a craigslist story
Every morning, the alarm clock stops the same nightmare. Sighing with relief, I slowly remove the protective cloth from between my stiff thighs and peel the sheets off my body with a slow pace. I enter my closed stall toilet and unzip my pants just enough to get the urine out. I also cover the zipper hole with my fingers for extra protection. It doesn’t matter if they get wet. Then, I put in my cup. In addition, I excessively groom the area to avoid hair-related discomfort. I spray a mixture of baby oil and mineral water at room temperature into the front of my pants every half hour to keep it slick and friction-free. You might say it’s a compulsion I need to work on, and I might agree. This isn’t about cleanliness or some perversion. I was just hanging out one day and some guy bit me in my freaking bag. How do you cope with the anxiety after such a traumatic experience? I pop a Xanax every day but it just makes spraying my crotch feel good.
Once the preparation is complete, from this point on, I walk with my eyes on my zipper and the people that get near it. I do not fuck around anymore. My stride is compromised by my stiff thighs and grundle taping, and I hunch forward with my hands wavering over the belt loops like I’m blocking a goal. I’ve forced my feet into a pitiful pidgeon-toe, and as a result, I need special inserts. Because of the trauma, I have a hair-trigger reaction to any sudden or unpredicted movements from unknown people. I usually get faked out and collapse to the ground while covering my crotch maybe 4, 5 times a day. Sometimes before I even leave my home. One time, I bashed the brains out of a fellow that walked under the ladder I was standing on, just because he was mouth-level with my crotch while chewing gum and talking on his Bluetooth headset. He was being careless with his teeth and could have accidentally bit me, hard. He was really enunciating his words, but they were short terse sentences. With each word, I saw him strategically chomping towards my blue jeans under the guise of talking to his mother. Why do I think this man tried to bite me? Well, I think somebody employed him. I think somebody is paying complete strangers to try and bite my testicles like chewy little sea clams. Maybe not one person, but a whole group of people who want to systematically abuse me. I’m being gang stalked by dick biters. You may wonder how this came about.
Last time I left my junk unguarded, I got my boner bit. I’m not talking about a nip. I’m talking about the pressure it takes to eat an ice pop. Even worse, like I said, the guy then had the audacity to bite my bag. I had recently shaved, so there was little to push through before getting to the meat. My bag wasn’t special, but it didn’t have any nicks or bumps. No cuts or discoloration. Now it has a crusty bite mark in it, and the ointment I have to put on it for the infection makes it impossible to resist the urge to shoplift at Walmart. I’ve woken up six times now trying to get shaving blades out of the alarm-rigged package while the night workers drive around me with palettes of paper towels and sweet cream. My criminal record is hairy. However, the upside is that my bag is not.
I was just minding my own business on the corner of Bramhall and Congress after leaving the store with a couple natties and some baby powder. I was into powdering before I read all that stuff about Johnson & Johnson letting women get vagina cancer. I figured that it was specifically a woman’s cancer, so I kept on powdering my cakes. I had actually freshly powdered in the parking lot, juggling a chicken chipotle taquito and my member while strategically puffing the talcum powder from above. When I looked up from looking down, I noticed a man eyeing me through the scented cloud. Specifically, he was eyeing my cheap tall boys. Nobody can resist a cheap beer, especially one that makes you throw up within the same time frame of ingesting it. This guy was no stranger, as the liquor smell wafted through the light baby scent and shook it dead. I figured I didn’t need two beers, so I nodded at him, pants still down and with taquito next to penis in hand, and signaled for him to come over.
He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Where’s the party?” I laughed, thinking he must have mistaken me for someone else, and just offered him a can. I replied, “The party’s wherever you want it to be, man.”
His eyes lit up as he cracked it open and clinked it against mine. Then, his lit up eyes led to my dusted down dong. “You need help with that problem, partner?” This guy was pretty helpful, at least I thought he was.
I said back to him, “Nah, the powder usually takes care of that.” I then realized I hadn’t even offered my new friend any snacks. All I had was that dried up taquito. Before I could even finish my sentence, he eagerly leaned down to grab it. However, because he was so nice, I didn’t want him to strain himself moving back to an upright position. I humbly offered to hold the taquito for him while he took a bite. This is where I believe the miscommunication began.
The man obviously thought the talcum powder was something more sugary. There was a lot of tongue before the biting, though. But once I felt one of his loose teeth fall out and brush against my bag while he nibbled at me, I knew we had both made some mistakes. I shouted as kindly as I could muster for him to cease all mouth related actions, but he bit my friggin’ bag, and I hate bag biters. I spent 40 minutes alternating between powdering and misting before going to the store, and it was apparent that effort spent was a complete waste. My bag had been munched and I was sick of being nice to my new drinking buddy. I was starting to think he did that on purpose. When I began to confront him, he got pretty angry and rambled loudly about what my problem was. By this time, someone had come out of the store to see the source of the commotion. This is when the second miscommunication began.
I think the guy thought I was trading beer for blowjobs on the corner. He said it in more graphic terms I’m too ashamed to share. The entire time, between threatening to call the cops and recording my friend and I on his phone, he belittled my bitten bag and boner for its appearance and fresh wounds. Alternating between calling it disgusting and referring to myself as a detriment to society, he worked himself up into such a rage his face looked as red as the mouth of the man that chewed my balls. Then I was aggressively restrained and pushed into a cop car before I could eat my cold gas station snack. I was charged with nothing relevant, as it was all a huge misunderstanding. Despite the fact it isn’t relevant, I now have to let my neighbors know I’m a sex offender because I was in a school zone when it all went down. Every time a door is slammed in my face, it becomes a marker for the scowling expression of disgust on their faces. Even today, hearing a door slam triggers immense shame and guilt for the false public perception of my deviancy.
I now have nightmares every morning before work. Although I fall asleep easy, I instantly become arrested by the same haunting image. I’m in a daze, but I begin to realize I’m walking down the street. It’s sunny outside, but I feel a breeze. I look at a random building’s window and see in the reflection that I am wearing no pants or underpants. However, I am always wearing long socks and clean white shoes. I then notice there are people in the building, and at least one person inside the building looks very upset while the others laugh. The person changes every time, but they are always a stranger. Sometimes they introduce themselves as a parent trying to defend their child or some beacon of light in the torrent of degeneracy unleashed before them. Their faces are threatening to me. In the nightmare, I can tell that they are offended by more than the fact that I flashed them. For whatever reason, this nudity sparks some kind of vigilante patriotic fire within them, which causes them to, clear as day, stomp out of the building, get on their knees, and hangrily bite at my bag and boner like a bunch of grapes. They’re doing it out of spite to kill my future children. It’s like they hate me so much, they don’t want me to breed. I just stand there and take the pain, because their reaction creates almost unfathomable shame. Getting my bag nipped always surprises me. I never get to see the moment they are biting, though, because the alarm always wakes me up first. In one nightmare, an older man got upset with my nudity and removed his dentures before delivering punishing bites. I did see it. I didn’t wake up during that one.
These days I don’t sleep much. I try to avoid blinking to ensure I am always aware of another presence hungry for a sack. I missed my sister’s wedding. My mom had serious hip surgery and I can’t even bring myself to sit next to her in the hospital bed because I’m worried she’ll, like, bag tag me or something. You never know, and you know that mom’s know best. So you never know what they know best. She might just be overcome with the urge, or something, I really don’t want to take that chance and have it ruin an otherwise healthy relationship. I kind of hang out in my lazy chair, watch daytime television and tightly press a thick couch cushion over my lap. It might not be the best life, but it’s the safest life for me. At this point, I wouldn’t want it any other way. Now I just reserve a special resentment and paranoid fear of getting my bag bitten by strangers, but otherwise, I am living a peaceful life. The Xanax really helps, too.