Look at the Balls on That Thing
Look at the Balls on That Thing
How one Comment Became a Life’s Obsession
Webster defines Fetish as “A form of sexual desire in which gratification is linked in an abnormal degree to a particular object, item of clothing, or part of the body.” Based on a casual comment heard while on a high school field trip, Julie develops a lifelong obsession for testicles. Here is her story:
I had always been a good student throughout my high school years, and by my senior year, other than the required fourth year of English and the state-required civics course, I already had enough credits to graduate. So, to fill out the rest of my school day, I signed up for Distributive Education, or DECA as it is more commonly known. The class teaches business principles to aspiring young entrepreneurs such as marketing, administration, finance, in addition to hospitality and tourism. But the real beauty of the course is that we are only required to attend school half a day and then work a part-time job for the rest of the day.
Now, to be honest, I wasn’t planning on a career in business or even majoring in business in college. But I was getting tired of attending school all day, and the part-time job was a great source of money for my other interests, like shopping, horseback riding, and saving money for a car.
And another benefit that I wasn’t expecting was an out-of-town field trip. Our local DECA chapter had raised lots of money from holding various marketing events throughout the year. And as a special reward, our class sponsor arranged for us to all take a four-day trip to New York City. This was absolutely amazing, as I’d never been to New York, I’d never been on an airplane, and the most exciting thing of all was that I’d never been on an overnight trip without my parents in my entire life.
I was a little nervous about asking them, as they had always been very protective of me. And generally, my parents wouldn’t let me do anything fun. But I had already turned eighteen, and if they didn’t let me go, I was fully prepared to throw the biggest hissy fit they had ever seen. Luckily, it wasn’t necessary, and they actually seemed fine with the whole idea. Besides, our sponsor was going, as were several other parents, so we were to be very well supervised.
Once in New York, we visited all of the usual tourist sights, top of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and of course, since we were all pre-business students, the Financial District and Wall Street. And surprisingly, this is where one of the most memorable moments of the entire trip happened. About a block south of Wall Street, there is a small public park, known as Bowling Green at the very foot of Broadway. And on the sidewalk, as the park forms a small triangle, is the famous ‘Charging Bull.’
The ‘Bull’ is a popular tourist destination that draws thousands of visitors every day, as it has become a symbol of Wall Street and the entire Financial District. The larger-than-life bronze sculpture is touched and rubbed by almost everyone that stops to see it. And over the years, the nose and the tips of its horns have been polished smooth by the touch of thousands of admiring hands. Plus, one other personal location on the bull that certainly surprised me.
“My God, look at the balls on that thing,” Nikki screamed, as she walked around to the back of the sculpture. Everyone within earshot of her turned to look, and I have to admit, I looked too. I knew what ‘balls’ were from high school biology class, but I’d never actually seen any. And as Nikki was older than me, I assumed she probably knew them when she saw them. I quickly glanced around to see if any of our chaperones were paying any attention to us, and when I didn’t see any adult eyes looking our way, I quickly moved to the back where Nikki had been standing to get a better look for myself.
To my shock and awe, Nikki had dropped down onto the sidewalk and was crawling underneath the sculpture — I assumed to get a better view. Just as the nose and tips of the bull’s horns had been polished shiny bright by the hands of thousands of tourists, by comparison, the bull’s nut sack was even more lustrous. In fact, they actually glowed with the oil from years of being handled by throngs of admiring sightseers.
And I assumed Nikki was only going to add her touch to those glistening bovine nuggets of masculinity. But once underneath the magnificent seven-thousand-pound edifice, it was clear that she was either going to lick them or even kiss them. But before her tongue or lips could make contact, our sponsor caught sight of what she was about to do and screamed, “Nikki, no!”
The class was laughing, as were other tourists standing nearby. But unfortunately, it brought this segment of our trip to New York to a close. We were quickly shuffled on to Wall Street and a prearranged tour of the New York Stock Exchange. Which was all very fascinating. But that image of Nikki under the bronze bull, and what she was about to put her eryaman rus escort lips on, was forever seared into my brain.
From that day forward, I couldn’t get the thought of the male ‘hangy-downs’ out of my mind. And as I walked the halls at school during the day or lay quietly in bed slowly rubbing myself at night, I kept wondering, so what do a boy’s balls actually look like? I’d never seen a boy’s balls — not even my brother’s. I didn’t babysit much, and I’d never changed a boy’s diaper, so I suddenly realized that I had no idea how an animal’s testicles compared to the human nut sack. Suddenly this became my new obsession. I knew my brother would never show me his. Besides, he was already away at college. So, I resolved that I’d just have to find out for myself.
Brad Zimmerman — he’d always seemed interested in me. And now that I thought about it, I’d always been casually attracted to him also. Besides, I was now a senior in high school; I was already eighteen. So, for God’s sake, it was about time I got interested in boys. Monday morning, I started flirting with him, and things seemed to pick up from there.
By Friday, I figured if he didn’t ask me out, I’d invite him to the stable to meet Duke. Duke was a twelve-year-old gelding that my parents had bought me when I was a freshman and was stabled about a mile from our house. Saturday morning, Brad met me at the stable, and I borrowed another horse so we could go riding together. That would certainly put me in the mood, and hopefully, it would do the same for Brad.
What I didn’t count on was that Brad had never ridden a horse in his life and how differently boys and girls are built. What had always been pleasurable to me was apparently physically excruciating for him. I guess where the female anatomy is molded to comfortably fit the horse’s backbone; the boy’s anatomy must have been the exact opposite. After only thirty minutes in the saddle, I could tell he was in agony, and it wasn’t another five minutes before he sheepishly asked if we could head back.
So much for that idea — but it only made me more curious as to what lay beneath the zipper of a boy’s Levi’s?
Brad went straight home after our abbreviated ride, and I envisioned he probably spent the rest of the weekend with his scrotum on an ice pack. But apparently, no permanent damage was done. For once back at school on Monday morning, he was still friendly, and when I tried to apologize for his ‘uncomfortable’ experience, he assured me he was okay. However, I realized that if I wanted to get his pants off, riding horses was probably not the way to do it.
Two weeks later, Brad invited me out on our first official date. It was a party at the house of a girl we both knew. It was widely acknowledged that her parents would be out of town, which seemed perfect, and I waited all week in erogenous anticipation for the opportunity to finally get my hands on a set of human balls. Now keep in mind, I wasn’t trying to get laid. I was still a virgin, and I was okay with that. I liked Brad alright, but I was still new at this whole sex thing, and I still wanted to take that part of our relationship slowly. At this point, it was still more the satisfaction of a biological curiosity than a desire to have a steady boyfriend.
At the party, things seemed to be going pretty well. Brad was very attentive to me, a pretty good dancer, and within an hour or so, we were outside in the moonlight sitting on a lawn glider and making out like the two horny teenagers we were. After just a few minutes of passionate kissing, he started running his hand across my boobs, and I did nothing to dissuade him. He then reached up under my shirt and slipped his fingers under my bra — again, I offered no objection.
I could feel him searching for the bra snap — first in the back and then in the front — but there wasn’t one as I was wearing an athletic sports bra. So, to help him out, I pushed the cups up so that my tender eighteen-year-old titties were free for his exploration. And explore them he did. While continuing to kiss me hard, he began slowly running his free hand up and over each boob repeatedly, only stopping occasionally to tweak one nipple or the other.
If you counted the horseback ride as our first date — he had already made it to second base on our second date, and there was little doubt he was ready to keep moving forward — or downward in this case. The combination of the intense kissing and Brad gently but eagerly playing with my titties certainly had me worked up. I knew I was ready for more — so I dropped my hand onto his lap and started rubbing. I could immediately feel his hard-on, and it was getting harder and harder with every pass of my hand.
As one of his arms was tightly wrapped around my shoulder, his only available free hand was currently caressing my boobs. Realizing that he had permission to explore further south, he quickly dropped his hand to my lap and began to rub. Jeez, that felt nice. But unfortunately, ankara etimesgut escort bayan I was wearing shorts — hot pants. They looked great when I was standing or dancing, but now that we were so fervently necking, how was he going to get his hand inside? I knew I should have worn a skirt, but it was too late now.
I scooted down the seat of the glider as much as I could without breaking our lip lock and sucked in my tummy. This gave Brad just enough room to slip his hand under the waistband of my shorts and panties. He wasted no time in going straight for the good stuff. Soon his fingers were exploring my ‘short and curlies’ and moments later probing and spreading my virgin pussy lips. Though we were still engaged in serious face-sucking, I managed to ooh and aah enough to grant him permission to proceed, and soon his fingers were slippery wet with my pussy juice as he safely slid into third base.
I felt I was on the right road — oh My God did it feel right — but my primary interest still remained on that uniquely male appendage that I envisioned hanging and swinging freely between his legs. I wanted to touch his nut sack, to feel his balls in my hand, and hopefully to actually see them before the night was out. I just had to fondle those precious jewels with my own hands so I would know what they were really like — it was driving me crazy; I just needed to know.
I tried unbuckling his belt, but that was way beyond my technical expertise. As we were still passionately sucking face, I was working blind and really didn’t know what I was doing anyway. Sensing my frustration with his belt, he removed his hand from my panties long enough to unbuckle the offending accessory and unzip his fly. This pause in the action also gave me a few seconds to unbutton the waistband of my shorts.
This being accomplished, he quickly returned his hand to my panties, allowing me the opportunity to eagerly begin my own journey of exploration. I now ran my hand under the waistband of his underwear and touched a penis for the first time in my life. It was so exhilarating I can’t even begin to describe the sensation, and it must have been enough to get me even wetter than before, as Brad now had at least two fingers deep inside me, and I think he was going for more.
I tried to run my hand further into his pants as I was still looking for those precious nuggets that I knew were located somewhere between his penis and his ass hole — but I was stymied at every turn of my wrist by his tight jeans. Again, he sensed my frustration, and removing his hand from my panties for a second time, brought his pussy soaked fingers to my lips and said, “Let’s move upstairs; we’ll be a lot more comfortable.”
Now was the moment of truth. I knew that if we went back into the house, and especially if we found an empty bedroom somewhere, my virginity was over. I’d get his pants off so I could get to what I wanted, and he’d get my pants the rest of the way off so he could get what he wanted. And he wanted to fuck me — there was never any doubt about that. But we’d only been dating a few weeks, and I wasn’t sure if going all the way with this guy was a good idea or not. I’d already let him get to third base — and I loved it. But maybe I loved it a little too much.
With his wet fingers still lightly pressed against my lips, I slowly shook my head no.
“No?” he exclaimed. “You can’t get me all turned on like this and then just throw cold water all over me.”
I looked him straight in the eyes, and in the dim moonlight of our friend’s backyard, I said, “Brad, I really like you, but I know that if we don’t stop here, we’ll end up going all the way tonight and I’m just not ready for that.”
“You’re not ready, Julie? You’re eighteen years old; you’ve got to be ready,” he begged.
I knew I needed to apply some feminine psychology here, so with big doe eyes, I said, “Brad, I’m still a virgin, and I’m nervous — I need to go slow, and if you really like me, you’ll understand.”
It worked like a charm. Brad withdrew his hand from my lips, hugged me, and said, “Okay Julie, I really do like you too — I understand.”
I knew he didn’t really understand, but it was a stopping place and that it temporally allowed me to remain a virgin for at least a couple more weeks.
Of course, the real issue wasn’t my virtue — I was more than willing to sacrifice that. It was the whole pregnancy thing that had me nervous. I was pretty sure Brad didn’t have a condom on him and probably wouldn’t have volunteered it even if he did. Boys don’t get pregnant — only girls do. And again, I liked Brad alright, but I was no more comfortable with his integrity than I was with any other boy in our school.
So, after waiting several days, I approached my mom about allowing me to go on birth control. Jeez, what a mistake that was! And I thought I had come up with the perfect cover story. I told her my periods were very irregular and very painful and that gölbaşı rus escort bayan birth control pills would help even out my periods and would also help reduce my cramps. I also told her that “all the girls do it” (another big mistake), and I even mentioned that the school nurse recommended it.
The school nurse part was a big fat lie, and I just had to take the chance that she wouldn’t call the nurse to check up on my story. But a lot of good it did as the whole conversation was going nowhere fast. I might as well have told her I was running away from home to work in a Nevada brothel.
My leash suddenly got a lot shorter and a lot tighter. I was still seeing Brad and my parents correctly assumed the issue of birth control centered on our budding relationship. And, of course, they were right, but I would never have admitted that to them. So, their attempt to slow my sexual maturity only made me more determined. As the days and weeks passed, I spent more and more time with Brad, and I became more obsessed than ever in discovering those precious jewels that I knew lay just inside his pants.
Brad and I quickly realized that the easiest way to see each other outside of school was for him to take an interest in horses — which, not surprisingly, he did. He would meet me at the stables in the afternoon and help me feed and groom ole Duke. Then we would quietly slip away up into the hayloft over the barn. Our necking and petting sessions carried on for several more weeks but getting each other’s pants off proved more of a challenge as I couldn’t get him to commit to use a condom.
Frustrated by the whole situation and knowing full well that I’d have to start all over with another boy if I didn’t do something fast, I went for the time-tested solution — ask a girlfriend.
I wouldn’t call Nikki a slut — but I was pretty sure she had passed the virginity milestone and would likely have some suggestions. We weren’t exactly best friends, but after our experience together in New York, I figured we were close enough friends that I could trust her. The following day I caught her alone in the girl’s bathroom and told her the whole story. How Brad and I wanted to move forward in our relationship, but that I was worried about the whole pregnancy thing and that he wasn’t comfortable committing to wearing a condom. I told her he equated it to ‘taking a shower wearing a raincoat,’ and we had not been able to find a middle ground.
Nikki laughed and nodded knowingly.
“So, what do you do about birth control?” I pleaded.
“I swallow,” was her immediate reply.
“You swallow?” I asked with a dumbfounded look on my face.
“Yeah, it’s easy,” she said. “Look, whereas girls have hundreds of emotions, boys only have four. They’re either bored, hungry, sleepy, or horny. And when they’re horny, all they care about is getting their rocks off. They don’t care where they spread their seed, just so long as they get to spread it between a girl’s lips. And they generally don’t care if it’s the horizontal lips on her face or the vertical lips between her legs. So, if the guy won’t wear a rubber — I just suck him off, and then we’re both happy.”
“Huh, isn’t it dirty?” I asked. Unfortunately, I could hear my mother’s voice as the words left my mouth, but it was too late — I’d already said it.
“No, of course not,” she replied. “If the guy has taken a shower recently, and not fucked anyone else in the meantime, it’s no dirtier than kissing.”
“Well yeah, but he pees with that thing,” I said.
“Don’t be such a fucking prude,” she scolded. “You piss out of your pussy don’t you — and I’ll bet you wouldn’t mind some guy licking that until you scream.”
At that point, I’d never had my pussy licked, but I have to admit I was already pretty sure I’d like it. “Okay,” I said. “So, then what do I do?” I was starting to get the idea, but I still had questions.
“Well, once he has his pecker out and you don’t see any protection lying around, you just start stroking him — with your hand. Sometimes that alone will do it,” Nikki said.
“You mean you let him come in your hand,” I asked.
“Yeah, of course, and for some guys, that’s enough. That’s called jacking him off or a tug job,” she said. “But most guys want to at least get a blow job.”
I knew what she meant; I wasn’t that naive. But to be honest, it had never occurred to me that I had all these options. “Huh, well okay, so how do I do it?” I asked after a ‘pregnant’ pause. Again, I knew what she meant — but I was getting aroused just hearing her talk about it — so I wanted to hear more.
Concerned about our privacy in the girl’s bathroom, she motioned for us to step outside. Once outside the building, we sat down on a bench in the shade of a majestic oak. I think talking about the whole process was as stimulating to her as it was to me and as we got comfortable, she began with, “Well, you just gently stroke him for a minute or two, you’ll know if he wants you to go down on him. Then just bring your face down to his dick, kiss it, maybe lick it a couple of times, and then just slowly slip it into your mouth. Use lots and lots of spit, and then just gently suck as you bob your head up and down. I know it’s called a ‘blow job,’ but you’re not actually blowing him — you’re sucking him off.”