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Balls Gone Dry

The Atomic Dog is a weekly feature that isn't necessarily about weight training or bodybuilding. Sometimes it's about sports in general, sex, women, or male issues of some kind. At times it's inspirational, but it can also be informative, funny, and even a little weird, but hopefully, always interesting and a little controversial. We hope it reflects the nature of Testosterone magazine in that, just as no man is completely one-dimensional and only interested in one subject, neither are we. If it makes you think or laugh — or even get angry — it's served its purpose.

Most men don’t know how they’re going to die. I do.

Oh, I don’t know when, or the exact circumstances, but I pretty much know my death will happen something like this:

I might be driving along the ocean shore, maybe on the first sunny day of spring. Subconsciously I’ll be aware of the metaphor presented by spring: new birth, a new beginning. My spirit will soar as I contemplate all the possibilities of life.

I’ll smile, look at the sun, and declare that life is good.

Then, I’ll see her. She’s blonde in my imagination but when it really happens, she might have auburn hair, jet-black hair, or red hair. Hell, she might even be bald.

Regardless, she’ll have a body that’s as tight as Mr. Scrooge’s purse: long legs, a taut belly, and breasts the size of honeydew melons but twice as tasty. She’s got on some of those low-slung jeans, but not just any low-slung jeans. If, as it seems, the clothing manufacturers are competing against each other in a type of hip-hugger jeans space-race to see who can go lower than the next company, this pair of jeans is the equivalent of an unprecedented manned mission to Mars. In fact, when she turns around, you can easily see the twin fleshy moons of Phoebus and Demos cresting over the stonewashed 100% cotton horizon.

In other words, they is one humdinger of a pair of low-slung jeans.

But I’m driving! My car is heading west but she’s walking east. I follow her with my eyes. I’m powerless to look away. Ultimately, I’m looking behind me, trying to hold the vision of that glorious mammal as long as possible.

I hear the horns honking but my penis is doing the driving now. He’s deaf and not only that, he’s terribly nearsighted and he doesn’t even bother to give a hand signal when he turns. He wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a permit even though he’d no doubt take a fine driver’s license photo. As the car crashes through a barricade and plummets off a cliff into the ocean, the only thing that crosses my mind is that I can no longer see the modern day Circe who has drugged me with the sight of her body.

My car sinks to the bottom but I don’t try to get out of my car because I’m still thinking about her. I’m only vaguely aware of a bald and bloody Hari Krishna guy sticking through my windshield and I drown.

My car and body stay there because recent budget cuts have made salvage operations fiscally unwise. Years later, the car is covered with algae and a wide variety of mollusks. Fish swim in and out of my skull, which has become a real-life version of the little plastic skeleton at the bottom of the guppy bowl that’s on my desk. My watery grave becomes a favorite hangout for scuba divers.

And so it shall be.

I’m just puzzled that my future death scenario doesn’t happen more often, but a lot of men I know just don’t look. I can be walking down the street with a friend and some glorious piece of cooz–one that labored long and hard that morning to look bewitching–passes by. I’ll do a head jerk and run into a streetlight while my friend will continue on his way, unaware that a bit of musky scented heaven has traipsed by.

Maybe I’m oversexed but I don’t think so. I think I’m normal, or what normal used to be. Only I never thought about it much until recently.

Two of my friends, both in their forties, hang out with a lot of teenage girls because in addition to being trainers, they’re both surfers. They tell me that the number one complaint these girls have is that guys their own age don’t have any sex drive.

At first I was dumfounded, but then I started to see that it made sense. Most of the guys in their late teens or early to mid-twenties dress like little boys. They’re wearing baggy shorts that come down to their knees, ratty-ass T-shirts that profess their love of some American piss-water beer, and backwards baseball caps.

As such, I guess I’m not surprised that they’re not that horny because any one who wants to get laid isn’t going to make that his regular uniform.

Another friend of mine has a 17-year-old son. He’s 6’5" and still growing, only he weighs about 130 pounds; a soft 130 pounds, if you can imagine that. He doesn’t have a hair on his body and he’s not interested in girls.

I told his parents that he’s got the symptoms of delayed puberty. His body doesn’t produce Testosterone, the Testosterone doesn’t aromatize to estrogen, and thus estrogen isn’t around to cause his growth plates to fuse, allowing him to grow ever taller.

They sent him to the doc and his T levels came back a tick above 200 ng/deciliter, which is woefully low for almost any man, let alone a boy his age. Unfortunately, the whack-job of a doctor told his parents that the boy’s Testosterone levels are normal.

But the point remains, here’s yet another young man who’s not exhibiting "normal" character traits or "normal" physiological traits.

It makes me think we’re on the cusp of a real endocrine crisis in America. But if this problem is epidemic, what the heck is causing it?

The first thing that popped into my mind was diet. I’ve watched these young guys eat and over the years I’ve had some of them send me food intake logs. The most telling feature of their diet is a criminal lack of protein. Some of them average 30 grams a day but that’s not hard to believe when you look at what they eat. Most of them subsist on French fries, pizza, Captain Crunch cereal, 20-ounce mugs of root beer, and a few Chicken McNuggets.

It doesn’t take a nutrition genius to note that this "diet" is lacking vegetables, healthy fats, or pretty much anything that would fuel a hamster, let alone a young man.

Granted, some of them eat regular lunches at school, but that’s where we might find another clue. Many school lunch programs now use soy filler and as any regular member of T-Nation knows, soy seems to lead to decreased levels of Testosterone and in general interferes with reproductive capabilities.

A few weeks ago, a T-Man from Texas wrote me a letter about soy. He works as a prison guard and he told me that they replace up to 40% of the meat in the inmates’ food with soy. "It keeps them docile," is how he explained it. I haven’t been able to prove or disprove that bit of info yet, but if it’s true, it might give credence to my school lunch program theory.

While diet may explain why a lot of young men have weak or nonexistent sex drives, it doesn’t explain why a lot of older men are running on fumes.

Maybe their problem is more of a sociological/psychological thing. Men haven’t had much reason to act like men for the last generation or two so their balls have become vestigial, as useful, or useless, as the appendix or pair of tonsils. Might as well get rid of the balls altogether. Maybe we wouldn’t fear bicycle seats so much. I know that personally, it would help me a bunch. One of my nuts rides considerably lower than the other and as a result, whenever I run, I veer to the left so much that I can’t run in anything but a wobbly circle. Used to be hell trying to run down and out pass patterns or chase after a bus.

Women themselves might be playing a role by unconsciously using Testosterone-depleting decorating tactics. Anybody who’s ever spent the night in the slammer has most likely wondered why the walls are painted pink. Similar to the old soy-in-the-food trick described above, the color pink keeps inmates psychologically castrated. So what do you think happens when you let the average woman decorate your house or apartment? That’s right, pastels run amok. Not only that, but the bedroom gets filled with teddy bears, souvenirs of Disney Land, and all manner of porcelain knick knacks.

You couldn’t get an erection in a room like that if you freebased a kilo of Viagra and Pamela Anderson came up behind you, stuck her finger up your ass and blew gently on your balls. That’s why hookers rarely have to swipe stuffed animals off a floral-print bedspread before they service a customer–they know all that crap isn’t conducive to lustful sex. Besides, it’s hard to get man-goo off a Teddy Bear.

So sure, who needs all that Testosterone, it just mucks things up.

I really don’t know what the answer is, or whether it’s a problem that needs to be addressed. I remember the movie, "Little Big Man," where an Indian tribe who referred to themselves as the "human beings" adopted and raised the Dustin Hoffman character. Certain members of the tribe were referred to as the heemaneh. They were decidedly feminine and hung out with the women, weaving blankets and decorating with beads. When the braves rode off to do battle, the heemaneh stayed home.

Maybe that’s what we’ve got going on here. Certain members of our "tribe" are, for whatever reason, a little low on Vitamin T. As such, these heemaneh don’t notice beautiful women or step to the forefront when masculine tasks are called for. I’ve got no problem with that, as long as a few of us are left intact to revel in, or participate in, the things that are traditional to men.

So no, I don’t really care too much if the heemaneh flourish. After all, someone’s got to be around to tidy up after the rest of us crash through the barricades and plummet into the ocean.

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