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Humpday Hookup Horror Stories: Ballsack Jacuzzi

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If you’ve got a hookup horror story, send it in using our submission form, and be sure to select “Column.” All stories will be made anonymous. Try to keep it under 500 words. Thou shalt not judge lest ye be judged.

Ballsack Jacuzzi
“Jason” from Memphis

Dated a girl for about 2 years. Like all relationships, things got a bit stale in the bedroom, and it just so happens that this chick I was dating was an insane slut who would not stand for this. She worked at a local restaurant with a who’s who of local ne’er-do-wells who were always sharing their deviant sexual exploits. One afternoon, after the relationship had clearly run its course, she mentioned she wanted to “spice things up” (red flag) and try something new she heard about from a coworker. I knew that no good could possibly come from this, but before I could object to this mystery sexual act, she had already secured a warm glass of water and a straw. For what you ask? The only way I can describe it is a ballsack jacuzzi. She delicately placed my young, beautiful, balls into the glass and began blowing into the straw. My flaccid dong, nowhere near erect, just draped down to the side like “WTF is this?” I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. I went with it for about 25 seconds before I had to throw in the towel. She was clearly embarrassed, for good reason, and I made things worse by laughing hysterically. Did I mention we were both sober? People don’t really believe that when I tell this story, but we were. I realize that I share some of the blame for not properly vetting the sexual act before hand, but players gonna play. As you can imagine, things didn’t work out between us, but she’ll always have a place in my heart as the girl who placed my scrotum into a homemade, handheld jacuzzi.

Such Is Love
“Andy” from Los Angeles, CA

I’m going to spare you the details of the affair, mostly because I have no recollection of them. The horror story starts on a sunny Southern California Saturday morning when I was suddenly awaken by the chime of my iPhone alarm clock. I had forgotten to turn it off in my drunken stupor Friday night and I was about to pay a heavy price for it.

I shot up and slammed on my phone to stop the incessant noise from blaring. As I sat up, my brain felt like a yoke in an eggshell being shaken violently by someone too young to grasp the idea of scrambled eggs. It was only seconds later, as the room was finally coming to clarity, that I heard a soft and harmonious (read: hoarse and raspy) voice’s first beautiful words of the day, “WHAT the actual FUCK?!”

The moments that followed were out of your typical fairy tale as we both pretended to remember the hows, whos and whats that were suddenly and shamefully coming to fruition. I felt far more relieved than she possibly could have because she was definitely much more of a looker than I. This soon turned to uncontrollable anxiety because what had I done to somehow manage this? The embarrassing possibilities were endless.

The true morning-after weirds came in the car ride back to her place. She lived a few exits down the I-405, which to anyone in LA is a big no-no on a Saturday morning. Before I could even pull onto the horrific traffic prison cell of awkwardness, I had to first fill up my gas tank. So there I stood, outside of an Exxon, pumping gasoline into my car, pretending not to see the hungover stranger I had deflowered.

The ride to her house took about 35 minutes, or 4 miles, of pure silence. I thought this tale would end once I dropped her off, but when she pointed out which house was hers, it was quickly apparent and all too real the scene that unfolded on her front lawn. Her father and two younger siblings were sitting at a patio table while her mother was carrying a tray of brunch food out to the family. That’s when I pulled in to a death stare I’ll forever remember from the lady of the night’s father. She hopped out of the car and immediately a screaming match commenced between herself and her mother. I reversed as quickly as possible. With no admission of guilt, I may have dinged her dad’s BMW on my way out of the driveway before I floored it out of the neighborhood trying my hardest not to see which finger he was pointing at me.

I started to gather myself together in the following moments a mile out from home and tried to relive the story in the form of ten second Snapchats to my closest friends. That’s when I saw the flashing blue and red bright lights in my rearview mirror.

I returned home that Saturday morning around 9:30am with no trace of dignity and a $180 ticket for using a handheld device while driving. Such is the cost of love, I guess.

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