Of Testy Times

Getting hit in the balls – every guy has been through that at least once in their life, if not more. I myself can remember three of mine. And it’s nasty, I tell you; nasty as hell. And that isn’t even the worst bit. What makes the experience all the more unpleasant is your usually loyal friends’ unwillingness to drop everything and come to your aid with, if not an ice pack, then at least a shard of sympathy. But no. The moment that taped-tennis ball (yeah, that’s how we play cricket, us real men) takes an odd bounce off the tarmac and smashes you in the jewels, or you run crotch first into the corner of your work-mate’s desk, or your ex-wife’s bitchier best friend decides to deliver some vigilante justice via her knees, your friends, even the closest ones, break into a fit of laughter. And it’s not just a chuckle or mild giggle followed by them rushing to help you. It’s one of those uncontrollable, keel-over-and-drop-with-legs-spasming laughs which (pain ignored momentarily) make you look back and examine that friendship on a larger scale. It always messed me up. I always wondered what it was that would turn my nearest and dearest almost against me, and send them over to a dark side where my busted nuts were a source of amusement. And then, one day, Monty got it in the sack. And I understood. Monty and I had been out for a few drinks that evening. Boys’ night and all. Or at least, that was our excuse to the wives, I’m not sure. A fairly dull night at the pub, crowd-wise, especially considering it was a Wednesday, and 11pm at that. We were at the bar, pretty much by ourselves when Monty excused himself in order to visit the urinals. In his minute-and-a-half of absence, three rather nice looking girls (okay, only one was nice, the other two were just basking under the bright rays of here hotness, and not pulling it off too well!) took to the bar stools a few feet away. I watched Monty walk back towards us in his usual slumbering posture, only to notice his desi belly suck in and chest pump out as he spotted the trio not far from us. “Two more Stellas” he yelled to the barkeep, which was odd since we were sipping Mojitos. He hadn’t even reached the bar yet! Perhaps it was the residual moisture from the wet men’s room floor on his shoes, because as he stepped on the footrest of his bar stool to swing into a seated position in one swift movement, his foot slipped and he landed, balls-first, smack on the fake leather seat, legs apart. His usually sleepy eyes were suddenly about to pop out of their sockets as the pain sped through his groin, radiating and pulsating out of the center of his nuts. It didn’t help that he also lost his balance and was struggling to stay standing. My last mouthful of drink, mint leaf still intact, sprayed out while I brought my palm to my lips to stop it. My hands, the bar counter and Monty’s shirt were hit the worst. As I prepared to explode into a fit of loud laughter, the remaining liquid in my mouth got sucked in and forced me to choke, albeit only momentarily. And then it happened. I burst out into a knee-slapping, tear-inducing chortle of sorts, one that took over my entire body and left me figuratively orgasming in utter joy. Monty, only inches away and writhing in pain, watched me in horror. His eyes gave off a look of disappointment and eternal sadness mixed with rage (as mine had on a few occasions) as he felt the sharp jab of betrayal rip through his heart. Although you may feel that the entire anecdote has been over-sensationalized and somewhat dramatized (let’s face it – it has), I must add that it was only to make way for a sad but true realization. We, you and me and everyone else, take immense pleasure from the pain of our near and dear ones. That doesn’t mean we’re ready to party when one’s beloved uncle passes away, or one gets run over by a truck, or one gets a limb amputated, but, you know, the small pains and troubles of others provide us humans with those little joys that we so crave. Mind you, no amount of watching random idiots getting their balls chafed in bicycle accidents on YouTube has brought me even a fraction of the pleasure I felt when Monty got it in the nuts. We are a sad breed, I tell you. An evil one. Deep inside all of us, a little demon leaps in victory when someone we know and love, but secretly loathe for whatever reason, lands themselves in a small situation of temporary discomfort and pain. Think about it. Especially you, you single and available girls who just can’t find Mr. Right. When that hot guy your fat friend has been dating drops her like a hot tater, you may run to her to provide comfort, but you secretly breathe a sigh of relief, don’t you? A little imp version of you is doing the Rumpelstiltskin dance, isn’t she? Same goes for all of us. We are evil on the inside. There’s no good in us. We inappropriately find amusement in our friends’ woes. That, plus – and I’m trying to say this with a straight face but can’t – watching someone getting smashed in the nuts right in front of you is fucking hilarious.

Note: Monty recovered by the next day, thanks to a bartender who provided plenty of ice. The girls who caused all this also managed to spray some martini on to the back of Monty’s shirt.