The Itch

I scratched my scrotum. I scratched it again and again. It was a bitter relief. Scratch and bleed. Scratch. Then bleed. The problem started months ago, I didn't think much of it at first, "just a little bit of jock itch." Not true. That fleeting itch turned into a full-blown case of my scrotum and butt are bleeding and there is no fucking God type of itch. I fled to the supermarket to find relief, limping from the pain in my genitals as I walked down aisle after aisle, searching for something. Maybe some Vagisil will help, I thought as I considered all my options. I bought that and a host of other feminine hygiene products as well as some itch creams for babies. I'd used every jock itch medication on the block from Lotrimin to Itch-be-Gone. None worked. I didn't care that I'd be buying products designed for someone of a different plumbing structure as long as it worked. Hell, soon enough I won't have any plumbing at all if this itch cream doesn’t work. I felt like pulling down my pants right there in the middle of the aisle, exposing myself to everyone and clawing away with my overgrown fingernails for a little bit of temporary satisfaction. Just thinking about scratching the itch a little caused escatasy. But the agony always returns.

Every night I turn over tens of times and pull the covers this way and that way to find a comfortable position. There isn’t one. I placed the fan right on my crotch in the hope that some cool air would spell relief. Nope. I did find something that worked, kind of. It was meant for severe Poison Ivy, but “what the hell,” I said out loud to no one. The problem was as soon as he applied it my balls burned like they were caught in a fence in the middle of a nuclear explosion. I just lathered it on down there, picked up a towel, put it in my mouth, bit down, felt the burn, screamed under the makeshift muffle, looked at the clock, and waited for it to pass. The relief, as painful as it was, was worth it. It lasted a total of ten itch-free minutes every time. I figure it had something to do with the unbelievable pain it inflicted.

But, it became too much so I got the femme products. Hell, I'd stick a tampon up my butt if I thought it would help, though I don’t see how it could. It would soak up the blood though. I couldn't take it so before I put the products on, I put my hands down my pants and gave a little scratch. The ecstasy. The agony. My whole body went into a spasm and shivered as if I were a junkie and had just got the first fix of the morning. A wave of pleasure ran over my skin and through my body as I gave a little scratch. I smiled. It disappeared as soon as I took my hand away. There was blood on it. A lot of blood.

Strewn about my room, which before the itch was impeccably clean, was a variety of dirty underwear drenched in every conceivable itch cream on the market. I’d just lop the stuff in globs all over the area.

I reached into his pocket and pulled out a broken packet of ketchup that leaked through the hole in my pocket that I ripped open to allow easier access to my scrotum and allow a degree of discreetness, too. “Thank God,” I sighed, realizing I wasn’t bleeding.

I collapsed down on the bed. My heart pounded from the very thought his balls were torn open.

I shot up from bed at 5:30 p.m. Then I looked at the last rays of sunlight fading through my window and shouted an obscenity as I caught the image of my dress shirt and pressed denim pants. “7:30 tonight, dammit,” I muttered. Then I leaped out of bed, collapsed, pushed myself back up, and limped to the shower.

I tore my clothes off in the bathroom and looked in the mirror above the sink. Curious, I raised myself onto the counter and spread my genitals apart; the skin, graying and turning purple, had giant lacerations streaked across them that resembled the worn fabric of a sofa in the house of a old woman with too many cats. I touched my butt.

Not that too, I thought, turning around and gripping my cheeks, pulling them apart, causing a ripping sound, the kind you hear when trying to tear apart magazine pages that are stuck together like the dried up gum under school desks. I stared at the nascent signs of redness appearing. I flicked off some dried blood.

Just then the phone rang.

“Hello. Cindy?” I said, snatching the phone from its cradle, catching my breath from the sprint down the cluttered hallway, cringing from the throbbing of my big toe that I smashed into the ground when I jumped down off the counter.

“Is Joe home?”

“This is him,” I said, dropping my shoulders down, sighing.

“Hi Joe, this is Brenda from HealthNow Insurance. We haven’t received your payment for your health insurance since last month. If we don’t have it by the thirty-first we’ll be forced to terminate your coverage.”

“The thing is I have this other bill and … you know. I was hoping…”

“Hoping? How about paying? Either you pay it or your insurance will be canceled. If you have any questions you’ll have to call customer service. Good day, sir.”

I slipped the phone back unto its hook; I shrugged my shoulders. Waddling over to the coffee maker, I pressed the on button. “Good thing I took off this week,” I muttered to myself, tugging at my pants, drawing the zipper down, opening up the hole that would allow me sweet, sweet relief. I clenched my teeth. But, then I had an epiphany and ripped my hand away from my crotch and slammed it down unto the counter. I smiled and grabbed my keys.

The branches of the trees scraped across the windows of the house as the wind blew them back and forth as he slammed the door. Outside, water dripped off the icicles hanging from the roof outside.

At the drug store, still wearing my work out pants that masqueraded as pajamas and a beat up white shirt with brown stains on the underarms, I tottered over to the over the counter allergy medication aisle. Just recently, the FDA allowed certain medications to be sold that before you needed a prescription to buy. I grabbed a box off the shelf, gasping at the price, and squinting my eyes, trying to read the list of cures the medication promised. Itchiness related to seasonal allergies was one of the miracles the brand assured.

I grabbed the box with a crescent moon on it since it was the least expensive and headed for the register. The cashier looked at me, pulled her head back, and pressed her lips shut. I stood, tracing my finger over my crotch and didn’t realize until it was too late that she probably thought it was some creepy come on, the kind of thing old men do at bars to young women that are there with friends, trying to have a good time.

The wind blew on my face as I opened the door and wrestled with the bag, yanking the pills out, ripping the box open, and peeling the pills out. Two now, two as soon as this itch doesn’t go away. I popped them in my mouth and swallowed them with saliva. Looking at my watch, I revved the engine and sped into reverse and darted back to the apartment; I only had an hour left before the date.

I scurried around the house searching for clean underwear; it wasn’t my biggest concern lately. I decided, with a smile at my brilliance, to douse my dirty, stained underwear with cologne: L'essence de L'homme—the most expensive I found two days ago at the mall. I raced back up the stairs, skipping several steps and grabbed my pants and shirt and then glided the shirt over my body and stepped into the pants with the grace of figure skater.

I glanced at my Rolex watch. Time for a little pre-date indulgence, I thought, grinning.

In the dining room furnished with the finest leather sofa, love seat, and recliner, I opened the mahogany liquor cabinet and stretched my arm over the various wines, whiskeys, and vodkas for a bottle of Kentucky Fire Engine Red Whiskey hidden in the back.

I poured a double shot of the stuff into a glass and then slugged it down. I twitched. I gagged. I squinted. I forced myself not to puke. Then I poured another glass, plopped myself down on the couch, picked up the remote and turned on the TV. My eyes closed for a second. “Better get going before I fall asleep. Damn, I already got so much,” I whispered.

I put my head down and looked at my crotch. My hands had been working non-stop since he got home: ironing, pouring, holding, combing, spraying—but, I didn’t once scratch.

I put my hand down my pants and scratched. Nothing. No relief. No itch existed. The medication worked wonders; his date would be fine after all. The thoughts vanished of running to the bathroom to throw my hands to his balls to scratch that itch away. The the fear of Cindy glancing at him as he unknowingly grabbed, rearranged, and scratched his balls into submission and causing the irreversible impression that he was in fact a crude, crass white trash trailer park hillbilly dressed to the nines disappeared.

I arrived to the bar at 7 p.m.; Cindy wasn’t there yet, so I told the Maitre D to site me while I wait. I think I may have slurred my words as he had to ask me twice what name the reservations were under. I ordered a water. I asked for menus. I twittled my fingers, constantly glancing at my watch as the digits ticked away past 7:45.

I waited longer. Then a little bit more before I decided to call. Finally I picked up the phone and dialed though I din’t want to appear desperate. The phone went straight to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. Did she stand me up? Was this all a dream? I didn’t understand. The waiter came over about 8:30 and asked if that was all. I said “yes.” Then I left.

At home I could feel the itch coming back on, so took a couple more pills and fell asleep, alone—again, forever. At least that’s how I felt at the time. That was four months ago and I don’t know what I feel now.