Every other day, the gods light a fire under a man’s loins; a scorching inferno that turns his ‘juices’ into acid. This acid, once at peak temperatures, begins to burn holes into the old scrotal sac, and, if left unchecked, will lead to horrible complications. The man is therefore left with the interesting option of getting rid of said acid, or allowing it to consume the rest of his loins, effectively ending any notions of sowing oats, wild or otherwise.
Naturally, the man will elect to shed the offending fluid. He is too fond of that left testicle, he will undoubtedly conclude. He loves to imagine that it houses the future president of the free world. His gangster walk would be thoroughly affected if anything were to happen to that hairy bugger. He must swing into action, then, in a timely and decisive fashion.
Well, he could always consult with the significant other. He could show up at her doorstep with a winning smile and a silver tongue. He must not let the words ‘marital duty’ slip out of his mouth. But he must adorn the lewd grin. He must accidentally brush the front of her blouse at least thrice; he must initiate a take-no-prisoners game of ‘chase me around the house’, which must end with him on top of her… And he must take great care to maintain his neutral demeanor when she informs him that she is rounding the final bend of her period.
Alternatively, he could go the more profitable route of pleading his case to any female who will listen. The quickest way to do so would be to send the classic check in text to the greater part of his contact list. ‘Ssup’. The exes first, if he had been smart enough to end things in a civil manner. For every insulting response he receives, he is bound to stumble upon that one former lover who does not wish him death by dismemberment. And then he must let loose the silver tongue again, this time via text, and with the disturbing awareness that screenshots of that conversation can and will be used against him in a court of law.
If the man is in the habit of calling all his exes brainless, soul-sucking whores, and only texting the three females he speaks to from class when assignments are due, then the man is quite simply doomed.
He must now invest in a concoction of homemade lube that is both non-adhesive and non-viscous. Homemade because all the supermarket brands incidentally smell like orchids, and are quite capable of peeling the skin right off a blood-filled appendage. There is also the small matter of explaining to one’s roommate the large vat of Versman Lotion that had been smuggled into the bathroom.
Every other day, man is made to rue the testosterone racing through his veins. He will smile at every weave that billows past him. He will compliment mama mboga’s dress; yes, the one she has been wearing since he began buying onions from her in his first year. And, regardless of his upbringing, he will whistle silently at posteriors distended.
In this time of need, the world must regard us with understanding, and shower us with the kind of affection The Good Book preaches. You see, there is nothing like the protracted agony of a thousand overcooked swimmers clamouring to be freed, banging relentlessly against the prison that is your scrotal sac, chanting for their right. Stand with the boy child; introduce him to your slutty friend.