There is nothing larger in the world than a visible testicle in polite company.
A few years ago, I was visiting a friend named John. Another friend of mine, Tom, was there. It was a hot day, and Tom was dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of cut off shorts. Shorts that would prove, in the long run, to be disastrously incapable of doing their job.
During the visit, John's parent's stopped by. John's dad works in the insurance industry (although I try not to hold that against him), and he and his wife are regular churchgoers. In fact, John Sr. is a deacon in his church. He's the type of man who wouldn't say feces if his oral estuary had been used as a port-a-potty by a herd of incontinent roadies. His wife is much the same, only stupid.
To complete their triumvirate, Mom and Dad had brought along Oma (which is a short Dutch word meaning grandmother, used by Dutch people and Canadians who are too lazy to say the word "grandmother"). Oma was a very, very nice lady, who also shared her son's aversion to articulating slang terms for excrement. Unlike her son and his wife, she was also very nice.
So, I sat on the couch with Mom and Dad, while John sat on the loveseat with Oma. (The last five words in that sentence, by the way, would be an excellent title for a good Dutch porno). Tom sat on a chair, facing us all. We sat, we chatted, and we had a wonderfully nice and polite conversation.
After a while, I turned my head, and noticed that Tom's left testicle had managed, like a clever convict, sick of being held in his dark and dank cell, to break free from its restraints. It was now airing itself happily, resting against his thigh, and free for all to see.
Naturally, my first impulse was to say something along the lines of "Hey, Nutty McLeg-meat, how about shoving the meatball back into the pot?" - or words to that effect. But then I thought about John's Dad, Mom, and Oma. If I spoke thus, I would certainly bring the errant, free range testicle to their attention.
So I was paralyzed by indecision. Nothing in my previous existence had prepared me for this eventuality. Oh, sure, I knew exactly what to do if I accidentally spilled sodium nitrate* (thank you, 12th Grade Chemistry!), but I did not know how to handle an exposed testicle. Surely, at some point in my life, someone should have taken me aside and prepared me for this possibility. But, alack and alas, society, school and church had failed me.
I checked out the faces of those around me. Was I the only one who knew about the de-trousered crotch nugget, or had the others seen the meat? One by one I carefully scanned each face, but failed to spot any signs of distress or shock. Seems I was the only one in the know.
Or was I? Suddenly it occurred to me: how could Tom's leg egg possibly be hanging out without his knowledge? Surely he would have to notice! The pressure of it squeezing between his leg and his shorts must be noticeable! If not that, then surely the feeling of the air conditioning blowing freely over his left sperm factory must be a dead giveaway.
You have to understand; I am not claiming that Tom would deliberately display his family jewel for all to see. However, if you knew Tom, you would know that this was not entirely out of the question. He was just that kind of guy. The kind of guy who would go to take a shit, leave the bathroom door open, and talk to you, while he ate a peanut butter sandwich. He was that kind of guy. The kind of guy who must might pop a gopher for his own amusement.
I sat there for about twenty minutes, making polite conversation with Mom, Dad, and Oma, while Tom's wrinkly pink change purse was in view. After the first glance, I did not look at it again. In fact, I did everything humanly possible to avoid it. But I was aware of it peripherally. It was in my field of view, and no matter where I looked, it was there, in the corner of my eye, pulsating evilly like one of the eggs from Alien.
At this time, there was nothing in the room that could distract me from that chunk o' butter. If you doubt me, try it sometime. Have someone pop out a testicle in polite company and see if you can ignore it. I'd be interested to hear the results of that experiment.
Eventually, it came time for the visitors to leave. Tom, like the rest of us, stood up to say goodbye, and the fuck puck slid back into its home. After the folks left, I couldn't even bring myself to mention the incident. To this day, I do not know whether Tom was aware of his indiscretion or not. I really wasn't sure how to ask.
All I know for sure is this: no man ever wants to be involved in a conversation with another man when the topic of that conversation is his testicles.
* What to do if you spill Sodium Nitrate: Remove all sources of ignition. Ventilate area of leak or spill. Wear appropriate personal protective equipment. Clean up spills in a manner that does not disperse dust into the air. Use non-sparking tools and equipment. Reduce airborne dust and prevent scattering by moistening with water. Pick up spill for recovery or disposal and place in a closed container. Small amounts of residue may be flushed to sewer with plenty of water