Some strange man named Steve who barely mutters a greeting when we walk in, immediately pushes me in front of a set of mirrors and then gets down on his knees and sticks his hands in the general vicinity of my balls.
Where exactly are you supposed to look when there is a man between your legs cupping your nut sack and he isn’t a doctor asking you to bend over and cough? His head? Deep into his eyes when he glances up at you to yell at you for squirming? I’m sorry but I can’t stand still when there is all this unwelcome ball-handling going on.
I really don’t see why it’s necessary to take four measurements that go from where my balls hang to my ankles. My balls haven’t moved; you’re going to get the same number each time so just write the fucking number down and move on - preferably to a spot away from my nuggets.
Is a store owner even qualified to do this shit? Doesn’t he need some type of degree or something before he can just go off wielding a measuring tape and sticking pins in people?
I glance over at Drew and he is looking up at the ceiling and whistling like it's no big deal, like he always has strange people with their hands all over him while they are eye-level with his junk. Wait, look who I’m talking about! It probably had just happened to him at the gas station a half hour before we got here.
“Claire needs to chill. If your parents don’t hate me by now, they don’t hate her. I’ve done much worse things to them over the years, believe me,” Drew says.
“Yeah. I know. My mom still brings up what you did to her parakeet back in high school.”
Drew rolls his eyes.
“That wasn’t even my fault.”
“Uh, you opened the cage and it flew straight into the glass door and died,” I remind him.
“Is it my fault that thing was stupid?” he argues. “I thought it would just fly around the room, maybe shit on the carpet. How was I supposed to know it was suicidal? It’s your mom’s fault really. She should have known her bird was depressed. And frankly, what I did to her Mynah bird was way worse.”
Steve spends a few minutes pinning the legs of my pants and gives me a reprieve from ball cupping.
“That bird is still saying ‘Where my ho’s at, bitch?’ whenever my dad whistles. My mom couldn’t get the bird to stop so she put a ban on whistling in the house,” I tell him.
“I really thought she’d be more pissed about the ‘Jesus loves me’ one. It was just boring every time your mom said that and it replied, ‘This I know.’ ‘Jesus loves me, fuck a ho’ is much more entertaining,” Drew explains.
The person measuring him tells him to turn around so his back is to me.
“Anyway, back to the subject of strippers,” he yells over his shoulder. “You are drastically underestimating the power of naked women dancing on poles. That shit could cure cancer or put an end to war if people would open their eyes. Give pole dancers a chance!” Drew shouts with a fist in the air.
“I think you mean ‘Give peace a chance.' And watching strange women gyrate on stage is not going to make Claire less angry with me. I’m pretty sure that is the exact definition of something that is guaranteed to piss off your girlfriend,” I tell him, flinching when a measuring tape is spread across my ass and then as hands glide up and down my legs.
My penis is shrinking. MY PENIS IS SHRINKING!
“Sylvia, come here and make sure you have everything you need,” the owner yells in the general direction of the back storage room as he stands up and wipes his hands on the front of his pants like being in that close proximity to my manhood made him feel dirty. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I feel violated. I’M THE VICTIM HERE. I just want a tux, not go to second base with Steve, the handsy man who sews.
“I think I have what she needs,” Drew leans in and whispers conspiratorially. I glanced up to see a blonde Amazon with a measuring tape draped around her neck walking towards us. You’re probably thinking, “Okay, he has nothing to complain about now. Some hot chick is going to get on her hands and knees and touch him!”
False.
Sylvia the Seamstress is stalking towards me, and I suddenly realize just how many people are in this store with nothing better to do than stare at me while they wait for their turn. The lights shining down from above are making me hot and now that I know everyone is watching me, I’m getting the ball sweats. I want to pull the dress pants and my boxers away from my junk but I have to just stand here like an idiot with my arms out to the side because Sylvia is already in front of me...on her knees...reaching for my penis.
I know she’s not actually reaching for my penis, but my penis doesn’t know that. He’s a simple creature and all he knows is that there is a hot woman assuming the position and reaching for him.
I know this is going to be hard for you to comprehend, my friend, but this does not mean she wants to have sex with us. I know it’s crazy. I know it doesn’t make sense but there it is. Stay strong little buddy, stay strong.
Stop judging me. All men talk to their penises.
Wait! Is the plural of penis, penises? Or is it like the word deer and it’s just penis? I have five penis. No, that’s not right. Maybe it’s peni, long “I” like, “There are too many peni in this porno.”
“Could you stand still please?” Sylvia says in an irritated voice.
If she had sweaty balls and an almost-boner she wouldn’t be so judgmental. Am I right, or am I right?
“Gavin, you almost dressed?” I call into the dressing room, momentarily forgoing my penis grammar lesson to realize my son had gone in there ten minutes ago, claiming he was a big boy and didn’t need any help trying on his tux. I begin to wonder about the brilliance of that decision when I don’t hear a reply. Part of me secretly hopes he lit something on fire in there so we can finally put an end to this trauma. At least it forces Sylvia to finish the hell up and move on to the next victim so I can stop giving my penis pep talks.
“Gavin, are you okay in there?” I yell as I take a few steps in that direction. Gavin steps out of the room then in a crisp, brand new toddler tuxedo. Lucky little shit doesn’t have to worry about Sylvia or touchy-feely Steve. The suit fits him to perfection and I have to say, he is one handsome little boy.
“Wow, Gav. That looks really good on you,” I tell him as I squat down in front of him and fix the buttons he fastened wrong.
“I know. I’m a bad ass, man,” he replies as he turns away from me and looks at himself in the mirror. He holds onto the lapels of the suit coat like he is James Bond the Toddler Years and twists from right to left to get a better look.
“Gavin, don’t talk like that,” I scold.
“Nice suit, little dude,” Drew says as he walks up behind Gavin and ruffles his hair. “Mine looks better though.”
Gavin turns around and looks up at Drew with an angry look on his face.
“I’m going to put corn and hot sauce on your wiener, and then I’ll hit you in the face with it. Hit you in the face with your corny wiener.”
“Dude, you are an angry little man,” Drew tells him as he shakes his head.
“You’re a juice bag!” Gavin yells.
“Okay, time-out. Both of you. Gavin, go put your other clothes back on.”
Gavin sticks his tongue out at Drew and turns to run back into the dressing room. I stand up to face Drew and fold my arms in front of me.
“What? He threatened my wiener. He’s lucky I didn’t throw down fisticuffs with him. And just because he said ‘juice bag’ doesn’t mean we don’t both know what he was really thinking. That kid is an evil, evil genius, and I never want to be left alone with him. So, strip club, yea or nay?”
~
“It needs to be tomantic…tmotmantic…ramtantic…dude, it needs to be all loving and shit,” Jim states as he goes to sit down next to me on the couch, missing the cushions by about six inches and landing on his ass on the floor.