blue balls and other phantom aches

It’s hard to say whether I never saw him again because I put his name and phone number in my little gold book even before I met him, or if my putting his name and number in my book was merely coincidental to my never seeing him again. I recall with the white cold light of morning that the moment I wrote his name (I’ll call him “John Doe”) and his number (I’ll say it had a 201 area code) in my book, I had a feeling that I oughtn’t. I had a feeling that doing so would be tantamount to a death sentence. I had a feeling, in short, that I was jinxing myself.

I begin this story at what appears to be the end because appearances are often deceiving, or they are at least as often as they are not. So my decision to write John Doe’s name and 201 phone number in my book was both the scratchy-silent death knell to our nascent relationship and it was not, if I may be elusive, and I think I may.

I met John online, as I met so very many of the men I’ve dated, fucked, fallen in love with and those dystopian states somewhere inbetween. I met him nigh on to a decade ago, certainly while I was in grad school, certainly while I was stripping. I can’t remember which site we used, or what we said, or how we became virtually connected, but I do remember that I found him to be a bright and shiny imaginary object that seemed to meet the criteria for a man in whom I would be interested, and I was most decidedly looking for a boyfriend. I was not, at this point in my life, searching for a fuckbuddy, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I was, I remember, looking for a man with more weight than the floating ephemerality of a fuckbuddy. John—witty, funny, and cute (or so his pictures suggested) seemed to fit the hefty boyfriend mold.

We met at a bar near me. We had red wine, a couple of glasses, and we talked. The conversation was sparkly. If we’d been in a cartoon, little shiny star would have gamboled about our heads like sparky puppies. But we weren’t in a cartoon; we were not bound by little black-limned boxes or the authorial intentions of others, and we returned to my apartment and made out on my big white bed.

We kissed and touched. Our bodies, being those of consenting adults, wound around each other’s as bodies are wont to do. We engaged in passionate frottage. We did not, however, undress. I might or might not have raised my top; my fake and spectacular breasts may or may not have been exposed to John’s eyes, fingers and lips. Being of age and relatively sound mind, we made the choice to make out, and we did so in all of the make out’s attendant adolescent splendor, rolling around my bed, swapping copious amounts of spit, dueling tongues like swords in an Errol Flynn film, and rubbing our clothing-clad moist and tumescent bits against one another’s thighs and covered genitals.

It was slurpy, hott fun, to my thinking. I like making out in general, and I enjoyed making out with John in specific. I felt as if things were going swimmingly, thank you very much. However, I was not going to fuck this man, I had decided, not that night, not yet, not now. I wanted time to make sure that I wanted to fuck him, and this steamy make out session was suggesting to me that in time, I would, but not that night, not yet, not now.

John, however, had other ideas. He began to unbutton his pants. I stopped him. He began to ask for it. I demurred. He began to whine for it. I recoiled. He began to pull out the big guns.

“But I’ll have blue balls,” he said, pouting.

They don’t exist, I said. He averred that they did. I imagined his testes turning a delicate shade of teal. I was only mildly disquieted.

Go home, I said. Masturbate, I added and laughed. I saw his problem as most distinctly not mine, and most clearly his. I felt no compunction turning down his generous offer to get him off and saving him from the balls of blue. I kissed him good-bye, smiling, and sent him off sulking into the silky night and home to his 201 area code.

I never heard from him again.

Living in a city as geographically small as Gotham, I remain shocked how rarely I run into people I know. Manhattan is a tiny island—only 22.7 square miles—of which only about one quarter, say six square miles, is strictly fashionable; however, over one-and-a-half million of us people live here, so I suppose it’s not really shocking how rarely I run into people I know.

What is shocking is how I run into the same people. I’m not talking about people who live in my neighborhood, because one is supposed to run into neighbors. I’m talking about running into people whom you ought not to run into, those who live far away and those whom you run into often and pointlessly and everywhere. John, the man with the blue balls, is one of those.

I have run into John multiple times. It turns out that he’s fucking an acquaintance of mine, and so we have run into each other when she is present. We have also run into each other on the street, though I have deftly avoided him, his notice, and his awkward conversation. Most recently, I ran into not him, but his book, when a friend tossed it into my beach bag.

Oh, I said to my friend, that’s the guy who complained I gave him blue balls, and then I told her, as I’d told him, that blue balls don’t really exist. She nodded gravely, but she was high, having just smoked a joint with her French boyfriend, so she might have been nodding at something else, or perhaps just to be polite.

It turns out, I was wrong. There is indeed such a thing as blue balls, and it happens, according to several websites, when men are subjected to prolonged sexual excitation without release. Apparently, this condition can become rather painful, feeling as it does like, as some websites averred, being punched in the stomach, only from the inside and prolonged over a few hours. According to another site, “some boys try to use this as an excuse to coerce girls into sex, often lying about experiencing it.” In any case, masturbating or, failing that, some physical exertion will take care of the problem.

I don’t know whether John Doe of 201 was lying or not about his azure/turquoise/cerulean state. I do know he was attempting coercion. I certainly know that whatever his state may or may not have been, I wasn’t responsible for it. Sure, my body was hott but only semi-available. Sure, I was kissing him and rubbing his clothed flesh with mine. Sure, we were both consenting adults and we were on my bed at my invitation. But John’s hard-on was no more my responsibility than mine was his. I probably masturbated after he left. I most likely thought of him. I didn’t complain about pink ovaries, the female equivalent to the masculine blue balls.

After the second or third time I ran into John at some event, he emailed me. He told me he liked my writing and he suggested that I’d been rude to him. He said he wished to make peace, and he offered that in his memory, he had just not called because there wasn’t any spark between us. “It just wasn’t happening,” he offered, or something along those lines.

For years after that date I wondered why he didn’t call me. I felt actual pain over it; though not in my phantom testicles, I felt blue. I wondered for years what was wrong with me that this man with whom I felt all kinds of shiny-sparkly-glittery had chosen never to call me again. It took me years to realize that the problem wasn’t mine, it had never been mine.

Maybe John didn’t call me because I didn’t fuck him. Maybe he wouldn’t have called me again even if I had fucked him. In the long run, it matters not, for he showed himself to be a man I didn’t want. The man I want to be with doesn’t whine, doesn’t coerce, and most certainly doesn’t blame me for his own priapic state. I just wish it hadn’t taken me as long as it did to realize that I had every reason to reject him, and absolutely no reason to feel badly that he had rejected me.

Comments

[jsull]

haaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
thats funny
i never had em and always thought that was a coersion tool myself
funny story
love your take on things
jsull

[mark]

obviously he had no right to use blue balls as an excuse/coercion tool like that...but at least let's cut the guy a little slack. i've had blue balls. it hurts.

[The Fury]

I too have had blue balls, but didn't use the situation to coerce. In fact, I wasn't sure that it indeed was blue balls until I released the tension. The funny thing about Gotham is you never run into the people you'd like to run into...until the exact least opportune time.

[Rich]

Yes, they do hurt. But, you should have just told him that you were into SM and that he'd have to get used to having a little pain in the balls if he was going to be seeing much of you. After all, hasn't he heard of CBT?

A more interesting phenomenon than blue balls, I think, is what happens if the man is repeatedly aroused without release for some period of time. This can result in a kind of seminal leak, a little bit of sticky prostatic fluid that can be milked out, sometimes with a pleasant near-orgasm that doesn't result in a full ejaculation.

It doesn't sound like your "John" would have been much interested in having you play with him in this way. Too bad, you might have been able to make him happy to have blue balls for you.

[Juno Henry]

You know, I always love reading your stuff. (Pardon me lumping together so much articulate literature under the unpre-possessing header of "stuff".)

And then, every so often, I read a piece that makes my inner bits that like feeling warm and fuzzy jump up and down with joy, as they feel their desirede state of warmth and fuzziness return to them.

This piece was one of them. I love how it's all about the empowerment. You help make me feel good about myself in so many ways -- and I am eternally grateful.

And that's why i keep readin'.

Kisses,
Juno x

[chelsea g. summers]

Juno,

It's funny--I hadn't really figured out what bothered me about that whole exchange, and therefore why I had held onto being angry for almost a decade, until I wrote this piece. I'm glad that I could make another person go Ah! over my long-latent angst.

I suppose I can now be cordial to this guy when I run into him again, though now that I've figured out what I'm feeling, I probably never will.

cheers,
chelsea g

[Southern]

In my younger days I have experienced the pain of "balls of blue", however I never blamed the state on the lady I was with at the time. I do remember, in high school, a young lady who loved to make out, kiss, touch and carry on, she always wore panty girldes (should that be one word?) and I she wore them like a chastity belt. Whenver she had them on, blue balls was sure to be an accompanying state.

[Orv]

Oh yeah, "blue balls" is a very real thing. Protracted sex play not going anywhere, I can remember barely being able to walk. Until I took matters in hand, as it were.

The solution is, right there in your hand. There has been that much play and arousal, it is going to take like a few seconds to "clear the pipes."

Actually, I do think that it is a little rude and inconsiderate of females, at least those who grok what is going on, to enjoy hours of titillation without consummation, but that is just a matter of politeness. It is stupid coercion, and far worse, for males that have willingly participated in the whole thing to try and use their condition to get laid. Because the solution is at hand boys, and are you really sure you want to continue a relationship with a woman that does that to you?

[chelsea g. summers]

Orv,

With all due respect, I didn't "do that" to this guy. I made out with him. I have made out with many men. None but this one ever complained of blue balls. If this guy has a history of getting blue balls, he should know. He should take responsibility and not whinge at the girl with whom he's making out and expect her to "take care of it."

What this post was really about, and I hate to explain the subtext, was my feelings that there was something wrong with me for this guy not calling. I really beat myself up about it.

This guy was a jerk to me. Maybe he's generally a jerk. Maybe he's not. I really don't know. I am happy to realize, however long in the realization, that for whatever cluster of reasons that this guy chose never to call me again, that none of them had to do with me.

cheers,
chelsea g

[sm]

How very Grace Kelly of you, CG.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uzA0nG_PurQ

[Orv]

CG, you don't have to explain anything, I got it and get it. But as a guy who has been on the opposite side of the table, I thought I should say something. Mostly, that Mr. Doe's conduct was wrong. But also that genital pain in males after prolonged arousal, while no excuse for demanding anything, is in fact a very real phenomena.

Teasing and playing with hearts and prostates is fine and good, but it is not without consequence, for any gender, and perhaps shouldn't be undertaken too lightly. By any gender.

But under no circumstances or in any way is anybody ever ever obligated to have any kind of sex with anyone, no matter what, and should not ever be made to feel in any way bad about it.

So yeah, Mr. Doe was a jerk.

[dirty filthy princess]

What a great ah! moment. You are absolutely right. You were under no obligation to have sex with him and I think it is wonderful the way you responded to his whiney attempt to coerce you out of your clothes. Just because you kiss and roll around with a guy doesn't mean you have to have sex with him.

[Marcelle Manhattan]

Whether blue balls are real or phantasmic, I'm not sure it matters. I always tell girls who take responsibility for them: "This guy has a hand, and he knows where the bathroom is." I mean, really. Come on. The point of this post (seems to me) is that a girl so often takes responsibility for a guy's "interior problems," when in reality they have nothing to do with her. Certainly, that's something women are socialized to do, and it's really harmful and unnecessary. Thank you, Ms. Summers, for having the insight and the--well, balls--to call it out.

[C]

I know John Doe. I didn't know John Doe 10 years ago, but I have known him for the last year. And the John Doe I know would not coerce and is quite genuine and caring. Maybe he grew up. Maybe you taught him something. Who knows.

It seems to me that what really matters for you now is that you don't feel badly anymore about what happened....because as everyone has mentioned, you shouldn't (and should never have). But you did and that sucks. Glad you are starting to feel not-so-badly about it.

Hope all is well with you,
C

[ATLLG]

Interesting read.
Very happy I followed a couple
of links to find you.
I'm sure I'll return. But for
now I think my balls hurt and
it's all your fault!

[Anonymous]

Ack, I'm sad to say I've used that one myself, but not since I was a teenager.

It's not that I don't get blue balls anymore, but hey, if my partner's not interested, I don't press her. Usually I politely ask if it's alright if I take care of it myself. Haven't gotten a "no" yet.

[BlueBoy]

I had a similar issue with a girl once. We met in a bar had a glass or two of wine. We decided to have dinner together.

My favorite restaurant is in my building so we went there, unfortunately the restaurant didn't have a table available until 10:30. I had fresh shrimp, pasta and cream in my apartment so I invited her up. We laughed, we flirted; it was a wonderful evening. However, I was not going to feed this woman, I had decided, not that night, not yet, not now.

We had another glass of wine while I cooked. While I was draining the pasta, she set the table for two. I told her I was not going to feed her, not tonight. She whined, "But I'm hungry." I told her she wouldn’t starve and that she could stop on the way home for some fries.

I was shocked that this woman never called me. I have seen her a few times since and she has been pretty rude.

[chelsea g. summers]

BlueBoy,

You know, you're so right. I absolutely should have given that man an orgasm after making out with him. After all, I was the one who inflamed his senses; it was I, in effect, who cooked his shrimp. It was the least I could have done to peel it. Gosh, had I only recognized then that it was only good manners to indulge his clearly honest and straightforward request, I no doubt could have saved myself a decade of self-recriminations. I now realize the full implications of my woeful lack of politesse.

In fact, there's a lesson for all women every where to learn from your clever gastronomic analogy: if we can't stand the heat, we should just stay out of the kitchen. Once we begin cooking with fire, we surely must go whole hog or be ready to suffer the very righteous consequences.

Mea culpa and thank you so much for setting me to rights,
chelsea g.

[BlueBoy]

Did you at least see my point going by?

You don't have to give him an orgasm, but it is petty for you to expect him to call you the next day if he didn't like the way you treated him.

If you're not obligated to fuck him, he certainly isn't obligated to call.

[chelsea g. summers]

No, BB, you're right: John was not obligated to call me. Nor was I obligated to donate an orgasm to him. Neither one of us was obligated to be polite, accommodating or even barely civil to one another. It was, after all, just a first date.

Once again, this post was much more about how I beat myself up over his not calling than it was the fact that he plead blue balls or that I didn't opt to alleviate said blue balls or even that he didn't call. Perhaps that emo point wasn't as crystal as I might have made it, or perhaps it's just less interesting than the whole blue ball debate. It is, however, my lesson from writing this post. Others can take from it what they wish.

chelsea g.

[Julian]

"Blue Balls" is just the physical frustration you a person feels whenever they get really worked up over something that doesn't happen but of course, because it has to do with the penis, it gets elevated to this mystical, pseudo-scientific status.

What I find really horrific is that I've know women with older brothers who told them their entire lives its their duty to sexually service any boy who pulls out this lame excuse. That's just fucked up. Its juvenile enough to throw away any chance you have with an interesting partner through that brand of selfishness, but to raise your own sister to deny herself sexual agency because of it; people sure can be despicable.

[Marcelle Manhattan]

Well said, Julian: it's got nothing to do with biology and gets "elevated to mystical, pseudo-scientific status." That's what I was trying to say, too, to back Ms. Summers up. She should not have to reiterate her subtext (which has now become text) multiple times. We're talking about a metaphor here: blue balls. The reality is the internal frustration of expectations which every person--male or female--often has in a dating scenario, due to their own internal issues/desires/complex network of cathexes/whatever. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: women are conditioned to "read" that metaphor as literal, to hypostatize it as something harmful they must never do: frustrate a guy's expectations, fail to fulfil his ideals, be they physical (in the case of blue balls) or emotional (e.g., he's really hurt me, but I'll just keep my mouth shut and not cause a scene.) This is indeed fucked up, and the fact that posters here are having trouble reading the metaphor shows just how engrained this pernicious form of reading is for women. CGS, you rock for bringing this discussion up! This is why I read you.

[chelsea g. summers]

Marcelle,

Agreed. Julian is my hero. Thanks for the mad phat props. I appreciate the free validation more than you know.

kissykiss,
chelsea g

[Chris Kraft]

What stuck me most profoundly about this story was how long it took for you to get over this incident. It was one date and I'm sure on an intellectual level you knew this guy was a putz. But that didn't help you forget the affair quickly and go skipping merrily on your way.

I can so relate.

I dated a woman in college for three weeks. Three weeks. She was a drug addict and a narcissist and I knew it. She left me for some greasy theater major (nothing against the theater, it just conjures an image) and it took me no less than two years before I could declare myself over it.

Then, just recently, eighteen years later, I dated another woman (on and off for two years) who was clearly insane. I didn't love or respect her but when she left me I was devastated. It's been a year since that one and I still think about it several times a day.

Why do these things malinger for so long? I feel like a freak who can't just "get over it." Why do these rejections by obviously shitty people hurt so badly and hang on so long? People say "it's your ego" but that never seems to help. They say it like you've got a hair out of place and when you smooth it down you'll be all better.

Thoughts?

I love your blog. You are a major talent.

Chris Kraft