edged instruments.

So with my back against a wall, I spread my legs wide to get elbow room, look down, pull taut the long tuft of hair that hangs straight down, and snip through it as close to the skin of my sack as I can with the scissors. Each hair tents my loose skin as I tug.

Pull, snip, pull, snip, pull: A small pile of curly hair grows on the paper between my legs.

Then I switch on the electric razor and, flipping open the sideburns trimmer, try for a number one cut all around. Since the hair is too short to grasp, I have to stretch the skin of my sack tight between two fingers, then raze it, with and against the grain. A mild erection helps tighten the skin of the shaft, and I raze that, then work looking into the mirror: raze my inner thighs: raze either side of my asscrack.

What an effort! A woman would laugh at me. But next time, I can give Angel another reason to call me her baby besides my suckling: my smoothness.

Finally, a #1 cut: My balls are covered with fuzz, although I left Bush at the top of my dick. Generally, I look down at myself from above: I see myself erect, sticking out, and don't see—as I now see in the round mirror—the scale of the whole package: a little unerect nubbin: a stalk poking from a puddle of flesh: my balls weighting my sack down, filling it out: my buttocks flattened against the paper: chafed where I sit all day in my cubicle chair: the line of flesh leading down my perineum to the creased arms of the secret star of my anus, which I note with relief is not brown.

There's a little red smear on my thigh; the mirror shows me red droplets on my sack. Since it's a Monday, I have time to heal before I visit Angel again.

Google finds two theories on why men shave their balls.

Theory A is that smooth is somehow erotic; these are the guys doing Nair and waxing themselves.

Theory B is that long is somehow erotic; that removing one's bush makes one's shaft seem longer.

No theory for me. I just like having my balls licked. It's a peaceful, warm, oceanic feeling, like being bathed, or transcendance. Trustful, too, besides being exceedingly lewd.

Especially when combined with a rim job.

So, shaving my balls means more sensation and pleasure for me: My whore's tongue will caress my sack's skin; and with all that hair gone, she's likely to give me more service.

Theories A and B are sentimentalities that don't, mercifully, apply with whores. Because she will have seen so much, she's unlikely—barring edge cases and the outré—to be impressed by putatively erotic surfaces or dimensions. That's one of the nicest things about dealing with whores: Theories go away, subsumed in the contractual relationship.


All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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