Thank you for being perfect. You were pretty neat when you were just a small, grabbable peapod. I could run faster, for one, and cute Superman underwear was easier to find. But now I have grown into a man and thrown boyish balls away.
No, not literally, never would I actually throw you away. I want to keep you always between me. You are bountiful and buoyant and brazen and brawny and all the other adjectives that start with the letter “b,” burly, bucolic (when I take you out to the country), yes a bit brackish, bouncy and boisterous and blithe but never burdensome, oh sure maybe you are bumptious, are you even bilingual?, bicameral (you could pass laws within your two branches), often bewhiskered, and beneficent and beguiling and bawdy, and I don’t care, who can you not be, my captain my captain, my balls.
Everything about you, I love. I don’t remember when, but one day I woke up and there you were, so big and perky and fresh. I don’t mind bragging, that’s what you are. I peeked down in my loose-fitting pajamas and saw the pair of you, one dangling slightly more than the other but still the both of you so deliciously-contained in a pinkish sack, like a ripe pear. I am glad I am not able to reach you with my mouth, otherwise I would suckle from your fresh fruit everyday.
Oh, how tempting you are to rub and wash with soaps and fine oils. Sometimes I worry if I will be able to afford the right kind of underwear which befits such family jewels. I must shop at lavish stores that sell only silk to find the gossamer fabric that could cover, like a royal tapestry, the secrets and riddles you hold inside.
I want to also thank you for all the juices you hold. You are the turbines producing the manna that is the key to all of the life that ever was. I could write you a million love letters, but they would not be enough.
The only thing I can think of that would be a fitting tribute, that maybe would prove worthy of your glory, I would take a picture of you and send it back to you, because even though I know everyone would like to see you, you alone deserve to gaze upon your dumplings.
Oh, and the girls even the boys, but also the girls, they love you, my man lumps. They go wild when I give them even a sneak peak. Then when I take off my whitey-tighties and play you like bongos, they about lose their mind. And when they get a taste? It is just too much. If they could, they would lick you like one licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop.
Maybe someday we’ll find how many it takes, who knows. I just know, it’s gunna be one heck of a ride. I love you, my balls. We all do.