Annals of Depravity: My Ballbusting Fetish
It was twenty years ago on a cold February afternoon that I first paid a woman to kick me in the balls. We met in a cemetery by my house and found a secluded spot among the gravestones. With any fetish, it’s the anticipation you relish. I’d fantasized about this for years, and now, with pleasure chemicals flooding through my body and brain, it was almost like I was levitating. I stood still and readied myself for the impact. The voluptuous redhead launched the strike, her boot making a beeline for my bag. Taking one in the cubes, I was about to learn, was about as easy as having a needle stuck in your eyeball. Each time her foot came up I twisted my body or blocked it. My first attempt was a failure, but I was on a mission now to get it right.
This led me down a dark road of depravity. Over the next several years, in seedy motel rooms, back alleys and gas station parking lots, I explored various ways of getting my stones smashed. I tried it all: kicks, punches, from the front, from behind…even self-busting: a technique of swatting your nards with an apple inside a sock. A dominatrix once whacked me in the plums with my dead grandmother’s cane. (I’m going to hell, I know.) The worst shot I’d ever taken, I saw stars and dark matter. A half hour later when I was ordering a sandwich, my terrorized balls were throbbing out of my pants, and I felt like vomiting up my kidneys. The sight of that cane, even now, makes me wince.
Who knows when it started. Maybe it was when I saw Christine Louise kick Jason Coleman in the balls in eighth grade. Or maybe it was a scrotal smash from the movies that did it, like this infamous Kristy McNichol bust from Little Darlings.
The psychological dynamic of ballbusting is a thrill beyond description: a woman exerting power over a man, rendering him helpless by striking the very seat of his manhood. It’s fantastically erotic. The ultimate turn on. For years I thought I was a freak, a geek, a degenerate. But I knew I wasn’t alone when I stumbled onto this website, Scrambled Eggs: Dedicated to the Art of Kicking Testicles, which delves into the psychology of ballbusting: why men love it, and why women love to do it.
I had memorable sessions over the years. A dominatrix who looked like Quentin Jackson made war on my balls at the Holiday Inn, delivering shots that made me howl like a coyote as she mashed my sac down to jelly. And I remember a manager kicking me out of a convenience store parking lot as two 19-year-old blondes took turns crushing my coconuts.
You’d be amazed at what you can handle when you’re prepared and your adrenaline is flowing. Harry Houdini was famous for being able to take any punch in the stomach without pain or injury. But when a fan gave Houdini an unexpected shot in his dressing room it ruptured his appendix and killed him. I was only injured once by a stealth kick after a session.
My friend Matt has always been confounded by my ballbusting fetish. “If you had sex with them before they kicked you it might make sense,” he said. But a fetish like this is a catch-22. I’ve never had the courage to bring it up with any “nice” girls I’ve dated. I have tried to get romantic with some of my doms over the years, but it’s never worked. I think it’s hard for a woman to respect you after she’s used your balls for a speed bag.
