Worst Hit in the Balls in Front of Women, Part 2: Three of Yours
THE BALLBUSTING JOURNAL | by Stacy | protecturnuts.com/models
18+ only. Satire and adult entertainment. Everything here is fantasy between consenting adults.
Last time I asked for your accidents. The time you got hit in the balls in front of women and never told anyone about it.
You sent them.
Sweetheart, you sent them.
I picked three. I'm telling them the way you told me, which means first person, which means for the next few minutes you're going to be reading your own worst afternoon in somebody else's words.
Try to enjoy it.
One: The Table
From a man who is, by his own admission, still annoyed about this.
She's sitting on the edge of a table. Skirt, legs crossed, doing that thing where the top foot bounces. You know the bounce. Everyone knows the bounce. We're talking about nothing. I'm standing in front of her because that's where you stand when you're talking to someone on a table. And the bounce gets bigger. She's laughing about something, and the foot's going higher each time, and there's a small part of my brain that clocks the arc and calculates where it's going and then does absolutely nothing with that information. Because what am I going to say? "Could you stop swinging your leg"? To a woman? Mid-conversation? So I stood there. I stood there and watched it happen three or four times, each one closer, and I did not move six inches to the left. The last one got me clean. She went "OH MY GOD" and her hands went over her mouth and she was genuinely mortified for about one and a half seconds. Then it wore off. And the noise that replaced it was not concern. I was on the floor of a kitchen because a college woman was bored and swinging her foot and I couldn't think of a polite way to move my balls.
He's right that there was no polite exit. There never is. That's the whole comedy of you, my love. He ran the numbers, saw the outcome coming, and decided the social cost of stepping aside was higher than a foot literally crushing his entire genepool.
And she wasn't aiming. That's the part that should stay with you. She was bored. A woman being mildly bored and swinging a shoe is sufficient to put a grown man on the floor and there is no equivalent of that anywhere in my life.
I'd also gently point out that most of you would stand there again. You know you would.
Two: The Chair
From a man describing a work thing, badly, over several messages.
Office. Someone's leaving, there's cake, and we're all stood around in that horrible semicircle. A colleague pulls a chair out to sit down and doesn't look behind her. Chair comes back. I'm behind her. The back of the chair catches me at exactly the worst possible height and I make a sound that I have never made before or since. The room went completely silent. There was cake in the air. Someone had a fork halfway up. And then my manager, who is a woman in her fifties and terrifying, said, and I quote: "Oh dear. Was that a direct hit?" A DIRECT HIT. In front of eleven people. I said "I'm fine" from a crouch. I was not fine. I had to sit down for twenty minutes pretending to read an email. That was four years ago and one of them still says "mind the chair" when I walk past.
"Was that a direct hit."
I want to shake that woman's hand. She assessed the situation in under a second, identified precisely what had happened, and chose the exact phrasing that would live in his head for four years.
Notice what he did, though. Crouched. Said he was fine. Read a fake email for twenty minutes. That's the male protocol and every single one of you runs it identically — the pain is negotiable but being seen isn't.
And notice the punchline is still going. Four years of "mind the chair." She's not being cruel, sweetheart. She just found something funny and it's never stopped being funny, and it never will, because nothing similar can ever happen to her.
Three: The Dog
From a man who wants it on the record that he still loves the dog.
Her dog. Big one. Excitable. I'd met him twice before and we were fine. I'm standing in her hallway in a suit. Good suit. And if you've ever worn proper suit trousers you know the fabric is basically nothing, it's lovely and soft and it offers absolutely zero protection from anything. She says "he jumps." I say "it's fine, I love dogs." He jumped. Both front paws. Full weight. Direct. I didn't make a noise. That's the bit I think about. I'd have preferred a noise. What came out was just air, like someone sat on a cushion, and then I was folding forward with my hands going somewhere useless and my vision doing something strange at the edges. It climbed. That's what I remember most. It didn't stay where it happened. It went straight up into my stomach and I genuinely thought I was going to be sick on her floor in a suit. And I could hear her. The whole time I'm down there trying to work out how to breathe, I can hear her absolutely losing it behind me. Properly gone. She was trying to grab his collar and apologise and she couldn't do either because she couldn't speak. She eventually got out "I DID say he jumps" and that set her off again. She got me a glass of water afterwards. I was sitting on her stairs. She was still laughing while handing it to me. We've been together three years.
Look at the two halves of this and tell me it isn't the whole thing in one story.
Him: no sound, no control, folding forward, his testicular pain climbing into his stomach, genuinely considering being sick, sitting on a staircase in a good suit trying to remember how breathing works.
Her: four feet away, completely fine, physically incapable of speech because she's laughing so hard.
Same hallway. Same dog. Same second.
And the trousers are the detail I keep coming back to, my love. He'd dressed up. He'd made an effort. And the nicer the fabric, the less there is of it, which means every man who has ever put on a good suit has quietly made himself more available than he was in jeans.
And three years later she's still bringing it up, and he mentions it in a note to a stranger, which tells me everything about how much he minds.
What All Three Have in Common
Read them again and notice what's missing.
Nobody aimed. A bored foot. A chair. A dog. Not one of these women intended anything. There wasn't a single decision made about any of these men.
Every female saw it coming and did nothing. The arc of the shoe. "He jumps." They had information and they stood there anyway, because moving would have been awkward.
All three said they were fine. From the floor. Every time.
And every woman in every story was completely untouched. Same room, same accident, same physics. The chair could have caught her. The dog could have jumped at her. The foot was hers. And nothing whatsoever would have happened.
That's the entire arrangement, sweetheart. You're not vulnerable to women who want to hurt you. You are vulnerable to furniture. To pets. To someone swinging a leg while thinking about something else.
Yours are outside. In a bag. At exactly the height of every ordinary thing that moves in a room.
Mine are behind bone and have never once been troubled by a chair.
And You'd Do It Again
Here's what I actually took from your inbox this week.
Not one of you was angry. Not one. Three men, three ruined afternoons, and every single account was fond.
The table guy is still annoyed but he's annoyed at himself. The office guy has a four-year running joke he's clearly proud of. The dog guy married her, essentially.
You don't resent these women even slightly. You've kept these memories like souvenirs, polished them, and sent them to a woman on the internet who you knew would enjoy them.
Which she did. Enormously.
Go on then. Next batch. 😈
And Here's What the Women Learn
One last thing about these stories, and it's the part nobody writes down.
There's always an audience.
An office semicircle holding cake. A girlfriend in a hallway. A woman on a table who was mid-sentence. And they all watch the same thing happen to a man they know, a man they see every day, a man who is, in some quiet corner of their assessment, a possible candidate.
That's the bit, sweetheart. Not the stranger. The one they know.
Because every woman in that room has, at some point, run a very brief and mostly unconscious appraisal of the men around her. Nobody decides to do it. It just happens, the way you notice a door is open. He's a colleague, he's a friend, he's someone's cousin at a party. Filed, lightly, as a maybe.
And then the chair comes back, or the dog jumps, or the foot swings one more time.
And in about half a second she watches the maybe fold at the waist and go grey and say "I'm fine" from the floor.
She doesn't stop considering him. That's what surprises most of you. It's not a disqualification. Nobody goes off a man because a dog got him. If anything she'll remember him more fondly than the ones nothing ever happened to, because now she has a story about him and a small amount of tenderness attached. Even if for you it's a lot of tenderness attached (down there).
But something has been permanently added to the file.
She now knows, from direct observation rather than from jokes, that whatever else he is, he has a specific place on him where none of it counts. Not his height. Not his job. Not how he carries himself at work. There's a spot, roughly the height of a chair back, and when it's reached he stops functioning in front of everyone and she watches it happen with a cup of tea in her hand.
And she knows the same is not available in reverse. Not from him, not from any of them, not ever.
That's the information in the room, my love. Everyone there is going home with it, including you, and nobody is going to say a word about it.
Which is why you're still thinking about a chair from four years ago.
Comments: yours. Where were you, what hit you, what did she say afterwards? The funnier the better. I'm collecting. 😏
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Frequently Asked Questions
Why do accidental groin hits happen so often?
Because the testicles sit outside the body at roughly the height of everyday objects and movements, meaning ordinary activity, furniture, pets and sport create frequent unintended contact.
Why do men say they're fine when they clearly aren't?
It's a near-universal social reflex. The embarrassment of being seen reacting is often experienced as worse than the pain itself.
Why do women laugh when it happens?
The laugh is usually an involuntary response to sudden incongruity that arrives before conscious judgment, and concern typically follows within seconds.
Do women have an equivalent vulnerability to accidents?
No. Female reproductive organs are internal and shielded by the pelvis, so the same impacts produce no comparable result.
When does an accidental groin injury need medical attention?
Sudden or severe pain, significant swelling, nausea or vomiting, a testicle in an unusual position, or pain continuing at rest all require urgent same-day evaluation.
Satirical entertainment for adults. Everything here presumes enthusiastic, ongoing consent between adults. Testicular injury is a medical emergency — sudden severe pain, significant swelling, nausea, or a testicle sitting oddly requires urgent care the same day.
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