Shaving My Balls
These are just some of the reasons I shave my balls: I pride myself on being clean and proper; I also try to keep myself current with popular trends; my lover really appreciates round, smooth and hairless objects (she has allergies); if my pubic hair gets too long it pulls when it gets caught in clothing or between me and a chair. Additionally, long pubes are harder to clean than short; trapping moisture, dingle-berries and, consequently, smell. The way I see it cleanliness is pleasant.
As much as I like my balls well kept, I find that it’s a chore to get them clean and shaved. However, I have developed a system that allows me to shave them like the dickens and gets the chore out of the way quickly. I find that timing is everything. I schedule my shavings around my face razors. When they get too dull for my face, I take them directly to my nuts (nothing’s too good for my ball sack). The hair cutting process is a two-parter which includes the trim and the shave.
(1.) The Trim – hover directly over a toilet with a set of hair cutting sheers, hips pushed forward to get the clippings into the toilet, grab a hand full of nuts, keep your head down and go to town.
(2.) The Shave (post trim)- sit in a bath tub, dull razor in hand, legs up and out, ass cheeks spread with butt hole puckered right up to the cold cast iron tub, balls lifted, shaving cream slathered all over, hot water running slightly, get shaving mister.
I usually reserve this activity for non-public showers with locking doors. I feel awkward doing it and, to onlookers, I probably look like I border on the side of auto-erotic masochism. Whatever. I like the way it makes me feel. I also like when my lover esses my dee. Unfortunately, she won’t go near me when my pubes are as long and as thick as night crawlers. Do I have a choice?
One Of My Favorite Quotes
You may wonder, how? The real question is how not?
“A man needs a woman like a fish needs a bicycle” is one of the best analogies I have ever heard. Not only is this statement completely incomprehensible but it’s also misinformed. I will explain why, for that very reason, this sentence is fantastic! First of all, fish don’t need bikes, they’ve got their own means of conveyance. It’s called current. Also, fish need water to live. Have you ever gotten your bike wet? Good luck getting upstream with a rusty chain. Attention all wannabe bipedal fish: If a rust bucket paperweight is your dream, you might as well absorb all the mercury you can and turn belly up. Pathetic.
Conversely, it is a true fact that every man needs a woman. Guys are pigs. They’re gross. They eat gruel and fart and stir up trouble. Women are clean and well-mannered. Women are the world’s great equalizers. When dudes are rowdy, chicks calm them down. When the fellas are just kicking it and chillin, the ladies come into the room screaming. If it were up to men, nothing would get done. Lawns would go unmowed; gifts would go unwrapped, TVs would be watched. If it were up to women, well, I don’t want to think about that.
To be perfectly honest, the only reason I’m writing this is because a woman is standing behind me with her finger on the trigger of a very sawed off shotgun. Women take life seriously. They’ve got things to do and people to do and guns to point. And that’s ok with me. If I didn’t have a strong motivational woman behind telling me to get up and get going, I probably wouldn’t. What kind of life would that be? That would be like a fish with a bicycle and that’s no good for everybody. Regardless of what the statement says, I still like it.
What Work
A lot of people ask me what I do for a living. It has been suggested that I should have an “elevator speech” prepared for just such occasions. Something that titillates and informs in the time that it takes to travel on an elevator. So here it goes. This is what I would tell you if you asked me what I do for a living:
“Hi, how’s it going? (Pause for response, very important). Good, me too. Oh, what do I do? I work in the health care field. I am what’s know as a materials handling specialist. (pause for courtesy chuckle). I do some dicing and cutting, but for the most part I work the scrape and suck apparatus. But don’t let the name fool you. There’s no real scraping going on. It’s more like a scramble using a plain ol’ garden-variety clothes hanger (sterile, of course) in a vigorous whisking motion. There’s no real sucking either, come to think of it. I just use the end of the hanger like a hook and extract that way. It can be pretty messy work. That’s why I wear latex gloves and a rubber smock. I really hate staining my scrubs. They say you must not have a soul to do this job, but that is so misguided. Dozens of little souls are harvested every day. I figure when I die, I can just rope them together and ride the “stairway to heaven” in a chariot behind those little angels.”
Were you titillated? If you guessed correctly, you may have said that I work as an omelet chef in a hospital brunch buffet (it’s a nice hospital). If you guessed incorrectly, you’re sick.
Eyes On The Road
One of these b*tches is going down
When I’m driving along the road, I have a tendency to stare down any drivers that I pass or that pass me. Those B*tch F*cks; what gives them the rite? Don’t look at me! “What am I doing?” you ask…I’m looking for hot girls, that’s what! Now, you might be thinking that’s a little reckless and immature. You couldn’t be more wrong; the fact of the matter is that it’s extremely reckless and immature. I am liable to hit someone…hard and often, if you know what I mean 
3===) · · ·· O-: (FYI – that graphic display represents a winker and his hot bod with all that c*ck, balls and a sh*t ton of c*m about to hit that pretty little number’s O-face). I’m looking for two things. The first is hot girls. I’m just perusing the street driving public and all of their assets. First and foremost, I am attracted to nice hair. Shiny, yes. Long, yes. Slightly curly, God yes. The best part of the hair is it often times cascades down the body inadvertently pointing to other delectable treats such as the neck, chest, breast, and sometimes abs, buns, and legs. A great head of hair and a hot set of chest blossoms is the luxury model I want to see on the road. It’s usually marked by something flowery hanging from the rear view mirror; usually a flower. Oh, unless it’s hanging from a minivan. Forget it. Usually, it’s some chicks ugly step dad. Which brings me to the second thing. I’m looking for some punk dude that’s younger, older, smaller, dumber-looking, worse car, and/or smug that I could kick the sh@t out of. I’ll tell you that I’m going to stare that @sshole down until he looks over and then I’m going to look away quickly. If I’d stare longer we might have fisticuffs. He does not want that. Actually, if it ever came down to that, I’m not going to do that because I can’t fight (I’m a bit of a screamer). But if I did fight, maybe one of those pretty little ladies with the lai in the windshield might just stop and ask if she can dissolve the conflict with her nipple tits. This would be the point when I get out my insurance information and check book. Lady, you can take anything you want. People are so great.
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