Here in my pants

Five years ago when I started this thing I didn’t know what it would be. Just knew I wanted to write some shit. I read other blogs.

I saw an educational blog called “My vag.” Every one of this woman’s blogs had to do with her vagina. There’s a lot to say about the orifice, which Wikipedia describes as “a fibromuscular tubular sex organ that is part of the female genital tract.” 

There’s all these parts you learned about in ninth grade Health class – labia majora (inner part), labia minora  (outer part), which I guess was shown in Bernardo Bertolucci’s final film, The Dreamers. Roger Ebert gave it a rave review.

It was quite personal, this gal writing about her vagina and all, but a blog can have that kind of intimacy. I’m reminded of a 2008 episode of House where Laura Prepon played a patient who blogged everything about her life except her bowel movements. Now Prepon, who I’ll always know as Donna from That 70s Show, plays a prisoner on Orange is the New Black. Her character is a lesbian. “Haven’t you ever gone down on a girl before?” she says in one episode.

Which leads back to the vagina.

For my readers, I try to be honest and real about my life. If terrorists kidnapped me, stripped me nude and poured hot liquid lead down my keister – in effect, giving me a hot lead enema – I’d tell you about it.

Ball sack blues

We were at Fratelli’s Pizza at the corner of Fifth and Main – me and my co-orkers Hank and Jace.

“I have jock itch,” I said.

 “You poor thing,” Jace said.

She’s a kind, nurturing, sensitive type.

That’s what I assumed the incessant itching down below was. Maria told me it was probably jock itch and gave me cream to apply to my balls.

I’m susceptible to sweat rashes when I work out. For two days after being at the YMCA, I had this constant itching on my scrotum. Maria gave me different creams, but nothing worked. It became a familiar scene around the house. The family would be in the living room, watching TV, playing on DSs and phones and there I’d be with my hand in my pants, furiously scratching the never ending itch.

“Did you wash your hands?” they’d ask.

The Masturbating Bear

At work, when no one was around, I would sneak my hand under the desk, into my pants and scratch the evil itch, hoping nobody would catch me and report me as a weirdo. When I went to pee, if nobody else was in the restroom, I’d stand at the urinal, and as soon as I undid my pants, before I peed, I would rapaciously scratch. I looked like the masturbating bear from The Conan O’Brien Show.

I’d be with my family in Wal-Mart or Target.  I’d look for an isolated spot with no people or cameras – perhaps a place by the bread aisle where I could secretly bring myself relief. I was always afraid someone would catch me, that I’d get arrested and it would in the papers and social media about how I was a pervert. Such a thing happened to a well-to-do business man in Wichita three years ago. Said he was just adjusting himself.

I finally made a doctor’s appointment. “What are we here for today?” she asked.

“I have this rash on my scrotum. It’s migrated down to my inner thighs and to my anus. I’m in agony, itching all the time.”

“I think I know what it is,” she said, then looked at it and told me it was a fungal thing. She prescribed this gel to put on the area twice a day. Said I should be okay in a month. She was so sweet about the whole thing. I picked up my medicine at Cooper Drug, here in my hometown of Jett, Kan., (pop. 4,000 in the ‘70s).

It’s like a burden’s been lifted, telling you about my personal pain.  It’ll soon be over.

I value the loyal readers of this blog – all five of you. I hope none of you ever have a fungal, itching thing in the crotch area.