Tennis Anyone?

Being pegged a good listener has its downside.

When I was thirteen, my grandfather spoke to me, man to man, over a game of tennis about his sexual frustrations with my grandmother. I was gathering the balls that had collected three feet from the net when he started. He walked towards me and rested the head of his racket on the net, face up. He stared at the head and rocked it side to side a couple times before he looked up at me.

“You know when horses get horny, how they get mean until they can have sex?”

I looked up and didn’t answer. For the record, my answer would have been “no, I haven’t contemplated the sexual frustrations of stallions.” Even though I was listening, I stared at my grandfather—all I could do was watch. He was wearing a tight-yellowed polo shirt of no brand or notoriety. A worn, frayed cotton that was stretched tight across his belly. His shorts were brown terrycloth and obscenely short, reminiscent of a past when men must have been compensating for the fact that women couldn’t show their legs. His legs were thin, a jolly torso scooped onto legs.

“Their balls fill with cum and it hurts them so they get nasty and agitated. You know what I mean?”

“No.” I had collected all the balls and stood there staring.

“Well it’s like that between me and your grandmother. We fight and fight and most couples have sex after to have some relief. But your grandmother wont have sex with me so I’m like a horse.”

“Your balls hurt?” I didn’t want to know but I had to be sure I was hearing this correctly.

“Yes, I have no release.”

I proceeded to lose the tennis match to my blue balling grandfather, undoubtedly due to his rage.

Or maybe it was because all I could think through out the match was “I can’t wait to tell grandma!”