Of balls and butterflies
Okay, all you nude-beach enthusiasts out there — y’all know who you are, too: all those shiny low-hangers, glistening and jangling, ripely-enticing as shiny damsons on the beach at sunset. Uh huh, this one’s for you, men!
First, though, my tanned low-ballers, WTF’s up with this stygian weather? I mean, yes, we all live in Dallas. We all perfectly well know just how scorching it can get this time of year Hell, it’s July! And, of course, unlike the other 11 months, July is always July everywhere across the whole northern hemisphere.
During July, one may pack exactly the same clothes for a trip to Dusseldorf as to Delhi, walk just as barefoot along the beaches of Sweden as the Seychelles, or camp out as refreshed by the Finnish fjords as in Florida.
Excepting, alone, for this relentless summer of 2022.
Here in Texas (and across the entire nation for that matter) where on top of it being, day-in/day-out, 105 degrees in the shade, our long, hot summer’s entertainment consists of sweating through atrophying testimonials of what’s by now entered into our vernacular as the “1/6 Chronicles of a madman” — testimonies on events ranging from smashing White House china hurled against the West Wing walls replete with accounts of McDonald’s ketchup oozing down the Oval Office’s silk moire to ranting psychotically about not being permitted to commandeer The Beast’s steering wheel toward the Capitol so that he could emcee the vice president’s hanging!
Hopefully, one pauses to think, ’twasn’t the Lincoln china?
Am I suffering heatstroke? I mean, come on, L’Orange! Why not just tear a page out of Melania’s playbook: If the best one can be is ornamental, then, by God, at least give superficiality all the gloss you’ve got. Who can’t appreciate just a uselessly whimsical gewgaw after all? No need to go all Ivan the Terrible meets the Looney Tunes’ Tasmanian Devil on our entire democratic Republic!
Now, collectively everyone, just take in a deep, testicular-tightening breath … Where’s the swimming pool anyhow? Anyone know its current temp? Now time to move on to way, way more important things such as, well, how beautifully one’s testicles can hang at the beach!
Scootch in closer, bois and girlz. Kick off your flipflops. Let’s get right to it, shall we?
“Have I got a prostate morsel for you!” taunted my tummy-tuck surgeon in his office the other day, as I was
accompanying my husband for his post-op surgical follow-up. (Our handsome tummy-tuck surgeon, by the way, is totally straight, yet an avid reader of this paper. I don’t know what percentage of his patients are gay.) He teased, “Howard, you’re not even gonna believe this phone call I got yesterday.
“I received an inquiry from a potential patient, whom at first I thought was just one of my fellow medical pals playing a joke on me: ‘Doctor,’ the caller asked, ‘do you perform Scrotox?’ Understand, now, I consider myself a very professionally open-minded surgeon; I’ve heard, seen and sutured just about every body part imaginable. But even I had to look this one up online. Columnist Russell, have any of your readers ever asked you about Scrotox?”
Dear Readers: OK, children, this year, for the first time ever, debuting on 2022’s summertime-nudist, beach blanket list of revelatory, private treasure-box excitements (joining the pervy ranks of twin Prince Alberts chained to umbilical piercings, anal bleaching, laser-light butt plugs, invisibility thongs, penis pearling and wrap-around, serpentine erection tattoos) comes Scrotox. Yes, it’s a real thing!
So, gather ‘round the fondu fire, men: Tired of those wrinkly, scrunched-up, just-out-of-the-pool testicles? It’s your lucky summer!
Scrotox, a non-surgical cosmetic treatment, mimics the effect of a warm, sunshiny day. Botox, injected directly into the testicles, creates an enhanced, nudist beach-worthy aesthetic to one’s dangling twin baby-makers. Scuttlebutt has it that the injections are 100 percent painless, too, provided one considers the application of a strong, topical anesthetic cream. So for any of you worried about whatever possible “shrinkage” a pool’s temperature may wreak upon your itsy-bitsy/teenie-weenie bikini’s bulge; well, fear no more! For the mere cost of but a month’s rent, you, too, can emerge glistening from any given body of water sporting a perfectly-packaged DoD (Dick of Death)!
Dear Howard: A quiet, handsome young man from Mumbai, moved next door to me about a year ago. Raj is American by birth but lived in India as a child when his mother remarried, as he explained unnecessarily upon moving in. “I raise butterflies,” Raj said. “It’s sort of a hobby, the reason I chose the unit next to yours was its screened-in balcony and the big shade tree . You like butterflies?”
I do. And have seldom seen Raj since. We keep different schedules, but over the months his balcony has become the delight of all the young neighborhood kids. And any fluttering fantasies I once harbored of possibly becoming Raj’s boyfriend have been dashed upon the rocks when, on more than one occasion lately, I’ve seen his gorgeous new Bollywood girlfriend race past me in the mornings, just as I’m returning home for bed.
Then, last week I came home and all had changed. First thing I noticed was the eerie silence from Raj’s back porch full of butterflies. His door was ajar, too. I pushed it open. All Raj’s furniture was gone, but in the center of his living room floor was an ornate, geometric pattern—a radiantly intricate floral design, drawn of chalk and colorful powders — like something belonging to a museum! I discovered a note slipped under my own door. All it said was, “Thank you, kind neighbor, for not judging.”
Any thoughts, Howard?
— Winged Mystery
Dear WM: Well, I’m hardly any Hercule Poirot, understand; moreover, I’m a total amateur concerning the art and ritual of rangoli — that colorful chalk drawing you found on Raj’s living room floor. It’s intended to be celebratory: A beautiful design of impermanence, tied universally to the female experience. Rangoli — as an equivalency to praying — is literally meant (I think) to reflect the changing notations of beauty; i.e., Raj’s year of transitioning — her metamorphosis into a Bollywood beauty.
If still confused, just go to TikTok: There, at least, you’ll find the most mesmerizing rangoli creations
imaginable!
—Howard Lewis Russell
A question for Howard? He’ll be delighted to read it. Having heard everything, he’ll consider anything, and nothing is ever, too, too . . . just drop a line, anytime: AskHoward@dallasvoice.com