Tantric Trauma: How a Coconut Oil Rubdown From An Ex Turned My Balls into Chernobyl

Let me take you on a theme park ride named, “Self-inflicted Stupidity”—one that started with a seductive offer from a girl I was dating, and ended with me waddling like a Walking Dead extra with red swollen, oozing, zombie balls. Sorry for the visual but it’s necessary for you to understand how f’d up this was.

Now, before you start judging, remember—we’ve all been there at one point! I’ve been shot at, almost blown up, and tossed out of helicopters, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the unholy fire that erupted from my southern hemisphere after what should’ve been a relaxing introduction to tantric massage.

It started like all bad ideas do, with a dodgy offer from an ex who had taken a crash course in Bali from some dodgy teacher who probably had other intentions.

“I’m into tantra and energy work. I want to give you a massage tonight.”

Like any straight male with a functional reproductive system, I said yes.

I show up at her candle-lit apartment outside of Austin, Texas. Ambient music. Birds singing in the background. A jar of oil that looked like it was blessed by a shaman in Tulum. She says it’s some kind of homemade organic, soul-awakening coconut blend. I was kinda suspect and I should’ve known. Nothing with “homemade massage” ends well for me.

The massage itself? Fire. Literally and figuratively.

After bowing and asking permission to worship me as a God (You had to be there! This is tantra folks…), she works my back, thighs, glutes, and eventually slides into what I’d call “questionable territory” on any legal document. I’m not gonna lie—it was incredible. I left her apartment the next morning glowing like a happy Buddhist monk on edibles.

But within two days… the gates of hell opened.

At first it was a mild itch. A little tingle in the taint. I thought, maybe I brushed up against a rogue yoga mat at Cihangir in Istanbul. But by day three, it looked like my balls had gone fifteen rounds with Jake Paul. Red, angry, inflamed, fire—like I’d dipped them in Petrol and lit a match.

I’d had poison oak on my junk as a kid. Got it rock climbing commando in California and must have took a leak with oak on my hands. I thought that was hell. Turns out there’s another level! Deeper, darker, more painful, and hotter.

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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