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Playing with your balls can be a great pastime, even when you have to do it all by yourself. Granted, it’s not as much fun and not nearly as energetic as when there’s another person…or several…involved in the activity but, in a pinch, it’s a terrific way for any guy to spend a lazy, Sunday afternoon. Hell, for that matter, it’s a great way to spend any day of the week. No special equipment is necessary, no uniforms are required, and there’re certainly no dumb-ass rules to just bog things down, like ‘illegal use of hands’ or ‘no excessive time outs‘. Okay, maybe there’s one; I can see where there might be a penalty for ‘unnecessary roughness‘…unless, of course, that was all part of a particular guy’s original game plan. Let’s face it, some people just need a firmer hand than others and a little physical force can go a long, long way.

God must have done a great deal of thinking before He settled on the exact placement of the human male reproductive organs or He just might have thought it would be wickedly funny to leave things dangling out in the wind because, as I see it, the arrangement is kind of strange. Don’t get me wrong, I like being able to reach down any time I want and shift my boys around to a more comfortable position or just check them out every so often to make sure they’re still happy campers but do you know how often during my lifetime I’ve had to flinch or throw a protective hand downward in defense? A lot…and I’m not all that old.

The male reproductive organs are, pretty much, a bull’s eye for any kind of terrorist attack…and I’m not thinking about the Al-Qaeda sort. No, you know the type I mean: little kids wanting a cheap laugh, irate ex-girlfriends carrying grudges, criminals looking for an easy escape…all of them fit into that category. I think it’s one of those rules everyone seems to learn when very young in life, like ‘be respectful’ or ‘never talk to strangers’ and, oh, yeah…how about ‘don’t forget to knee the nice man in the nuts’ while you’re at it. Golden rules, my ass.

And when the temperature takes a nose dive and the snow begins to fall, they suddenly start looking pretty much like they did when I was just a kid. Let me tell you, gazing at yourself in the mirror and seeing your nuts and bolt reduced to the size of a freeze-dried version of its former self is just plain scary…and embarrassing as hell. I don’t think many females actually realize how much shrinkage truly occurs during times like that. A quick dive in a pool of cold water…or the icy splash of a woman’s drink tossed directly in the face…can start an involuntary exodus of monumental proportions.

Okay, think of it this way: Florida is the dick of the Nation and…

What? Oh, come on, it’s just an analogy. I’m trying to make a point here, so lighten up and just use your imagination.

Anyway, Florida *represents* the dick of the Nation (is that better?) and, when an artic blast sweeps down from Canada, the entire state attempts to pull up roots and head north, trying to settle somewhere in southern Georgia. It’s too tight and too confining to be comfortable for everyone involved and all Florida wants to do is head back to its original position so it can dangle out in the warm ocean waters and bask in the bright, golden sunshine. That’s pretty much what it feels like when the old bat and balls decide it’s too cold to play outside.

On the other hand, God’s arrangement has several nice perks, too, but the one I’m mostly focused upon right now is simply playing with my balls. Because of their easy access, it’s one of my favorite pastimes. Has been since I was a kid. I learned real early in life that nothing feels quite as good as massaging the old nut sac…and nothing could drive my mother more bonkers than seeing me do it.

I swear, that woman had some kind of Spidey-testicle sense or something weirdly similar and could detect when I had my hands down my shorts, even if we weren’t in the same room and were at opposite ends of the house. It was like she possessed a nad radar, operative at all times, and I found myself going to extreme measures just to fly below it. Damn woman almost took all the fun out of it. Almost. She even wore out my best wooden ruler (the one I sometimes used to measure my growing dick), smacking my knuckles each time she caught me in the act, trying to get me to stop. Good luck with that, Mom.

The hell of it is, I usually wasn’t, like she believed, actually jerking off when she’d launch her surprise attacks. That came later.

My cousin Sophia was the first female, that I can remember, to touch my dick and balls. I was eight or nine and she was about the same age but, back then, we were both more interested in seeing the differences between our bodies than trying anything sexual. Hell, we were way too young for that kind of activity anyway. But that sure didn’t stop us looking our fill at each other. We would giggle and whisper and carefully inspect each other under the covers with a flashlight, when sharing a bed during large family gatherings at holidays or reunions. I don’t know why we weren’t more shocked during our early discoveries but we just kind of took it all in stride, as most kids usually do when they’re young and investigating new territory. I *do* recall not being too impressed with what she had to show me because, frankly, there just wasn’t all that much of her for me to see on the outside…not compared to what I had to show her…and those early experiences happened years before I learned that females actually had a sweet, juicy core that was far more appealing than Sophia’s pale, bare, *totally* flat skin.

By the time I did start masturbating, Sophia was well out of the picture and suitably into the array of boys she saw daily at the school she attended or drooled over while watching MTV. Plus, there was the whole she’s-my-cousin creep factor that still, to this day, gives me a shivering chill when I think about what we did with each other. I loved Sophia but I sure as hell did not think of her like *that*.

I started fantasizing about girls right around the time I started masturbating. Imagine that. I’d think of a particular girl I’d seen…most of the time from real life but, sometimes, from the movies…and just go to it, yanking and pulling and jerking like a young fool. Back then it really didn’t matter how fast I came because I could always get it back up almost immediately. My dick became my new, favorite toy and, to make it even better, I still got to play with my balls at the same time. I could jerk my dick with my right hand and roll my nuts around in the sacs with my left. I tried to be ambidextrous a couple of times and that just led to more practice and more ball playing. It was great.

Well, as great as any adolescent could make it.

I dreamed a lot during my early teens, my sleeping hours full of lurid, vivid, startling visions, and most of them revolved around my dick and balls. Big surprise. I remember dreaming of having sexual encounters with all kinds of different people, in all kinds of different ways, even though, at the time, I’d never actually ‘done the deed’ with anyone but my own hand. But, boy, I sure had a good imagination. I dreamed frequently of girls and boys my own age and, a couple of times after I’d attended ‘grown up‘ parties with my parents, I’d even had dreams of being with older men and women.
*That* had been a real eye-opener…and not something I could talk openly about with dear, old dad.

Yeah, he probably would have shit his pants if I’d ever confessed my dreams to him, especially the one I had after spending a good portion of a day on a school trip to the local zoo. Our chaperones had immediately known they were in trouble when we’d approached the first exhibit and had come upon two apes just banging away, in plain sight and right in front of everybody. Most of the girls in our group had blushed or squealed and had instantly looked away but, hell, that had been as close to pornography as most of us boys had ever seen and we weren’t about to avert our eyes and miss anything. Oh, hell, no. The adults had tried to hustle us on but we’d dragged our feet and watched, mesmerized by the quick, jerking motions of the male as he fucked the smaller female…from *behind*… his wet, reddened dick just sliding in and out of her pussy, and all I could do was stand there, my eyes glued to the sight, and get a boner. Later that night, I’d had a dream of hot, nasty, monkey sex…literally. Just me and the ape and a whole lot of hair.

Yeah, dad would have shit all right.

Don’t get me wrong, he’d done his best to set me straight about how I needed to take care of my body and be very mindful of how I used it when intimate with females but he would have never discussed anything other than the usual male/female configuration or the necessity to wear condoms every time I screwed. Sure, I realized he hadn’t wanted me to catch any kind of dick-rotting disease or, God forbid, AIDS, but I always suspected he was really more concerned of some unplanned pregnancy popping up to shame him and spoil the family name. If he’d only known how many chances I took with my body as I grew up, he would have shit… and then had a coronary.

I seem to be losing my train of thought. Where was I? Oh, yeah…playing with my balls. How could I forget?

The thing about my balls is this: when I’ve got the time and a little privacy, the slow, gentle stroking or the lazy, soft rolling is pretty damn calming, almost soothing. It’s a lot like stress relief.

I think I may have given the wrong impression and made it sound as if I’m a compulsive crotch grabber but that’s not the case at all. I can control it. It’s not a habit, like nail biting or hair chewing, where I suddenly find my hand has unconsciously wormed its way down into my pants. It’s nothing like that at all. Or, at least, not now. When I was younger? Oh, yeah.

Now, I don’t have to worry about my mom and her nad radar rudely interrupting. I can kick back and just enjoy the solitude…or I can share the experience with someone else who appreciates seeing me sliding my fingers all over my nuts. You’d probably be surprised how many seem to like it. Or maybe not.

I had a kick-ass girlfriend in college who really got turned on by watching me sit across from her in one of those armless, straight-back chairs, with nothing on but a pair of loose, stretched-out boxers, and slowly play nice with my balls. Kind of strange, I know, but she had other kinks that were even more odd. But this was a favorite of mine because, sometimes, she liked to direct me with words, telling where to lift and touch myself, how much pressure to use when rolling and fingering, working herself into such a state that she’d be so wild and wet that, when she was ready, she’d just rip the shorts right off me and slide right down my stiff dick, straddling the chair and mounting me like she owned my ass. She’d ride me hard, using her strong calves and thighs to rise and fall, snapping her hips forward so sharply I sometimes imagined her motions would break the chair right out from under our bodies. It never happened but I still dreamed about it.

Afterwards, she’d slide from her sticky perch and ease herself downward, pushing my trembling legs wide apart, and slicking my sensitive, highly satisfied dick up into her hot, wet mouth. She liked to taste herself on me and, frankly, I *really* liked that she did. And, then, she’d go lower. God…

When her lips finally reached my nuts, I went…well…nuts.

Playing with my balls was good but having someone else doing it for me was almost heavenly. Besides, I was never limber enough to get my own dick into my mouth, no matter how hard I tried to do it when I was a more flexible, young kid. What she did went beyond pleasurable and, sometimes, bordered right on the edge of pain. I never realized how closely those two sensations ranked until she started on me with her mouth, killing me slowly with wide, moist licks and short, probing jabs of her tongue, painting my balls with her saliva. If she kept at it long enough, we’d eventually fall into the nearest bed and go for round two. Almost no one could get me going like she could.

Which brings me to my present situation.

I’m laying on Gibbs’ big bed, flat on my back and rolled up onto my shoulders, knees pressed next to my ears, and almost in tears. I’m being held in this position by a strong arm across the backs of my thighs…and there’s a mouth roaming around my nuts like its getting ready to devour them. It’s a bit of a chore trying to breathe evenly in this configuration but, hell, I don’t care. All I care about right now is the way Gibbs is making me see stars and, let me tell you, there’s a whole galaxy of them overhead.

I never dreamed, in a million years, that I’d be doing this with Gibbs. Correction: I never *allowed* myself to dream this. I use to lay my head down each night on my pillow and focus my rambling thoughts on anything I could, as long as it wasn’t him, purposefully trying to coax my dreams toward other subjects. And it had worked…

..until the day I saw him staring at my crotch.

Okay, just hold that picture in your mind for one moment. My crotch, Gibbs’ eyes. Staring. Lots and lots of staring. And then… are you ready?…he licked his lips. Licked. His lips. While staring at my crotch. I kid you not.

That was all it took.

Whoa! Gibbs is going to town on me now and has one of my balls sucked up into his lethal mouth, his wicked tongue sliding round and round my tender jewel and stealing my breath even further away. There’s a persistent finger rubbing even smaller circles over the shallow hollow of sensitive skin right under my sac and the dual sensations are sending me straight into orbit.

Oh, look…there’s a super nova now.

The shift from staring at my crotch while at work to licking my balls here in his bedroom just kind of happened naturally. We were both unattached, we both liked the idea of having someone available to share in a little stress relief, and we both knew how to keep our personal and professional lives separated. It was convenient, it was satisfying, and it certainly filled a need in both of us. And, let’s face it, the man’s not too shabby to look at either.

Watch out! Gibbs is finished paying homage to my balls and is heading toward my black hole now, so it won’t be long before he launches his probe. Get it? Black hole? Probe? Oh, come on…I’m trying to keep the space allegories rolling along with this little accounting of my life but you’ll have to lighten up and hang with me in order for it to work. In the end…well, *my* end…it’ll be worth it, I promise.

The thing about anal play is it was never something I’d given much consideration about as I was growing up or, as you might have imagined, dreamed about. Yeah, I know. I’ve certainly had my share of wild, nocturnal visions but I actually didn’t think about tongues and assholes going together, at least, not until Gibbs came onto the scene. Yeah, I know. That’s pretty late in life for such a revelation but most on my prior male encounters were more of the temporary kind and they just didn’t readily lend themselves to that type of activity.

Okay, you want the truth? Well, here it is: The first time Gibbs and I got together, he started razzing me about the obsession I seemed to have, in his opinion, with my balls. We were half-smashed and sprawled out on my couch, partially watching the end of some basketball game on TV and partially eyeing each other up when he abruptly made that proclaimation. Of course, it might have had something to do with the fact that I’d had a hand on my crotch at the time but I can’t be sure. I do remember grinning sloppily at his accusation and, in the comfortable, mellow, haze of my alcoholic buzz, told him to just kiss my ass.

Well…

He’d given me one of those long, piercing, all-accessing stares and, then, just suddenly reached out and snagged me by the front of the shirt, easily flipping me over and handily stripping my jeans from my legs. I don’t know how he’d managed to do it because I thought I’d been putting up a pretty good fight, wriggling and sliding and evading his holds, resisting as best as I could.

Did I mention we’d been drinking? And eyeing each other up? That might explain how easily I caved.

At any rate, that little kiss he’d delivered to my ass had included some serious tongue action and taken me to a whole, new world. He’s reamed me good, Frenched me from behind, and opened me up to a brand new universe…Gibbs style.

Speaking of that particular ass-tronaut.

Okay, even I groaned a little at that remark. I must be getting close to the end of my wits if I’m making that kind of lame pun. If I mention anything at all about Uranus, you’ll know my brain is officially fried.

Gibbs has his dick all slicked up and positioned and I’m watching and waiting for his final approach with high expectations. As strange as it sounds, being fucked by him has, so far, been the highlight of my sexual career. I know part of it is due to all the experience he brings into the relationship…the dude’s got four former wives and a multitude of ex-lovers…but I also believe he’s got the same frame of mind as I do and that just adds doubly to the pleasure.

And speaking of pleasure: Houston, we have lift-off…

Ah, hell. Gibbs is fucking me good now, sliding all the way in and then all the way out…slowly. He’ll do this for a while and then go into overdrive, ramming into my ass and shoving in as hard as he can. He knows I can take it; hell, he knows I want it like that.

You see, come morning, when I struggle to find my way out from under the covers and take that short walk to his bathroom, I’m going to want to know this is all real. I’ll be worn out and sore and I’ll, probably, walk around like an old man for a while. I’ll still feel Gibbs in my ass, I’ll remember his mouth on my balls, and, when I look in the mirror over the sink, I’ll see his marks upon my skin…

….and then, maybe, there’ll be no reason for me to have to dream again.


END