IT'S A DROOPY AND CRINKLED BALLBAG NOW that looks like it's spent too much time in the sun. It's more sack than bag, in fact, and dappled with grey and silver pubes. Looks quite distinguished in my humble opinion, and Judy's too. She's always said she'd like to rip it open and make a pair of testes earrings, and knowing her like I do, I think she would, given the opportunity and a carpet knife. You should see her with a precision drill. Frankly though, I'd rather keep them in the bag, at least until I reach the hereafter, amen.

Before I retired and the pressure was on at work, I often didn't have time to empty my ballbag and it would fill up nicely. Packed with seminal sauce, those balls of mine swelled in size from quail to chicken egg, to the point that I'd have trouble juggling them in one hand. These days the doctors say not emptying the old sauce is a health risk, but since I retired I've had lots of time to whip it out before it turns rancid and bitter and poisons my prostate. It just goes to show, science can be fun.

Balls in a bag, what an idea. It's got to be the pinnacle of intelligent design, but I didn't always think so. I felt inhabited and violated when they dropped into place, like I was host to a UFO. Things would never quite be the same again. Prior to this I was just an ordinary soccer-playing choirboy with a sunny disposition and angelic countenance. Then, hey presto—there they were, what a shock, and on exactly the day they asked me to leave the choir. Coincidence? I wasn't so sure. And I wasn't giving up on the choir, not without a fight. But try as I might, there was just no way I could hit the super octaves on Ave Maria, not even when I squeezed them real tight, or twisted them left and right. Not even when I wrung my ballbag like a cloth. I'd end up coughing and spluttering and feeling dizzy. It was over, over! Heartbroken, I had to accept it and move on. Welcome aboard, I said to my new passengers, welcome aboard.

Difficult days. For a while even my place on the soccer team was in jeopardy. Training was painful. Here's me (and my balls in a bag) bearing down on goal, just the keeper to beat, and they're going thack-thack-thack-thack from the inside of one thigh to the other, thack-thack-thack-thack. Boy did it hurt, but not nearly as much as the riling from Coach for having missed a sitter. He really let me have it with his 'damn you chicken-liver-pussy', which was just fine, but saying I had no balls was a step too far. Balls in a bag, Coach, that's what I got, just take a look. 'Well, I'll be a doggone! So you have son, so you have!' He made me captain on the spot. The rest of the team said it was no big deal, that they had balls in their bags too, but when Coach invited them to 'put up or shut up' they got cold feet. Circling me, and peering this way and that, everyone agreed that balls in a bag were the way to go, that aesthetically they were most pleasing to the eye. Coach, using his pen to lift my wiener, pointed out the just-arriving pubes, which I myself hadn't even noticed. He really knew his stuff, did old Coach. 'Try this for size,' he said, and threw me the jockstrap. I'd never been so proud. Not only was I a jock, but now I was the first jock on the team with a strap. It was weeks before Lou Ferguson got his. 'You say you got balls in a bag?' Coach would say. 'Prove it!'

It was shortly afterwards that one of the balls went missing from my bag. I have no idea which one. I checked everywhere—under the bed, school bag, fridge. I prodded my underside, nothing; I just couldn't locate it. It was gone and I wasn't sure how to feel. Shame? Embarrassment? Foolishness at having lost it? I checked the fridge again. No. Whatever else I could say, one thing was sure: With balls in a bag, there was never a dull moment.

'You wanna rejoin the choir?' said Coach. 'Now, why in the hell would you wanna do that? Lemme see you walk a straight line!' Good old Coach, he really knew his stuff. It hurt when I moved quickly, suddenly, or any damn way. Short, sharp shocks, ow-ow-ow. 'Son,' said Coach, 'let's go see Nurse.'

And that's where I met Judy.

Lucky for me it was Wednesday and Nurse finished early because I wouldn't have wanted anyone with a beard tugging at my ballbag. Judy had me fixed in no time. She told me later, much later, years later, that I was her first case of floating testicle, but I never would have guessed at the time. She had magic fingers. All I heard was pop; it didn't hurt a bit. Well, okay, it actually did hurt, a lot. Until I showed up that day Judy had only dispensed aspirin and applied an occasional dressing. I was her first. There were lots more after me, but mostly they were faking. They'd form a line as soon as Nurse's car was out of sight. Judy told me to come back for regular checkups because floating testicle was a chronic condition. There was no telling when it might strike, but preferably on Saturday mornings when there was no one around, when she wouldn't be distracted and could focus on the task at hand. 'Prevention,' she said, 'it's the way to go.'

After graduation I went to State to study Engineering and was surprised but oh so very happy that first day when I heard from behind me, 'Hey, how they hanging?' Yup, Judy. She'd been promoted to Assistant Head Nurse. What are the chances? It was a total coincidence, as, coincidentally, was her moving to Papua New Guinea five years later, where I was blasting for the mine. She was doing postgrad Geology studies. 'Rocks are another world,' she'd say. I felt a twinge and gave her the look, the one that said I'd felt a twinge. 'Well now,' she said, 'I'll soon take care of that.' You should have seen the collective expression of those hard hats when Judy told me to drop my pants. 'Just don't get the wrong idea, fellas,' I said. 'It's a medical condition. Now go on, get out of here.'

Judy reckoned my ballbag needed constant supervision, shiatsu even, the works, the whole nine yards. We married shortly after, for the sake of convenience more than anything else, but that doesn't mean I loved her any less. By the time she'd finish oiling and massaging my ballbag, and trying whatever latest craze from whatever medical journal, we'd actually become quite intimate. I guess it was to be expected. And then she'd have to drive five miles of dirt road back to her place? It didn't make sense. It wasn't like being alone in a foreign country was the only thing we had in common; we had history, we had balls in a bag. 'They're as much mine as yours,' she'd say. 'You wouldn't know how in the hell to take care of them.' I'd just chuckle. She was right. I mean, there was no way I could juggle them in my mouth.

After Guinea, the mine sent me to Brazil, where we've lived ever since. I retired a couple of years back and built a house on a hill overlooking the ocean. It's beautiful. Judy's now a full-time jewelry designer. It was inevitable. She's got such a fine touch and exquisite taste, not to mention all that experience with stone. I know where she's going with this though. She's joked about those testes earrings for years, and I know she keeps an organ donor form in the kitchen drawer beneath the guarantee for the dishwasher. It arrived a while back in the post and she scurried it away. 'It's nothing, hon, girl stuff.' I'd say.

We never had kids. 'If it happens, it happens,' Judy would say, but it didn't, and isn't likely to now, but that's okay. It's not like we really tried; it wasn't our number one priority. Fact is, our bodily fluids seldom meet. When they do though, it's fun, don't get me wrong. Not to mention all that one-way traffic relating to my condition. Could be I got a low sperm count, or shoot blanks. No idea. It might just be the case that my guys aren't strong enough swimmers. Wouldn't surprise me one bit, nothing would. Judy says my ballbag's got a mind of its own. Who knows? Well ... if anyone, it's my Judy.


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