Monday, May 23, 2011

"The Vasectomy Pact"

Our pink skin was thin and raw and wrinkled. We had been hot tubbing for six hours, soaking up our last summer together, the one before college, cooking like lobsters by the kiddie pool at the Embassy Suites in Myrtle Beach. “I’ll be living on a co-ed hall,” said Mike, “and I’m going to bone all the girls. I’ll tell them my name is Dave and say I have a record deal.” We all nodded. It was a flawless plan. “Once we’re college guys all those girls on the beach will want us so bad,” Paul said, referring to the dozens of sunbathing girls who gave us the same attention they gave pelicans. In high school we were ponies, tucking our perpetually stiff manhoods into banana peels and pillows, but in college we were going to be studs, stallions ready to mount every babe who couldn’t resist our uneducated sexuality that was finally ready to be unleashed after seventeen years of fermentation.

The sound of children overtook our gurgling tub. Four young girls burst like wild cats through the gate and cannonballed, penciled, and belly-flopped into the deep end, instantly turning still water to rapids. Moments later came a dad, weighed down with bags of beach toys and towels and responsibility. We looked him over and saw tired eyes, boogie boards wrapped around his shoulders like ammunition belts in his constant war on his daughters’ boredom, and pink towels with television stars’ faces draped over his arms. He was covered in logos, a Nascar sponsored by Disney and Dreamworks. He collapsed into a beach chair, muttered, “Girls, don’t run…” and closed his eyes. He looked like a corpse. We were silent. We had all taken Sex Ed twice. In sixth grade we laughed about the names of the double-dutch jump ropes that connect our balls to our body and in ninth grade we laughed at pictures of cauliflower-STDs that made the female crotch look like an item you'd avoid at the Applebee’s salad bar. We knew you could get a girl pregnant if you didn’t use a condom or yank it out in the nick of time and fire a bullseye onto her belly button like Scott Porter from Walnut Creek told us to do, but we had never thought about this side of sex. We didn’t think about kids, we just wanted to pull up a seat to the all-you-can-screw buffet. We fantasized about all-night championship fuckfests, not afternoons at the pool wishing for death. We must have stared at the dad for five minutes. He just kept rubbing his eyebrows over and over. When he noticed us he unwrapped the Demi Lovato turban from his leathery face, looked every one of us in the eyes and said, “Cut your balls off, guys. Cut your fucking balls off.”

Room 1602 had only one blender, so we decided to go in alphabetical order. Alan, nude, climbed up onto the counter and squatted over the clear plastic pitcher, dangling his junk just above the blades, carefully holding his penis out of the way because it would be a tragedy to hurt this penis that was so close to pleasing so many women. He was a catcher hovering his balls over home plate, a disgruntled Jamba Juice employee about to make the world’s worst grape smoothie. He gave the signal, two fingers for frappe, and braced himself when there was a knock on the door. Dan opened it just a crack, but Maria Vasquez saw enough of Alan’s stance to say, “That blender will cost $300 to replace.” Dan said, “Okay, sorry,” and shut the door. Alan crawled down from the counter. We came up with a much cheaper plan while making a round of banana smoothies.

Chris found the hair dryer under the sink. All six of us stood on the edge of the balcony with our swimsuits at our ankles and stuffed our scrotums between the rails. We passed the hair dryer down the row and heated our bags until they drooped and stretched away from us, our nuts running past the rail bars like prison escapees. Our sacks must have dangled seventy or eighty feet. Paul, standing on the far right side, reeled his scrotum over his elbow and wrist the way a roadie coils up a microphone cable until he had the whole mass in his hands. He was a mother nursing an armful of hairy pizza dough. He found his balls and we all nodded, agreeing that the time was right for our testes to die. He threw his balls over the railing and they accelerated towards earth, a pair of stinky asteroids making lightning flashes of pink in the windows of a hundred vacationing families. His nuts made contact with mine, then mine with Alan’s, then Alan’s with Chris’s, then Chris’s with Dan’s, then finally Dan’s with Mike’s, whose nuts went soaring into the air in a gasping arc until they fell again and began the cycle once more by colliding with Dan’s balls. To the kids riding skimboards the Embassy Suites must have looked like a giant executive’s desk toy, our dangling scrotums clacking into each other, transferring perpetual energy from one set of testes to the next. Each smack caused a dull pain, but with it the satisfaction of knowing that dead nuts would mean carefree lady banging. This lasted maybe fifteen minutes until the cycle abruptly stopped when an old woman on the eighth floor grabbed Mike’s scrotum and said something we could barely make out about there not being a taffy-pulling machine here when she was a girl. Mike yanked his beans out of her hands and as the sun set and the temperature dropped our scrotums rose, inverse thermometers crawling towards us containing testicles that were bruised pale and dark yellow. Sure, our scrotums looked like sandwich baggies full of Grey Poupon, but as far as we could tell they could still make us dads.

The previous three days we had eaten at the breakfast buffet at 10 o’clock, but on Friday we were there when it opened at 7:30 so we could catch the older, blinder vacationers. We all snuck under the pleated skirt of the serving table, cramped inside the pitch-dark cockpit, paratroopers anticipating the launch that would change our lives. Chris cut the six holes in the table with his Scout’s pocket knife, then stabbed through the piping hot chafing dishes. We knew our targets were probably deaf, but we stayed silent under the table. Our check-out was in two hours and we were determined to return home sans testicles. I gave the signal. We rolled over into handstand position and stuffed our balls through the holes and into the serving dish full of hard boiled eggs. We were acrobats in top form and now we just had to wait for the audience to come in. Mike was the first to get a bite. He winced at the tug, bit down hard on a spoon, then looked relieved as he rolled right-side up and stuffed a wadded-up napkin down his pants. One by one we each got chosen, our burden of potential fatherhood relieved of us by the hungry seniors of Myrtle Beach. We emerged from the table with bulges in our pants, wads of bloodied napkins exaggerating our manhood, and saw six visually-impaired elderly women peeling, salting, and nibbling on our fertile nuts, alternating bites with sips of grapefruit juice.

We walked out of the hotel with off-balance limps and the confidence that only comes with a promise of a lifetime of responsibility-free fucking. “What girl wouldn’t do us?” said Dan on the drive home. “We can’t get them pregnant. We’re dildos that can take them out to dinner. I bet I nail five the first week.”

Sixty years later we all died at our high school reunion. We formed a human pyramid to impress some old flames into having sex with us when our brittle bones snapped and we collapsed into a heap of dead old virgins. It was only produce and socks that had ever pleased our lonely sterile penises, left on stage to sing a capella, ditched by their rhythm sections, their backup singers. We avoided parenthood and we never became the man weighed down by the accessories of his coitus. We stayed carefree eunuchs with successful careers, but did we ever become men? We thought that the only way to take the weight off of our shoulders was to take the balls out of our sacks. We wanted to bang girls but the thought of caring for little ones was too much to handle back then when our nuts were holding us back instead of driving our lives forward. We did succeed in never having kids but what we didn’t know then was that the best way to prevent a pregnancy is to mangle your genitals so badly that women would rather take you to the doctor than have sex with you. Don't feed your balls to old women in Myrtle Beach. Ladies aren't aroused by empty beanbags.

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