Balls

It was news to me but San Franciscans don’t do rain. I mean really, they just don’t go out in it. Those that do wear little bewildered faces and the talk in the shops is a constant squeak of disbelief. “It’s RAINING”, they wimper, wide-eyed and frightened, then hurry off home to get dry.

On Saturday it was pissing down, which basically just left me and the other tourists. I started with a trip to the sex shop, Good Vibrations, where, astonishingly, I failed to buy anything.

They didn’t have the anal toy I wanted and the other thing I was keen to check out was the packing dildos. The thing with the male anatomy is that I’m not too bothered by the cocks, it’s the scrotum I find repulsive, and packing dildos are horribly realistic.

I had picked one up and was lost in a world of my own, wiggling the flaccid member up and down with my thumb and forefinger, while poking and squeezing with an air of distaste at the clammy, wrinkled and life-life texture of the ball sack.

At this point a sales assistant appeared at my shoulder to see if I had any questions. I’m ashamed to say I instantly DROPPED IT BACK ONTO THE TABLE with the embarrassed air of a child caught doing something naughty. “Oh erm, no, no thank you, I’m just looking”, I stammered while breaking into a nervous sweat.

I couldn’t go back to it then so for all I know it’s still lying there, awkward and exposed, swaying from side to side from the impact and possibly a little bruised. I almost feel sorry for it.

But I think I’m happier with a cock made from cotton wool and a pop sock at Nathan’s Penis Puppet stalls. I’ve never been a big fan of reality.