Black Balls - #fridayflash

A few weeks ago I took part in the Muskoka Novel Marathon. As well as a fundraiser for literacy, it was  a whole weekend where writers got together to do nothing but write. The following is an excerpt from something I wrote there, called Man Lessons. And, in case you're wondering, I did name the female character in honour of fellow writer Lou Freshwater over at Baby's Black Balloon.

*Warning: adult content, not suitable for children.*

Jimmy Clarke didn’t know how have an orgasm.

Louise Clarke didn’t know how to get pregnant without it.

“Don’t you want to have kids?” Lou asked him after a few years of frustration.

“Yes I want to have kids!” he bellowed. “Of course I do! You just have to be patient. You’re pushing me! Just like you push everything. Just leave me alone, goddamnit, you’re a pushy bitch sometimes.” And he stormed out of the house, slamming the door on his way out, screeching tires as he took off down the driveway.

She cried, as usual. They did a lot of arguing. She did a lot of crying. He punched a lot of walls and did a lot of taking off. One day he hurled a Planter’s Peanuts tin across the room and it lodged in the drywall in the living room. The mark was still there. He was too lazy to fix it.

Years went by. They rarely had sex anymore. She gave up any thoughts of having children, convinced she was happier without them. But then one night, after Jimmy and Lou had gotten drunk at a party, they had sex and, miracles of miracles, Jimmy had an honest-to-goodness, bona-fide orgasm. Lou was over the moon. She hugged him and kissed him and called him her macho stud-muffin and held her legs up in the air with a pillow under her butt to help the swimming microscopic miracles make their way north.

“By the glory of all that’s sacred, Jimmy Clarke, I’m loving you tonight,” she said, staring at the ceiling, butt still on pillow 20 minutes later. “I have a good feeling about this, I do. I think we’re onto something.”

“Something” was Taylor, born nine months later, cuter than a bug’s ear at a Sunday picnic. Lou was 37 when he was born.

Three years later Jimmy had another orgasm. Weeks before Lou’s 40th birthday, Spencer was born.

“Jesus Christ, Jimmy, you gotta go get fixed. I can’t go into old age birthing little christers every few years.” She never thought she’d have to send Jimmy off to get neutered. But he went, grudgingly, coming back with balls as black as ... well, black balls, those penny candies that melt in your mouth.

He stood in the living room, underwear around his knees, swollen black balls hanging down like dirty socks, penis crawled so far away from the scene of the crime that it looked like it was hibernating.

“Is this normal?” he said, gesturing to his black genitals.

“It is if you’re from Africa,” she said.

She laughed, god, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Jesus, Lou, it’s not that funny.”

Yeah, but it was that funny. She was tired from lack of sleep (she wondered, with a new baby, was it possible to actually die from lack of sleep?), her stitches still hurt (the Chinese doctor had proclaimed “You good pusher!” and had sewn her up afterwards like an Easter ham) and her boobs were sore and constantly dripping milk, like lactating kitchen taps.

Black balls seemed pretty easy compared to all that.

Lou figured he was getting off cheap.