Goes down to the thing.
Bores.
Cock.
Cocket balls.
A man's prized possessions.
Sacred treasures.
Family jewels.
They go by many names, but whatever the moniker, the relationship between a man's genitalia is sacrosanct.
They cannot be piloted, except by a violent act of force.
Anyone remember John Wayne Bowett?
Yeah.
Did I say born?
Cock.
Bores.
Bores.
They just go together.
Roll off the tongue.
A mouthful.
Distinguishable and yet simple.
Adjectives, superlatives, erectives.
You get the picture.
On average, guys fantasize about using their tools at the trade every seven minutes.
And I'm no exception.
And when a guy I was keen on presented the idea of a date on a Friday night somewhere,
I knew the tools would potentially leave their toolbox.
I've been chatting with this guy on Friday.com for like a week.
He was sexy, playful, cute, cocky, pun on town.
And taller than me, but not too tall.
Always a prerequisite, my friend.
Finally, it was time to meet him in the flesh.
And I hope the night would end with his feet on the ceiling.
Don't let disdain smear your lips.
I'm just shooting straight.
Hard on city, here we come.
But work in Singapore is a merciless beast.
No love lost, only time taken.
And on this particular Friday afternoon, it'd be a flurry of meetings, talks, strategizing, and mobilizing.
I planned to meet my date at 8 p.m. sharp, city leisure.
But it was 6 plus and I was still knee deep in my desk.
Scramble, dash, swerve, tap.
I made it to the MRT by 6.20.
Ty, don't foul me now, Boonevista, City Hall, Somerset, Coverage, home.
This was not going to be a hard-ass effort.
This first date needed the expert done.
It had been a diet of born-in-cleanings for the past month, but tonight was going to end differently.
As I reached the apartment and stripped off, I realized, it might be neglectful.
My toolkit was not exactly ready to wear.
Streamlining was required.
But how long would it take?
I'm an unwarwhore!
This needed serious attention and stead.
Manscaping, clippering, trimming, or removing.
A manicure for the modern man.
An act born of the metrosexual or just an act us adults do to relive our youth.
Its benefits supersede the time and effort taken to do it.
At least my cough a little bit.
The shower was running, steam was rising.
I stood naked before the mirror, looking at my tools wrapped in a woolly charm.
But was it adult size or kids size?
Did it matter?
It's fine, I tried to reason with myself.
As the hands of my five dollar IKEA stick-on shower clock claimed 717.
I needed to be out the door in less than half an hour.
I rolled my balls in one hand for one last evaluation.
Am I being a show?
Hello, does pugilus make it the man?
The answer came to me almost biblically.
The biblically.
The answer came to me almost biblically.
As my fingers parted the organ, the sea of my scrotum, to reveal a single white hair.
Razor gel, leather heat.
I decided not to go the hallway.
That would require time.
Time I did not have.
And an eco-max gaiting service.
Home improvement, not demolition.
A bit here, a bit there.
Go with the hair root, not against it.
As I never gave the blame on its quest.
The bathroom had grown mist.
Caked steam.
The image of the mirror was no longer discernible.
It didn't matter now.
Time was rooting for me.
726, get that?
Rooting.
726, the home stretch.
I washed the blading in.
I wanted to make this quick.
I poured in my whole sack.
Not as bad as I thought.
A few well-placed strokes should do the trick.
One, two, three, four.
I looked down to admire my handiwork.
But my view was clouded.
I watched as a blotch of inking crimson
snaked its way to the chimney.
To the chimney.
Another.
Then another.
Drip.
Drip.
I went shot, baffled.
I raised my hand still clutching the blade.
I've left my body.
But then my body left me.
Before me, embedded between the sharp blades.
A sliver of my scrutiny.
Ah!
A thin, flimsy, flat flesh.
Delicate the eye.
Tugged at the skin.
Trying to pry it from the razor's vicious grasp.
Shribbort.
Dippelot.
Bloodied.
Morched.
There it was.
My man with my finger.
Lest in a centimeter in length and yet mammoth in the power of an arrow.
I gingerly lifted my sack and saw blood
trickling from a wound in my right forearm.
Normally nonchalant with a sack of blood,
my stomach was starting to turn.
I felt the color leave my face like a faucet on form.
My family jewels had been tainted.
Spoiled, slashed.
I'd made a complete ball out of my balls.
Blood continued to blot and pull at my feet.
My legs forgot to falter.
I stared at the estranged flood of skin I used to call my scrotum.
As it crung liftily to my finger.
My eyes rolled back, my hearing was muffled.
Then curtains seemed to suddenly sharp the light.
Curtains!
I woke with a start.
As my body became aware of the once hot shower had now run cold,
well, Singapore's version of cold.
I'd fallen, but it seemed like my body had realized
my sudden defeat to gravity and tried to soften my descent.
I turned my head and saw the sharp faucet was only an inch or less from my head.
A vision of my death struck me.
A man timely demise flashed over the front page of the straightest times.
Well, made page two of my forerunner, not that important.
A bloody young war found naked in his bathroom,
sans the scrotum.
I blinked away the thought and looked at my missing piece.
And it gone.
My man would have been lost down the toilet drain.
Down the toilet, down the shower drain!
Damn it!
The clock read 7.43.
I've not been out for long.
My sack was still ebbing, blood, so I pulled myself up.
A sharp paint like glass splinters scraped across the blood path between my legs.
Who would have gone to a deserveous abuse?
I began to clean up.
My blood and toilet paper onto the throbbing bull sack.
And I grabbed a towel.
I could still make a mistake.
15 minutes late, 20 max.
Well, I would tell him, was this a valiant act?
Would I get bald sympathy?
Dressed, hair done.
I left the house with toilet paper still attached to my scrotum.
It turns out, balls really bleed.
And I thought I was the drunk.
I whist in retrospect.
The glass splinters relayed their message of agreement.
My stomach tightened again.
Cock.
Balls.
Slipped.
Sculpt.
I cut too close.
Too close for comfort.
And you asked me, was there a silver lining?
No, my dick is fucking shit.
