We, the student body, take balls for granted. They’re not always going to be so perky, you know. One day they’re going to be hanging around your partner’s knees, and then you’ll wish you could still pretend they’re not even there.
Dearest Carrie Bradshaw of “Sex and the City” fame put in her two cents. She thought she had it all figured out, that “balls are to men what purses are to women. It’s just a little bag, but we’d feel naked in public without it.” For a while, I didn’t get it either. It’s more than a bag, but it took me a while to learn this.
My relationship with the family jewels started with my younger brother. Stop it. Don’t be gross—it wasn’t like that. We were fighters, not lovers, and that meant a swift kick and punch to the nads to liven things up. At one point, he started running away from me with his hands cupped over his crotch. I hope he won’t hate me when he finds out he can’t reproduce.
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