Icicles on the Testicles

Sunday morning:  Somewhere around 0-Dark Hundred, three unrelated factors jar me awake.

The first is the damn dog barking at the back door, something she does when (a) she needs to pee, or (b) a creature of indeterminate origin streaks through the yard and attracts her attention,  or (c) she fucking feels like it because she has the cottage cheese brain of, well, a dog.

The second is my dick, which had stiffened to the insistent point of demanding immediate attention.  No, dear readers, this is not the traditional piss hard-on, this was lust, desire, needs, Maximus Horniness created by passing out the night before the achievement of Saturday Night Jollies.

2003986839582139483_rsAnd the third is the astonishing arrival of a the season’s first serious cold front, which drives Guido to her usual winter practice of removing every stitch of bedcovers from my naked goose-bumped body to her own, abandoning the husband she vowed to cherish forever to the deadly Arctic chill, and to hell with him.

Shivering like a sufferer of Parkinson’s Disease, I roll out of bed and stumble blindly through the false dawn gloaming, following my hardwood dick into the Florida room to let the canine out.  Opening the door, the draft off the frozen tundra howls in and shrivels my splendid purple oak of love to a pale blue splinter.  Holy man-tits, Batman.  It’s not dawn yet and my Sunday is fucking ruined.

Listen.  Two out of three of these pre-dawn adventures are easily , even happily, resolved.  The dog will return in a matter of moments, as will my boner.  I’m bigger than Guido, and can seize back the covers she ripped off while I vulnerably slept.  Sure she’ll whine, but the kitchen knives are rooms away.

But there’s not a damn thing I can do about this shit-licking cold weather which, it seems, everybody else in this brain-dead state of Florida welcomes like it’s the greatest thing to happen since the arrival of their IRS stimulus check.  I didn’t move here to endure the chill of a New England springtime in November and December.  I came for endless summer: 90 degrees with matching humidity, 12 months a year.  I didn’t know.  I fucked up.

Guido and I are the only two people I know who actually like Florida weather.  Most of the year, everybody else hides from it, cowering in their hermetically sealed air-conditioned houses and cars, moaning about the humidity and searing sun.  That’s the very climate that brought us here.  Like orchids, we bloom in its glory.  Redheaded Guido breaks out in glorious, sensuous, tasty freckles.  I blacken like my swarthy Gypsy ancestors.  We don’t even have an air conditioner.  We sweat day and night and love every wet salty second.

Why don’t the rest of you go the hell home and leave this subtropical paradise to people like us who enjoy it?  And take this nipply cold climate with you?

Anyway, the dog trots back in, and I flee back to bed to grab the covers.  That wakes up Guido, who rolls over in sleepy protest, pushing her sweet warm flesh up against me, re-igniting the old kickstand, and well, maybe Sunday morning isn’t ruined after all.

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12 Responses to Icicles on the Testicles

  1. Ms Calabaza says:


    whine, whine, whine …

    I’ve had company from Pembroke Pines here all weekend long and she’s dressed for the Alaskan tundra. Yesterday, we actually had flurries and she was worried she’d miss her flight back home to you … Sheeeeshh, a little cool weather won’t kill ya! Have a hot toddy with some tequila before driving to work today.

  2. Camiel Toe says:

    So? Didja get some?

  3. Frank of Oregon says:

    Even if we all went back where we came from, the weather wouldn’t change. Duh. The seasons would still continue, and it would be cooler in November than it is in July. Duh. Cold fronts would still pass through from october to March or April. Duh.

    But I’m sure your dog loves you.

  4. Hose B says:

    Sorry Squat-man, but most warm-blooded humanoids find this weather delightful. It’s nice not to sweat every minute of the day, every day of the year. Buy a sweater.

  5. Incertus says:

    You are not alone in viewing the chill in the air with disgust. I find seasons to be overrated, and prefer the Florida formulation of summer and not-summer, but getting below 70 tweaks me. I’m glad that there are people who like seasons, though, because otherwise even more of those bastards would want to live down here, and it’s crowded enough as it is.

  6. The Dog says:

    Cold weather is fun. It turns my turds into steamers.

  7. Anonymous says:

    I have read your blog every day for about 6 months and never once posted a comment. But now I think I have to.

    I just want to say I never want to read anything about your johnson again. Or anybody else’s johnson. Don’t you think whatever point you wanted to make about the weather could have been made just as easily without dragging out your johnson?

    Wrinkle it up and put it away. Please.

  8. Barbara Ganousch says:

    With all due respect to the Anonymous writer above, I enjoyed reading about your johnson and look forward to more.

  9. Ted End says:

    About your johnson: do you mean Andrew or Lyndon B?

  10. Johnson says:

    I find all this attention rather….stimulating.

  11. Mr Schwinnckle says:

    I want to know or maybe I dont want to know the answer to the following….

    “The dog will return in a matter of moments, as will my boner. ”

    I dont think I want to know why you get a boner when the dog returns. Are you starting to like Teqi?

  12. Madam I says:

    Ah I am glad to see your literary piece of art has returned like the brisk weather of which you write. Amazing how the mere mention of your wanker sends tithers down every one’s quills. I am proud of you, you only mentioned nipples once. Now be a good boy and turn on the heater, I know you have one.

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