At age eighteen I was certain my life would come to a horrible end.
A continuous pain in my right ball was the culprit. For six months I told no one, wore new looser underwear, took long hot baths and enjoyable self massages, but nothing worked. A fear of going to the doctor, and the dread of anyone seeing my fat body naked, kept me from seeing a doctor. Then one night I happen to watch a movie about a world class runner who was stricken in his prime with something called testicular cancer. He suffered a horrible death, after they cut off the cancerous ball.
I was not one to cry after a movie, but late that night, I cried like a baby, all alone.
The next day I looked in the phone book under “testicles,” but no doctors were listed. I didn’t know what to do, and I finally confided in my wise buddy, V____, at school.
V____ said, “go see Dr. Krotchy.”
“Hey, man, this is serious! I might have cancer”, I said.
“No, that’s his name, for real. If you need your balls cut off, I would call him,” he said.
I found his number and set up an appointment. He was an old man, and, peering over his glasses at me, he said, “How can I help you young man?”
I told him that I had an ache in my right testicle. He said, “I will have to examine you, so turn around, pull down your pants, and put your elbows on your knees.”
The doctor was a long-fingered man, and no one had ever prodded and squeezed my body like he did that day. After a long hand-washing, he sat back behind his desk and said, “Stephen, I think what you have is what we call a ‘nut ache.'”
I had just told him I had a ache in my ball– Why go through the rigorous examination?
“You mean, it’s not cancer?” I said.
“No, it’s not cancer, and it is not something I could take care of,” he said.
I left his office feeling a little better but quite confused.
It wasn’t until a day later that my wise friend V____ told me that I had to jerk off, wax my candle, spank the monkey.
So my pain was taken care of, late at night, all alone.