I have a pygmy marmoset attached to my scrotum.
It goes back to when I was a kid. It was the first day of school. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, the other children attacked me in the schoolyard before class. Some pinned me to the ground while others took down my pants and underwear. One of them produced the pygmy marmoset and set it gently onto my genitals. The little sucker sank its teeth and claws right in.
Since that day, I’ve had to go through life with a passenger. Even leaving aside the pain (which, though everpresent, is tolerable most days), the practical considerations make many things rather difficult. I have to wear loose fitting trousers. Most vigorous physical activity is out. Swimming is out, because the only thing worse than having a pygmy marmoset attached to your scrotum is having a drowned pygmy marmoset attached to your scrotum. Even walking requires more care than normal.
My sex life has been pretty interesting, as you might imagine. It’s hard to find a woman who is willing to overlook something like that, but I’m sure they’re out there somewhere. The women who react with disgust and/or alarm are no surprise. It’s the women who are really into the pygmy marmoset that worry me.
Oh, I’ve been to doctors. They claim that my condition is not unheard of. Unfortunately, to remove the pygmy marmoset would endanger both its and my life, so no-one will perform the procedure. I even went to a vet, but I got the same line. The only thing I can get from doctors are prescriptions for drugs to treat the symptoms. The drugs help, but the bottom line is, I still have a pygmy marmoset attached to my scrotum.
Every day, I think about what those kids did to me. What they took from me by attaching this damn monkey to my balls. People tell me I should just let it go, release this negativity I’ve been carrying. They’re right, of course, and I do try. But it’s hard to let go when the pygmy marmoset refuses to, you know?
Ethan Abides 