Endless Balls

I pull my jalopy up to an isolated, industrial building. I leave the whale shark behind and enter the rotten rectangle through its grimy double glass doors stained with dirt and mucus. I flash my blue card to the lady in the glass box and enter a narrow room with a beat bench. An aging man rests there comfortably. I place my blue knapsack on the far side of the bench away the man. I begin to undress. The aging man turns towards me and I figure that it is time for a pisser. Half-dressed, I pull out of the urinal to return to my knapsack on my side of the bench only to see that it is being violated in the most grotesque fashion imaginable. The aging man, now naked, decides either unwittingly or molestationally to hang his towel on the wooden hook on my side of the bench and, in that process, allow his hanging balls to perch on my faithful Dakine knapsack. A pregnant paused fills the moist air. I turn my burning eyes away from the sac on sack action. I stare at the rusty tiled wall that is oozing moisture and anxiety. What is the appropriate response to this uncouth man who has demonstrated such hostility to social etiquette and hygiene? I peer back to my side of the bench: the affair is over. I totter back to my side of the bench. I avoid any sort of social interaction. I finish undressing. I pull on my dark blue trunks. The aging man is, incredibly, still naked, with his eyes shut. Is he meditating? Oh, the eccentricity of the naked man. I resolve for a ballsy move. I march into a stinky stall, wrap an inch of toilet paper around my hand, noisly return to my side of the bench, pick up the tainted knapsack, stomp to the garbage can, turn around, establish eye contact with the perpetrator, and tomahawk slam my knapsack into the garbage. I dive into the blue.