The first thought? Dear God, she gave me something. I started spiraling: Gonorrhea? Worse? Some tantric STI from a dirty hippie? I was a phone call away from slinging accusations like the media at a Trump White House press briefing but, I decided to take the high road, and confer with my doctor instead.
Get the facts sorted out first.
I hit up him up via email and embarrassingly got his assistant’s reply to my confession. She explained he was still with other patients and would email me back. After what seemed like a lifetime he gave me the full hazmat protocol on the reply.
“You’re allergic to something in that coconut oil.”
Apparently, the “sacred” oil she used came from a raw coconut fermented in the tears of over-woke Coachella influencers. And my body, or my balls and taint rather, wasn’t having it.
But the nightmare didn’t stop there and now I just when I was feeling like a guest star on a Seinfeld episode things escalated.
By day five, I had what I can only describe as dripping radioactive Chernobyl Zombie Balls. At least that’s what they reminded me of when I couldn’t help but take a quick glance south between my legs.
Trust me I didn’t want to look but someone had to brave the sight.
The skin was peeling like a snake shedding its regrets and weeping like a millennial graduating with a 400k degree in art history from NYU.
I’d also just manscaped a few days before, so now with the hair growing back like a cactus in heat, every step felt like walking in spiked underwear. I couldn’t sit, squat, or even trust a fart without thinking I’d spontaneously combust and take the couch with me.
At some point, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on day five—alone, naked, hobbling like a wounded animal—and burst out laughing. That’s when I knew I had to share this story because most people would bury this in the vault of shame… but screw it—if my pain makes you laugh, it was worth every itchy, inflamed step.
It was like my ass and nuts had been marinated in regret and roasted over the flames of my poor life choices.
I had to cancel meetings, pilates lessons, dinner, and more. I spent five days near naked on a towel, airing out my junk, watching reruns of Narcos, praying for death—or the ability to do some sort of aloe tea bag to ease my pain and suffering.
Then I confided in a few friends and a former teammate, John. He was a medic and one of the few people who (obviously being a Navy man) had his share of personal encounters with crotch fire both personally and as a medic in the SEAL Teams. He’d had or seen just about everything. And I found solace in our funny text exchange about him sharing his ‘Stranger Things’ medical encounters of the genitalia and to be honest, it did make me feel better. At least the damage wasn’t ongoing like herpes. So I had that going for me!
There are some great SEAL TEAM SEX stories out there. Haha
Moral of the story?
Never—and I mean never—trust your sacred sack to some homemade hippie sauce whipped up in a mason jar by a new un-tested girl who charges their crystals under the moon.
Just because it smells like Fiji and Enlightenment doesn’t mean it won’t turn your junk into an X-rated episode of, The Last of Us.
Tantric voodoo and artisanal oils don’t mix unless you want your ass looking like it lost a bar fight with a bottle of Sriracha. When your sacred package is on the line, skip the trust fall, ask for an ingredients disclosure, do a patch test—or prepare to spend the week air-drying your zombie nuts like a rotisserie chicken spiced with shame and regret.
And as for the woman? Turns out she was crazier than a shit house rat in a hurricane—like full-moon-on-a-Tuesday, sage-burning-on-a-Ford F250 kind of crazy. One minute she’s whispering about sacred geometry and the next she’s arguing with me about “masculine blockage.”
Lesson learned: if someone offers you a tantric massage and they name their essential oils after dead South Indian gods, run. Or at least bring your own lube to the party like Diddy.
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**SOFREP wants to share your stories. If you have a good’n submit it here.
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