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 Vince's StoryPosted 12.12.2007 by Mudshovel (10)
Towards the end of my senior year of high school, I became smitten with the quiet boy to my right in British Literature class. One thing lead to another, and we found ourselves dating by May. His name was Kyle. Kyle was a stocky, tall, dirty blonde with twinkling blue eyes and a very shy demeanor. He was introspective, reflective, thoughtful and deep. We shared a love for the same classic rock, and we hit it off great.
Then I met Vince. If Kyle was introverted, Vince was anything but. Vince and Kyle were cousins, but Vince lived in a run-down trailer teeming with small children from illegitimate fathers. More often than not, Vince spent the night at Kyle's house. They could easily be mistaken for brothers if it weren't for their vast difference in attitude towards bathroom protocol. Whereas Kyle excused himself politely, blushing crimson at the idea of someone knowing that he was off to pee, Vince was more than happy to share with the world. "Hold on, I have to blow ass," he'd proclaim, handing off the still-smoldering bong to me as he crawled to his feet. He'd step outside into the hallway, quietly pull the door shut, and groan a sigh of relief. After he farted, he'd remain in the hallway for several seconds, assessing the olfactory situation, before returning to the room with a big, toothy grin plastered on his face. One evening, as Vince, Kyle, Kyle's mother, Kyle's sister, and I sat around the rustic, splintering wooden table, nursing rum and Cokes under the evening sky of early summer, Kyle's mother suddenly set her glass down with a *BANG*. I jumped. "Vince, Kristie hasn't heard The Story!" Kyle covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered to me over his palms. But I was sold. I wanted to hear The Story, and I wanted to hear it right there and then. Vince began. It all started on an early Sunday morning. I woke up, stretched, and realized I had to take a gigantic piss. So I stumbled into the bathroom, whipped it out, and started to pee. Idly scratching my balls, my blood froze as I felt something that was not there before. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. I had three testicles. Still peeing, flecks of urine flying every which direction, junk flapping in the breeze, I tore down the hallway ass-naked. My mom was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for stew, when I came barreling into the kitchen. "I need to go to the hospital," I began, dancing and holding my package. Of course, being the mother that she is, she wanted to know what was wrong. Finally, I broke down. "I need to go to the hospital because I have three balls." Mom put her hands on her hips and frowned. I didn't have three testicles, she said. I was probably imagining it. It was only with much panicked protesting on my part that I was able to convince her to look. And there, lo and behold, I had three testicles. In hysterics now, I dressed and she loaded me up into the car. Driving frantically and weaving perilously in and out of traffic, we finally arrived at the emergency room, where I was escorted into a room by an older nurse. I changed into those embarrassing hospital nightgowns and lay back on the table, feet flat and legs spread. She rubbed some sort of cold, slippery gel onto my balls and began to examine the rogue testicle. It wasn't even that the nurse was attractive. She looked too much like a mom. But nonetheless, the nurse's incessant rubbing got to me, and I was fighting an erection. Down, boy. I was concentrating so hard on remaining decent that I had failed to notice the pressure building in my gut. With the nurse a mere foot away from the supermassive black hole that is my anus, I blew ass. My immediate response was to laugh. As I began to shake with laughter, my ass began to force out the remaining air in small bursts synced to my snickering. Pft. Pft. Pft. Pft. Pft. And with every pft, the nurse's front locks blew ever so slightly. Suddenly, the urge to bear down took over me, faster than I could think. Where gas had once harmlessly sounded its horn, thick, projectile diarrhea began to spurt. And still, I laughed. The diarrhea continued to fire in spurts. My bowels and face contorted as I writhed in pain. Soft plops told me that the nurse and the floor were wearing my shit. "I'm sorry," I choked out, tears of hysterical laughter and shame running down my face. The nurse, grimacing, left the room without a word. Several minutes passed while my steaming shit began to dry on my asscrack, all alone in an examination room. I was beginning to plan my escape when an older, male doctor entered the room. Business-like, he wiped the shit from my ass with a wet-wipe. He poked and prodded for a few minutes before determining that my third testicle was actually a cyst. He sent me home to schedule surgery. As it turns out, the testicle shrunk on its own, and all seemed well and good. Several days later, I was walking home from school when I saw these guys -- friends, but total dicks -- shoving this kid from my French class around. I convinced them to leave him alone, and the kid, Mike, and I, became friends. One day, we were playing basketball after school when his mom drove in. "Mike," she hollered, "can you and your friend help me with the groceries?" Like the gentleman I am, I proceeded to open her trunk when, out of the car, stepped none other than the very nurse who had worn my diarrhea. The instant we made eye contact, I knew she remembered me. My face burned. I began to stammer some reason as to why I had to go home, when she put a motherly arm around me. She explained that there was a very strict patient confidentiality agreement, and that nobody would know what went on in the ER the previous week. I assured her that my third testicle was no longer plaguing me with its existence. I had some meatloaf and green beans, and went home, all was well. When I stepped off the bus that morning, Mike literally hollered, announcing to every child within earshot: "Dude, you never told me you had three balls! And that you shit on my mom!" The story needed no further elaboration. Kyle, with his face still in his hand, chose to ignore the fact that his proper, introverted girlfriend was now doubled over, howling with laughter. My eyes shone with tears and admiration for Vince. Vince, truly shameless, was a bigger and better man for what he endured that day in the emergency room and the shame that was to follow. Draining his cup, Vince dumped his ice onto the lawn next to him and pushed back his chair. "If you guys'll excuse me," he said, surveying the table with those bright, sparkling eyes that ran in the family, "I gotta blow ass." Time passed. Kyle and I moved on and separated amicably. I hate to say it, but I miss Vince's company most of all. Vince, this one's for you. Post new comment
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