Public Pervert: Cultural Complexities in America

David S. Lewis is a free spirit among many other things: a native of Ohio, a free-lance journalists, an American patriot, and a Navy Veteran.

I was first introduced to Dave summer of 2006-- the Summer of Hitting the Bottle Hard. Tristan's sheets bared the proof.

Dave began introducing his background to me on my front steps after I lost a Hold 'Em tournament. As they say in Rounders, if you don't who the sucker at the table is, it's you.

"So, Dave, you were a sailor?" I said.

"Yeah, until they discharged men– medical leave."

"Oh, shit, my great grandfather was wounded at war too. His comrades dropped an artillery shell on his foot off the Aleutian Islands." I puffed a Dunhill and swooned under the synergistic effects of Tecate and Humboldt's own as we spoke. [I found out later that my great grandfather only became a 'veteran' after Ronald Reagan by executive order made members of the merchant marines so.]

"Oh shit, yeah, something like that happened to me too. I lost one of my balls in an accident."

I coughed a ball of smoke and stared at him incredulously.

His girlfriend, Kendra, nodded affirmatively.

"Yeah, he doesn't have a left fucken' nut."

"No, shit, Dave? You lost your ball?" I grinned uncomfortably. If you're going to lose a nut, you certainly don't want to lose lefty. That's big one. The one that hangs lower.

"Yeah. That's right," he said. Kendra nodded vigorously and I figured who could know better than Kendra. Maybe his mother. . .

"Show him. Dave. Show it to him. Show him your sole nut."

"Dave you're a monotid? Shit, man. I couldn't even tell," I said as I drank beer and peered at the freak.

Monotid is actually the wrong word, but I was drunk, and high.

"Oh yeah, but he functions just fine." Kendra said, smiled, and nodded her head quickly.

A better world to describe this malady is cryptorchidism. Dave S. Lewis the Cryptorchid. Crypto meaning hidden and orchid meaning testical. Beautiful, isn't it?

"Okay, I'll show you, Max."

"Okay," I said. I was curious.

What would only one nut look like? Would the nutsack be smooth? Would the surgery–– the amputation–– have left him hairless? Would excess skin exist where the teste should be? Would his nut be like the nuts I envisaged having after rubbing Ben Gay on the, only to later a take a shower with all my clothes on, howling in ball curdling pain, at the tender age of 16?

"Oh yeah," Kendra said as David. S Lewis Independent Journalist readied, fiddled, and then took his right nut out.

Ta-dah.

"You fucking liar!" I screamed. "You just took one out! You have two nuts!" I hovered a mere foot away from his groin, crouched down, intently squinting at one half of his existing and visible testicles, pointing my Dunhill at the goods.

"You're a fucking idiot, Max," Kendra said and laughed.

"I was actually discharged because I was pissing, shitting, and vomiting blood caused by a real nasty little ulcer," said the Independent Journalist.





Dave taught me a good trick. This is a good trick to know. Showing people a sole nut is funny. I told Jillian's 13-year old cousin about this good trick during a Chinese-food lunch and he seemed to believe me.

One evening, I thought I would let Phil, my roommate, enjoy this good fun and removed one nut from a hole in my jeans. (These naturally occuring holes are cause by my burly highs rubbing energetically against my bicycle seat.) Just ask Haley, she knows about my thighs.

I walked in to his room, ball dangly freely in warm forced air, and began.

"Phil, did you pay the electricity bill?"

"No," he said and looked up at me and then looked back to YouTube. "I can't pay yet– you owe me the money."

"Oh." I looked down to make sure my nut exposed itself in all of its splendour. The teste relaxed sheepishly on the inside of my right thigh outside of my pants. Pink skin contrasted against dark blue jeans. I yanked on it a little more, benefitting from the natural elasticity of my ball sack.

I clapped my hands. "Would you like to play Halo?"

"Yes," he said.

I sat across from him on the futon. legs splayed, killing opponents and looking at him pensively, nut still proffered.

Nothing.

I stood while the next game loaded and swayed rhytimcally to "Burning Down The House" playing from my room. My nut, a natural pendulum, swinging from the hole.

Nothing.

"Phil, is my controller dying?" I said as I perched the controller upon my lap, inches from my teste.

"No, man," he said without looking. "I just charged it."

I brought him a glass of water and held the glass like a lens infront of my nut.

I placed my leg on the coffee table and tied my shoe, brushing my ball with my elbow.

I practiced calisthenics excitedly next to the TV.

After 45 minutes, he had failed to respond.

We must ask several questions about Phil:
Is he blind?
Is he gay?
Is he a pervert?
Is he without the knowledge of testes or the scrotum?
Did Phil think that my nut must have haphazardly escaped from my jeans and I was the one who failed to note? And he did not want to ashame me by telling me of the escapee?


I may never know–– I'm just glad my best friend enjoyed that spherical flesh as we videochatted earlier yesterday afternoon.