The Fag with the Big Balls

By Dustin P. Roeb�re

He really didn't have balls that were all that big. Just normal sized testicles for a gay guy. They were hairy, as was most of his body, a trait from his mother's lineage. He resembled that side more than the ancestors from who he inherited his surname. Yet somewhere along the line he inherited Big Balls, although not the physical trait.

After thirty-some years of living in the cold north he moved to Florida. Most of the year it was warm and his body was on the sweating edge. He did not mind sweating, for when he did, his balls would hang low. They would appear bigger and hang heavy in his scrotum. He liked it when his jewels were trying to keep cool for the preservation of the species. Procreation was the farthest thing from his mind at this point in his life. No more seed of his would be falling on fertile soil. The only fertility he wanted was another man to make love to. Another man who would massage his balls till they could no longer contain themselves. Their contents being emptied in pleasurable sporadic convulsions.

Yet he was alone and satisfied his primeval lust in private. All the while fantasying about making love to that special man. His desire to be making love was so strong that he kept searching for his special soul mate. Masturbation satisfied the body's need but the mind wanted the emotional connection as well. He searched the personal ads and meet guys. Guys that he did not have sex with. Guys that he was not attracted too. Guys that did not set off any bells and whistles or flutter of heart. There were no sparks, no cupid with arrows to pierce his heart, nor love songs to be sung. No love interest did he meet, but he did meet guys. Guys who looked at his life in awe. Big Balls they thought.

Patrick was frustrated. Another month went by where he had to satisfy his lust solo. Another date was arranged without any sparks. Another invitation was ignored to join him for a camping trip. Another trip he would take to the wilderness alone and where he would fantasize about making love under a tree. He would spill his seed on some fertile swampland alone. None of his friends were even available to join him in the Fakahatchee for non-sexual camaraderie. Surely there was someone out there that enjoyed the wilderness and primitive camping as much as he does. Where was he?

He was very comfortable in the wilds, even in the wilderness preserve called The Fakahatchee Strand. The lands of the Florida panther, an endanger species. He started to feel like an endanger species himself. Wandering the swamp alone with miles and miles of wilderness around him. So few of his kind around that he feared that he would never meet a mate. He thought about the Florida panther and how few existed, numbering less than fifty. The panther really needed an expanded gene pool to survive. All Patrick wanted was to have a pair of jeans to pull off a cute butt. A cute butt he could call his significant other who would accept his love and help it survive.

On a regular basis Patrick would encounter guys that were awed by his wilderness wanderings. They would have loved to join him but were too intimidated. If only the panthers were so numerous, their existence would not be threatened. Often he would hear comments like "I am so intimated by all the (wilderness) places you have been to." Or "I am more of a boardwalk kind of nature lover. Not the boots in the water kind." Or "You are so refreshing, all your wilderness adventures really turn me on." With comments like that he knew that there was no reason to even try to start a relationship. Damn he was dying for someone that would be "turned on" to the wilderness and sex under the stars. If another man with Big Balls came along in the wilderness, Patrick would have melted. It amazed him how many people harbor fear of wild and primitive places. Afraid of what? Meeting someone with Big Balls? How fearful could that be?

The day that Patrick left for the Fakahatchee it was raining. It rained all day, and his emotions matched the weather, gloomy. By the time he left work he was almost in tears. There were 140 members in his outdoor group and not one soul was intrigued enough to go along. Patrick's depression got worse as the day wore on. He tried to work but was not very productive. He sat at his desk and fidgeted. He logged onto the Internet to check the weather. The Doppler Radar showed a trail of storms south of Naples out in the Gulf of Mexico. It was not raining at his destination yet, but the storm was approaching. He picked up a hand full of jumbo paper clips. He bent them three times each until they broke into four pieces. Collecting a handful and tossing them in the garbage. He did this often when he was bored or upset. Today he bent the paper clips with more vigor as his bad mood was magnified.

The three-hour drive was lonely. The swamp was such a special place that it needed to be shared with others. Patrick started wondering what kind of fucked up outdoor group he belonged to. He was beginning to believe that most were just a bunch of wannabes feeding vicariously off his adventures. Yet he could not give up something that he loved so dearly. He found contentment in the wilderness as well as peace of mind. Even though he did not want to go alone he knew that he would not feel alone in the swamp. Before the weekend was over he knew that his depression would be eased. For some reason he did not feel so alone when he was in the woods, swampy or not.

His old pickup truck almost turned automatically onto Route 29. The Fakahatchee was close at hand and his depression calmed a bit. A few miles down 29, he noticed the first sign that announced that this was "Panther Country." The next sign said, "Panther Crossing Next 7 Miles." His eyes longed to see a panther and watched for a slinking form to cross the road. When he turned onto Janes Memorial Scenic Drive he welcomed himself to the Strand. "Welcome back to the Fakahatchee, Patrick," he said out loud to himself. No Panther would be crossing his path tonight.

His psyche was intent on seeing a panther. When he opened the truck door out of the corner of his eye he saw a reflection. It scared the shit out of him for an instant. God if the 'Scardy Cat Fags' could have seen him now, they would have thought "small balls." Goose flesh raised on his body as he laughed to himself. He opened the door again and stepped out while watching the reflection that frightened him just a moment ago. The earth was cool on his bare feet and the swamp sounds surrounded him. Tree frogs were croaking in every direction and a hoot owl called from far away. Contentment started to settle in but it would take a while to erase the depression.

A flood of emotions overwhelmed him as he stepped into the campsite known as K-12. His body rippled as he made a request out loud. "Make love to me, Wilderness." He took off his clothes and hiked a short way into the swamp. The February air was cool and not too many mosquitoes found him, at first. But there were a few waiting to dine on a warm meal as Patrick stared up at the cloudy sky. The royal palms were majestic even without being backlite by a full moon. He sat naked in the swamp for the longest time. As time passed he became part of the food chain. For several mosquitoes were able to dive in for the kill and feed on his sweet nectar. They were clever and got away before being slapped to death in the dark.

If the guys he met, the ones that feed vicariously on his life, could see him now. What would they think? Would they say, "My lord that Patrick has guts to traipse off into the swamp naked, Big Balls!" Or would they just look at him and think. "He looks like a regular hairy gay guy. Sitting naked in the swamp with his manhood shrunken by the February chill. Standard Balls."

Here kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty.

�Copyright 2002 Dustin P. Roeb�re All Rights Reserved