The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: balls

Diary of a Sexually Maturing Leopard Gecko

Batman the uber horny leopard geckoIf you follow my blog on Facebook, you have probably already heard about my family’s Leopard Gecko, “Batman,” and his recent sexual health scare.

Like any family medical emergency, it was a very harrowing few days of worry, investigation, decision-making, and bonding.

Afterward, my son and I were working together to clean out Batman’s vivarium and we discovered a tiny journal, tucked away under the base of his wooden branch.

I know it’s wrong to read someone else’s journal, but under the circumstances, and given that this someone doesn’t even have opposable thumbs, I just had to know what was going through his tiny reptilian mind.

Please forgive me for breaking our family pet’s trust, but his daily musings were too fantastic to keep to myself. In the name of science, I present to you some of the entries from Batman’s journal.

(Please note: this blog post is intended for mature audiences only.)

diary of a sexually maturing leopard gecko by The Bearded Iris

Monday, Feb. 25, 2013

Dear Diary,

Today is my 9-month birthday and I finally weigh 33 grams! I’ve decided to start keeping a journal because I’m noticing a lot of strange but exciting bodily changes and I need a place to express myself and deal with all my feelings.

My roommate is 13-human-years-old and he is also going through lots of changes. He is growing a mustache! Humans are so weird.

My roommate’s mom just came in to yell at him for having so many dirty clothes on the floor. She has a mustache too. I don’t know what it is about her, but looking at her makes me feel kinda funny in my downtown area.

In fact, I’m going to go hangout on my basking rock…it’s really warm up there and I like the way the hot rock feels on my belly, if you know what I mean. {WINK WINK!}

 

Tuesday, Feb. 26, 2013

Dear Diary,

Wow, my body is really changing fast! Sometimes I get this throbbing feeling near my vent. It feels really good at first, but then it starts to ache. I wish I had a girlfriend. I’ve been spending a LOT of time on my branch and basking rock lately. Wiggling helps.

I noticed my roommate getting dressed today. He only has one penis, poor guy. I’m so lucky to have two! I can take turns with them so neither gets worn out or sore. Being a gecko is awesome!

Another difference between geckos and humans is that humans wear pants, so they can get a stiffy without the whole world seeing it. When I get excited, one of my penises pops right out of my vent like the “HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW” sign at Krispy Kreme. Embarrassing, but practical.

I’m wondering if I can get both of my hemipenes to pop out at the same time. Could come in handy if I ever meet twin Doublemint Girl Geckos at a party. SCHWING!

 

Wednesday, Feb. 27, 2013, 9:15 PM

Dear Diary,

Oh no, I have a big problem.

You know that weird feeling I’ve been having in my crotch? And how I’ve been spending so much time on my rock and branch doing that wiggling thing?

Well a few minutes ago I was doing the humpty hump on my branch and I think I must have rubbed too hard because my love-nugget won’t go back into its hidey-hole! It really hurts and so I was licking it to see if that would help it shrink back up into my body, and that’s when I noticed my roommate staring at my junk and then running down the hall screaming “MOM! Come here! You HAVE TO SEE THIS!”

Oh-em-geeee! Can’t a gecko have some privacy?!

Next thing I knew, my roomie’s mom was holding me and staring at my junk too. Not helping, lady!

You’d think she’d never seen 9 millimeters of turgid gecko groin before because she was all “What the hell?”

Then she took a bunch of photos with her phone. So embarrassing! All I can say is she better give me a cut of the profits if she turns this into a reptile porno.

I heard the mom and my roommate wondering aloud whether it was part of my intestines or a ruptured testicle or some kind of herniated gland. They were clueless. Then they got online for help.

The mom said “Do you think it’s his penis?”

Duh. Ya think? She’s obviously not the fastest mealworm in the box.

Next thing I heard her saying was “Google ‘reptile penis pics’ and ‘pics of lizard groins.’”

Oh yeah lady, encourage your 13-year-old son to do a Google search for any kind of penis pics. Good luck with that one.

Turns out she’s actually a pretty good researcher. Didn’t take her long to find out that I have what’s called a “prolapsed hemipenis,” hemi meaning “half” because like I said before, I have two of them. But then she insulted my manhood and said something like “We don’t even know if Batman is a boy yet, so let’s call it a hemivagenis.” I swear to God. It’s like she’s never even noticed my pre-anal pores. I’m OBVIOUSLY a male. OBVIOUSLY.

At least she knows it’s not my intestines sticking out of my butt. Now let’s hope girlfriend figures out how to help me get this thing back into my body because this bad boy really hurts.

(Editor’s Note: WARNING – the following photo collage may be unsettling to those with weak constitutions. Please close your eyes and scroll down if you know you will be offended by photos of erect reptile reproductive organs.) 

diary of a sexually maturing leopard gecko now featuring a prolapsed hemipenis by The Bearded Iris

 

9:30 PM

Dear Diary,

You aren’t going to believe this but I am about to take a bath in warm sugar-water! Wish me luck. I’ve never taken a bath before. Hope I don’t drown. Maybe the mom will dim the lights and put on some Barry White so I can really get my groove on. Brown chicken brown cow! 

warm sugar-water soak

 

9:45 PM

Dear Diary,

Wow, that was really nice. A gecko could get used to those warm sugar-water soaks. Sadly, my perma-bone didn’t shrink or pop back in on its own like they thought it would. I must have irritated it too much with my vigorous tree-branch rubbing. Now it’s swollen and stuck! I feel embarrassed, scared, and annoyed at the same time. I overheard my roomie’s mom say the words “MacGyver,” “Q-Tip,” and “Astroglide.” This isn’t going to end well.

 

10:00 PM

Dear Diary,

OH SWEET JESUS ON A BASKING ROCK, I just heard her say she can’t find the Astroglide followed by “but do you think this KY Warming Liquid would do the trick?” I feel like I’m going to faint.

 

10:04 PM

Okay, phew. She decided to see if my boy-bulge subsides by the morning before she attempts to poke it back in. THANK GOD. I’d rather just die than have my exposed sweet meat poked and prodded with spicy lady lube.

{end of journal entry}

Well that’s all the time we have for today, you reptile voyeurs! Tune in next time to read more riveting journal entries about Batman’s coming of age tale and how we helped solve his troublesome perma-bone problem.

See you then!
-Leslie

Click HERE to read Part 2 and hear the “Happy Ending” (wink wink!) of Batman’s weiner woes! 

Aw, nuts. Or, how puppies and testicles are related.

 

My five-year-old son just discovered his testicles.

photo of my son bucket head after he made an exciting discovery (his testicles)

It all started with a routine trip to the local dog park. There was a beautiful grey Pit Bull Terrier there who was unneutered. Every time he ran past us, my son Bucket Head would giggle, point, and enthusiastically blurt “Look at those things hanging from his butt! He’s got butt-hangers! That’s silly!”

It was very entertaining to the guy sharing our bench. He and I sheepishly made eye contact and I shrugged my shoulders as in “He’s five. What am I gonna do?”

Butt-hangers. That’s a new one. I made a mental note to tell my husband so we could laugh about it later.

Now, it is a widely known fact that I enjoy making up new words for genitals possibly more than anything else in life, but when it comes to my kids, I’m a stickler for proper anatomical verbiage. Never underestimate the power of pretty teeth and a good vocabulary. Just imagine the reaction Michigan House Rep. Lisa Brown would have gotten if she had referred to her “vagizness” or “goody basket.” Not kosher.

Yes, I was bound and determined for Bucket Head to learn the correct terminology for his fruit salad. So later that night, during Bucket Head’s bath, I reminded him of the Pit Bull and his silly “butt-hangers,” and then said “You know, you’ve got those too. They’re called ‘testicles.’”

“WHAT?! I have butt-hangers like that dog at the park?!” His face snapped away with a bang and his eyes immediately focused in on his happy place.

“Yes honey, all boys do. Your brother and Daddy do too. And they’re called testicles, not butt-hangers.

“I thought that was called my penis,” he replied, confused.

“No, your penis is the thing you pee from and your testicles hang down under your penis…they’re in that wrinkly thingy which is actually called a scrotum.”

“Oh, you mean my lumpy things?” he asked as he grabbed his little nutsack and attempted to yank if off to examine it more closely.

“Dude – be careful with that thing!” I cautioned. “I want grandchildren someday!”

Unfazed, his neurons started to fire. I could see the proverbial lightbulb appearing above his curly little head. I could also sense that his mouth and his brain weren’t on the same page. That happens a lot due to his speech impairment. “But Mom? Ike (our dog) is a boy and he doesn’t have cuticles.”

“Testicles.”

“Where are Ike’s tentacles.”

Testicles. They’re called testicles, honey. We had them removed when he was a puppy.”

“WHAT? Why?” (the horror!)

“Because we didn’t want him to make puppies with other dogs.”

“THOSE BUTT-HANGERS TURN INTO PUPPIES?!”

{OMG} “Testicles, and no. But dogs who don’t have butt-hangers, I mean testicles, can’t make puppies.”

I don’t think he heard that last part though because he had commenced kneading his scrotum like a flesh colored foam stress ball. I wasn’t sure if I should turn my back and give him some privacy, smack his hand away and tell him to “drop it,” or start searching WebMD for emergency testicle rupture advice.

The next few days were touch and go…literally. Bucket Head was absolutely riveted by his newfound anatomy. I honestly think he was watching his gooch closely to see if it would morph into a small litter of puppies.

At one point I had to pull him aside and gently direct that he go and explore his testicles in the privacy of his own room or in the bathroom behind a closed door. He was fine with that.

The next morning, Bucket Head walked by my husband with a look of determination on his little face. “Where are you going?” his Daddy asked.

“I’m just going upstairs to explore my testicles.”

“Okay. Thanks for the update.”

My husband immediately came to find me. “Did you know that Bucket Head is going upstairs to explore his testicles?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot to tell you. He’s totally into his junk now.”

“Oh. Okay. How’d that come up?”

“He saw an unneutered dog at the park the other day. He’s been obsessed ever since. I’m trying to encourage him to stop dropping trou in public.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh—and honey? If he sees you naked, he might think he’s getting a puppy.”

******

This isn’t the first time Bucket Head has let his freak flag fly around dogs. If you liked this post, you should definitely read about the phase he went through last summer.

Cornhole

(Please note: the following blog post was originally published in 2008, when I was clearly still on the sauce. Proceed with caution.) 

I love that my 9-year-old son is a Cub Scout… I do. He has a blast and it is always very wholesome, good clean fun, which I suspect is good for growing children. Soap carving, anyone?

But I have two problems with the whole Cub Scout camp-out thing.

1.) They have a very strict rule that no alcoholic beverages are allowed at camp.

2.) The other moms and dads are very nice. I mean VERY nice. Like the nicest people I have ever met.

In other words—I do not fit in there at all.

And being in the balmy, great outdoors around very nice, responsible parents and 30 loud little boys running amok with sharp sticks and pocket knives really makes me want to soothe myself with a cocktail or two.

But I muscled through the pain and managed to really enjoy myself, and there were a few high points that I’d like to share with you.

First, let’s talk about Cornhole.

Cornhole is a bean-bag tossing game that originated in Ohio. The board looks like this:

Seriously. I’m not making this up.

Apparently, people who play this game are very passionate about it. The dimensions of the board are strictly regulated, as are the bean-bags, the distance between the player and the board, the scoring, etc. However, I had never heard of this “game” until Cub Scout Family Camp when one of the dads asked me “if I wanted to play Cornhole” with him and I almost crapped my pants.

“Excuse me?” I stuttered.

At which point he tossed me a bag of dried corn, pointed to the game board on the ground, and taught me how to play. And you know what? It was really, really fun! But I was DYING, y’all. Because I couldn’t control myself and made a snide crack about how I had never heard the term “Cornhole” outside of the prison movies I so enjoy watching and HE TOTALLY DIDN’T GET IT. He cocked his head to the side and made a “Huh?” face and I quickly realized that I should probably not attempt to joke around with Cub Scout Dads about anything remotely related to S-E-X, prison style or otherwise. These dads are very nice. And very straight. And to some of them, Cornhole is no laughing matter.

But thank God for my husband. As soon as I finished my Cornholing session with Mr. Ohio, I ran as fast as my stumps could carry me to tell my man about the game and we giggled until our faces hurt. We don’t do that very often—my husband is actually one of those Nice Cub Scout Dads—but luckily for me, I must have rubbed off on him a bit (wink wink) because he does appreciate a good dirty joke from time to time. Not often enough, I say, but we’re working on it. I’ll keep rubbing.

So one more really funny thing to share, if you don’t mind.

The Scoutmaster organized an “Iron Chef” competition between the campers. The kids were divided up into three teams, given access to a pantry of processed foods, and taught various outdoor camp cooking methods, one of which is the Dutch Oven. Honestly, I should force my son to stay in Scouts just for the material.

After the cooking demonstration, the three teams were each assigned a secret ingredient to incorporate into their dishes. My team’s secret ingredient was popcorn. Now, I was just lurking on the edge of the group, having to follow my 19-month-old son, Bucket Head, around and make sure he didn’t wander off and get eaten by a bear, so I wasn’t really helping the kids choose the menu. But watching these other nice nice moms and dads strategize was fascinating.

The main rule of this contest was that the kids had to do all the cooking—the parents could only supervise and control the cooking fuel. But when I learned that my group was stumped about how to use the popcorn in their dish, I just had to butt-in. They had just settled on a simple trail mix of popcorn and nuts when I sidled up to one of the more assertive moms and asked her if we had access to marshmallows and butter. I then planted the seed in her head that if we made popcorn balls out of the popcorn, it would be a real crowd pleaser and something that the kids would have fun making. Wouldn’t you know it? That nice mom hopped on my idea faster than an Ohioan on a stiff ear of corn.

Now, I’m not used to being listened to by anyone other than my team of well-compensated, highly skilled psychiatrists, so suddenly being thrust into the mix of an Iron Chef competition with a team of eager scouts and parents reporting to me was quite the power trip. Suddenly, Bucket Head was fending for himself and I was melting butter and marshmallows in a Dutch Oven, fixin’ to lead my team to victory. You know that phrase “too many cooks in the kitchen”? Well, imagine the extra chaos of an outdoor camp style kitchen with propane fueled burners and a very enthusiastic team of very competitive nice nice parents and their 6-year-old sons. It was mayhem. But the popcorn balls were my idea and I was not going to let my team down, dammit!

Well we oiled up the hands of these seven little kids, and I gotta tell you, I don’t think their hands were all that clean. But rules are rules and we had an Iron Chef style ticking clock to beat, so we greased ’em up and let them dig into the pot and grab handfulls of gooey popcorn and mold them into balls. It was messy. It was sticky. It was germy. But it was really cool.

Thank GOD it worked.  Just look at my glistening balls. Aren’t they gorgeous?

Fast forward to the judging. My husband, who has a talent for garnishing, helped the boys plate up the other dishes and deliver them to the judges with those germy popcorn balls decorating each plate like something you’d see in a real restaurant—and I’m talkin’ about a classy joint like Cracker Barrel.

You should have heard the “ooohs” and “ahhhhs” from the judges and other campers. The popcorn balls were a HUGE hit. In fact, the lead judge exclaimed that he hadn’t eaten an old-fashioned popcorn ball since he was a child and the nostalgia of it really touched his heart. Yep, those germy sweet and salty balls o’ mine won our team first place! The nice nice scout leaders even recognized me by name in the award ceremony; it may be one of my proudest moments. (Note to self: never underestimate the power of balls, and also, I really need to get out more.)

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