In Praise of Blue Balls

In a candid interview over some scones which he described as "insipid pustules of dust," celebrated author and noted Anglophile Henry James commented on the nature of a very peculiar and masculine physical phenomenon. "Sometime during my mid-thirties I was working on a novel of great scope but little swag. I was painfully aware of its deficiencies at the time, yet I could not bring myself to edit it. I would write endlessly, grinding out sentence after sentence, chaffing under the weight of my paragraphs, and humping my typewriter. After some such session, I would find myself afflicted in mind, body, and spirit by a certain malady, an unrelenting ache transfixed deep within my person. It was around this same time that I took up with a comely lass. Smart as a whip and exceptionally beautiful, this maiden was nevertheless a rather garish prude and would flaunt her continence as if it were an exposed nip. However, in our dalliance we were given to moments of intimacy that might besmirch the purity of a such an avowed Victorian. Yet, whenever we stood on the brink of coitus (and what a brink it was!) she would become profoundly demure and delicately usher me away from her gaping ax wound. Instead we would return to furious dry humping, persecuting our genitals with a grinding worthy of tectonic plates. When it was all said and done, I would be stricken with a pain eerily similar to those moments after my paroxysmal bouts of writing, though slightly more akin to having an egg beater churn up my balls. I do not doubt that these irritations spring from a similar place, an abyssal void of unfulfilled fruition. Though the pain is great, it is only in these moments that I am truly inspired. In fact, the majority of my oeuvre has been written under the auspices of these balls of blue. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see a young woman about sitting on my cock for the next three hours."

These "balls of blue" to which Henry James so fondly referred are or course the modern "blue balls," and their reputation has suffered much since his time. Owing to the quotidian complaints of teenagers and other deranged types, blue balls have become synonymous with sexual frustration. In so far as they are a product of an absence of male sexual release this may be true, but such a perspective fails to capture the essence of this miraculous testicular holocaust. The lack of a defined physiological purpose other than a general prohibition against the wanton smashing of genitals belies a deeper meaning and function for blue balls, a meaning which defies physiological explanation and ultimately points to a supernatural or divine emanation. James' perspicacity touched on this. Moved by Mr. James and my own experiences with blue balls, I set out on what would end up being a life altering journey in search of the true meaning behind blue balls.

Though no evidence whatsoever exists to corroborate my claims of divine or supernatural origin, many have speculated on the issue. Dr. Vincent Blackforth, a leading expert on vicissitudes of the male member, declined to speak to me. However, his secretary, one Danny Danberg, had much to say on the matter. Citing his experiences with his current and previous boyfriends, Mr. Danberg conjectured that blue balls are "probably just God's way of saying 'get a room!'" Though enlightening, Danny's explanation failed to convince this ball hog. Looking for a secular perspective, I turned to my psychologist, Brenda. Drawing from her psychoanalytic and circus backgrounds, Brenda postulated the existence of a collective unconscious of ball pain. There, within the nebulous plane of shared memory, "thousands of carnies eat hard boiled eggs and dance to the rhythmic slapping of balls. The ring leader, a pudendal psychopomp in the form of a pizza with a dick in the center and nipples for toppings, orchestrates a massive war, pitting side against side, gonad against gonad. Thus aligned, both sides rush at one another clashing in a sea of testicles, much like the infamous "wall of death" at a slayer concert."

After speaking with Brenda at some length I was still no closer to the truth. Furthermore,  I realized it best to end our professional relationship and seek a psychologist that was over 13 years old. With no leads to speak of, I resorted to a new low; I went to the library. There among the throngs of perverts and milquetoast-er-strudels, I scoured dusty tomes for any hint of an answer. Eventually, I came upon a reference in a medieval manuscript to a certain Umayyad Caliph who was said to be afflicted by constant blue balls. According to the source, this ruler had achieved some kind of divine awareness after spending 45 days and nights grinding with his multitudinous harem. The trail went cold from here, however, as I could find no further reference to this testicular tyrant. I decided then and there that the only course of action left to me was to travel to Spain to hunt for anything pertaining to this forgotten Caliph.

Arriving in Granada, I made my way to the Spanish countryside in search of some record of this man. Hobnobbing with Andalusian locals across the scorched landscape, I spoke of "el rey de los huevos azules." Perhaps it was my garbled Spanish or my constant recitation of the word "huevos," but each time I was received with indifference and hostility. At wit's end and nearly destitute, I took to mixing sangria and Xanax during the siesta. Two days before my return home I found myself lying down face first at a local tavern. Wallowing in my misery and a stupor of collegiate proportions, a beautiful woman picked me up off the floor.  She sauntered to the jukebox and put on the R. Kelly song "Bump N' Grind" (incidentally every jukebox in Spain has the entire R. Kelley discography on it). What ensued would have put the combined booty dancing of every high school prom for the last 15 years to shame. Needless to say, my genitals looked like bloody grits after the affair. The pain was excruciating and the woman gone without a trace.

Sitting in the squalid tavern and fastening the remains of my balls to my pubis, I became aware of a faint illumination off in the distance. I stepped out of the bar and began to walk, with each step my mind grew clearer, my soul calmer, and my tweets wittier. I came upon a hill with a cave set into it. On closer inspection the light was a pale blue color and seemed to be emanating from two orbs within the cave. With trepidation and wonder I entered.

The blue orbs which had drawn me hence danced around the blackness of the cave. I reached out to touch them but then they withdrew further into the darkness, leading me deeper and deeper. For an eternity I followed them, my mind spinning with thoughts both serene and terrible. At long last the orbs stopped, perching themselves upon the blanched bones of the lost Caliph. With one arm raised and the other touching the butt of a skeleton bent over in front of him, the Caliph stood locked into an eternal booty dance. Watching them and taking notes on how I might best improve my own booty dancing technique, the cave flashed with a blinding light.

4000 miles away and 11 days later I awoke. To this day I am uncertain of what transpired. All that was left to me was a strange dream filled with booties of varying thickness and a disembodied voice. The voice spoke of immortality, nirvana, and it's favorite episode of Seinfeld. Whether it was the voice of the Caliph, Henry James, God, or some other schmuck, I do not know. Regardless, it was the blue balls that brought me there and it is through them that I shall return. Until then...happy grinding.