“Testament to Testicles,” by Chana Feinstein

Jun 12th, 2019 | By | Category: Nonfiction, Prose

Now penises are fine. I’m good with penises. Let me be clear: The penis is my friend. A penis makes sense. Cylindrical, aerodynamic, smooth—clearly designed for job.

Women and gay men: how many of you have ever really looked? I mean gotten right up there, nose to nose as it were, in an air of scientific inquiry, and studied the testicle? Most of you were probably too caught up in the moment but—when you have sex, I bet it’s pretty much just with the penis.

Tell me ladies, and some gentlemen, how much of your day do you spend thinking about the testicle? Aren’t they just there in the background hanging around—like your boyfriend’s roommate? The testicle is the lurking, troll-like roommate of the penis; wrinkled and hairy.

Men, at Thanksgiving, when you see a turkey, do you secretly give thanks your personal giblets are not hanging from your face? I mean what part of your body has both hair AND wrinkles? At the same time? And we’re not talking just any hairy. This is middle-aged, bald-guy, comb-over hairy.

You can’t part the stuff, can’t smooth it down, gel it back, and there’s way too much scalp. There’s just no way to make these babies pretty. Shaving will not be an improvement. If you do shave, it’ll be like some old white guy, Mr. Burns-head, covered with bumps and spots and veins. What you need, men, is ball-rugs. A little wig you can pull over those things. Little ears—googly eyes—whiskers, like little kittens hanging under there.

Then there’s the name. Testicle: the love child of an octopus and a tentacle. There they are on one of those National Geographic specials—all the different species—big pink creatures, eyeless, with thick purple veins. Blue ones—blue balls—rolling around on the ocean floor. Small mossy-looking ones, kinda squirmy, flattening themselves and oozing under rocks, the short hairs swishing out through the water, reaching for plankton and minnows.

Then there’s the size question: Testicle Pride. Guys say: “You know him? He must have testicles the size of dumptrucks!” You ever see a woman say, “Whoa, look at those babies…!” Women, the truth now, you ever see a guy undress and first thing you think is, “Mm, mm. Those are some testicles…!”?

Women don’t go there. None of that, “Woah, she’s muy machisma, that gal’s got some kinda ovaries on her!” If women ovaries hung out, they’d be all: “These pink things?” Try to tuck one back in….  Yeah, we have them. We just keep ours politely inside.


Chana Feinstein resisted the impulse to send a giblet pic not merely because she finds themed work overdone, but because picking requires decision-making. In a former more earnest life, she helped the homeless and jail inmates. She is now completely useless, hoping to capitalize on her former do-gooder-hood in her writing, to not join their ranks. Part of her general uselessness is teaching other poor fools to unblock and write. She can be found @chanafein but has yet to say much, except complaints about Amtrak, and the Class system. At Quora, she writes on Psychopathy and cats.


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