The Spore Report

For the last month I have been hitting the elliptical with surprisingly regularity—at least every other day, for upwards of thirty minutes at a stretch. It was part of a planned regimen to prepare myself to visit the local CrossFit gym, although I have yet to muster the gumption to visit. In fact, I probably won’t make it until I lose another twenty pounds or so, which is illogical, I know, but I can’t imagine showing up at a gym full of cross-discipline master athletes with a hairy bagel peeking over my sweatpants.

(Now that Ryan has abandoned his Weight Loss Wednesday updates—does that mean you’re skinny now?—I might even subject you to pictures of my spare tire to brighten your Hump Day work time.)

I’m usually a pretty clean person, taking at least one shower a day if not two, but with the heat that until recently had afflicted Brooklyn, coupled with my attempt to stave off air conditioning use until the last ounce of moisture had been wrung from my underwear, I would find that my post-workout routine consisted primarily of collapsing in a chair directly in front of a fan. The idea of moving to another room, soggy with sweat, and hopping into more liquid wasn’t appealing.

And every so often, I’d cool down, dry off, and forget to shower.

Well, not completely dry off.

I started to itch. You know, my balls.

I’m still fairly overweight and have been for years, so I’m not unaccustomed to my fat white thighs rubbing themselves together during workouts, leading to chapped skin and, occasionally, blood. (How fucked up is that?) I figured I’d just rubbed myself a bit raw and hadn’t noticed.

Except I’ve lost enough weight that my thighs don’t rub together any more.

A few days passed and my balls, as they say, weren’t scratching themselves.

I called in Susie for a consult, as per her duties required in payment for the privilege of being the most awesome girlfriend since Bonnie leaned over Clyde’s glowing taint and pronounced, “It does look sort of…yeasty.”

“My crotch looks like bread?” I yelped. “Wait, are you saying ‘looks like’ when you mean ’smells like’?”

No loaf has ever risen as quickly. I pulled my shorts over my shame zone.

“Oh my god, do I have a smell?”

“It’s probably jock itch,” she said. “It’s no big deal.”

“Jock itch? Really?” I’d never had jock itch or, until now, given it a second thought.

“Holy shit, baby, do you know what this means?” she laughed.

I was mystified.

Susie leaned in.

“Now you’re a jock.”

It was the happiest moment of my life.

…

So I got this creme from the drug store. It smells like a previously unidentified smell from my childhood, when I’d visit my mom at her work in mental health care facilities and retirement homes. Turns out lots of mentally retarded people and retirees have jock itch, or its kissin’ cousin, athlete’s foot. Case closed!

Of course, I got maximum strength. I was delighted by my new-found social standing, but there was no need to keep my little friend around now that its work was done. Besides, it itched like fuck. Never-ending, focus-consuming, abandon-all-hope sort of itching.

Wash up, said the instructions, and apply.

One of the reasons I know intelligent design isn’t true is that the scrotum, perhaps the most important flap of skin on a man’s body, likes to absorb things. As anyone who has smelled a scrotum can testify, it clearly likes to absorb flavor. It also likes to absorb maximum strength jock itch creme, especially when damp from a fresh, hot shower.

And that creme, as it begins to soak into the skin of the ballsack, leeches its way directly into the central nervous system. And jock or not, you will stand bow-legged in front of the bathroom, unable to form a response to your girlfriend’s queries if you might be okay and perhaps should take another shower. You may also get goosebumps when thinking about it days later.

Thankfully, I figured out how to use medicine and the god damn mess is starting to clear up. I’m almost sad to see it go: The ever-present jungle drums of lust that beat every time a beautiful women walks by have been muted by the fact that were I able to somehow lure her into my bed, I’d be too ashamed to show her the wrinkled bag of parched turkey skin that was once my triumphant genitalia. I am nearly at peace.

And if the time I masturbated with conditioner when I was 13 and all the skin on my penis dried up and shed like a snake is any indication, I may end up growing an entirely larger set of balls by the time this is all done. And, I guess, larger thighs.