Hot Nuts

A foreword to the reader: this hilariously unfortunate story is dynamically better when I tell it in person, and I would like to take this moment to apologize in advance that you are not here to hear me tell it. I hope you get half as much enjoyment from words on the page than the scores of individuals before you who have laughed and simultaneously wept heartily while being held fully captive to my whimsical diatribe. I dedicate this in memory of Dr. John Ayers, a good doctor and better friend.

It is a pretty well known fact that a teenage boy, on the cusp of manhood yet still in the height of his youthfulness, by and large does not have much going on in the space between his ears at any given moment throughout such an illustrious period of his biological upbringing, nor does he care to. At least this was the case with me-at the ripe age of sixteen, going on seventeen.

Had there been many encounters with the opposite sex (there were not) in my adolescent years, I’m sure I would’ve fumbled those as frequently and ferociously as I do today, despite the fact that the biological space between my ears has accumulated at least an ounce more of wisdom than was there on this fateful summer night-where nature, in its most cruel form; humiliated me beyond my wildest dreams.

The year had to be about 2007. There are things about that night that I remember badly and there are things that accost the frontal lobe of my brain like it were mere moments past. I was wearing brown plaid Billabong shorts, that most definitely traveled well below my knees, a trend that will likely never return-as least to this exposed thigh loving gent-and a gray cotton t-shirt with a crew neck that rose almost high enough to qualify as golf course attire, the only exception being that the fit-were it in my possession today-would be burned out of sheer digust, to say nothing of discomfort.

The small high school gathering I was attending at a classmate’s parents beach house after the evening hours of summer was enough alone to get the teenage hormones flowing all sorts of different directions, the rap music rattling off the walls and a G rated version of beer pong in the garage accompanying it sent a pulse of nervous excitement through the pit of my stomach straight into my young and inexperienced loins, and everyone there knew it.

As young adolescents will do, when unsupervised and completely left to their devices, mischief is bound to ensue.

I really hope it was a Nelly song-for purposes of my enjoyment alone we’ll say that it was-that caused a particular stir in the collective loins among those in attendance at our youthful gathering, and it wasn’t long before a female classmate and I were “bumping and grinding” vigorously throughout the family room/makeshift dance floor. As you might well imagine-if you can remember those days, before social media and Instagram models just a scroll away-to a teenage boy, just the sheer touch from a woman was enough to send their newly formed testosterone levels through the roof, and land somewhere on the moon. This was no exception with me. Within 5 minutes of “Country Grammar” those brown plaid shorts had done so many revolutions whilst glued to my female companions waist, the energy levels obtained could’ve sent Elon Musk to space and back twice already.

Like the lifespan of a mosquito, so is the attention span of a 17 year old, and my primal encounter with my female friend was over as soon as it started.

There is a law in North Carolina, that teens in the first year of obtaining a drivers license, cannot drive past 9pm. I think it was 12:30 when I left the beach. Now, I’m not a nervous person, but there is a history in my family of hypochondria, and you’ll do well to keep that in mind as you continue reading.

The pain first started in my groin as soon as I made it over the bridge off of the island, to my 45 minute drive home. By the time I made it to the stoplight, my balls (my testicles) were on fire. Like excruciating.

I was driving like a mad man, doubled over, clutching my lower abdomen, swerving all over the road, not sure if needed to pull over and vomit or drive into a pine tree to end my misery. For 45 minutes I endured this suffering in the wee morning hours, high beams blazing a trail through the back roads in my ‘96 Honda Accord all the way back to my parents house.

The whole time I was in the car, my mind was analyzing each potential catastrophe this could possibly be. I think I landed on cancer after each rabbit hole. Not only was I in unbearable pain, I was now coping with the fact that I was undoubtedly on deaths doorstep at 1:30 in the morning.

I spun into the driveway and limped to the door. I still remember I had these velvet Reef slides, I was such an idiot. I turned on every light in the house, woke my parents out of bed, and started lamenting my most recent infirmity. What a scene to behold this must have been, I actually dropped my pants and made my dad, at 2 in the morning, inspect my balls. “No idea son.” My mom ran me a hot bath, and I, in my beleaguered state, hopped in and just let it soak into the night. I think I dozed off, through wincing pain, a half a dozen or so times while in the bath tub, and eventually the pain momentarily subsided.

The next morning my dad took me to see the doctor. I was feeling much better by this point, though still a bit uneasy, as I began to explain to the doc my traumatic sypmtoms from the night before. He took a look at my man parts, scribbled some stuff into his notes, and went through some basic vitals. He was an old school physician, well into his 70s at this point, smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and didn’t mind telling you like it was, rather bluntly, if a patient tried to self diagnose.

He looked at me after assessing my condition and asked the strangest question: “Did you have a hot date last night son?” I was bewildered. My dad didn’t even give me chance to answer. “Naw. He doesn’t go on dates.” Another tip of the proverbial cap to my lack of game with the ladies. I was silent. The doc looked back at me. “Sounds to me like you’ve got what we used to call ‘hot nuts’.”

You could’ve wiped me off of the floor. As soon as he said it, I knew immediately that I had gone to see the doctor for blue balls. Though in the 60s they must have called the phenomenon “hot nuts”, my embarrassment couldn’t have been higher that here I was, causing a scene in the doctors office, pants on the ground, having a grown man inquire about my dating life, in front of my own father, all because I didn’t have the foresight to realize I got blue balls from grinding on some chick at a party less than 12 hours ago.

I was too embarrassed to admit that I did in fact have hot nuts, so I just told the doctor I was feeling better and I went home, already knowing the cure.

Now, I thought I had escaped further embarrassment simply by avoiding acknowledgment of the doc’s diagnosis, until about two days later, when he called me to come in for further testing. I had long forgotten my unfortunate encounter with my own biology by this point, but he had not apparently, and decided I needed to come in for sonograms and lab work to rule out my initial hypochondria. I had to admit it. “Dr. Ayers, your first diagnosis was right. I had hot nuts.” I swore I heard a little chuckle before he said something positive and reassuring, and I thanked him and politely hung up the phone.

Eventually word got around about the reason for my doctor visit, and at 32 years of age I still have not lived it down amongst my family members.

I read a statistic once where the the male frontal vortex isn’t fully developed until about age 43, and I can honestly attest to that science. Men, boys, by and large are no more evolved than our cave brung ancestors, when you get right down to it, minus a few strokes of literary genius and scientific discovery here and there. But, even in our advanced modern culture, on occasion you will find a man dumb enough to ignore even the most basic biological instinct, and go see his doctor for a case of hot nuts.