Snack Cakes and Tacos

The balls of a man are not stolen overnight. It is not a theft that occurs suddenly but rather happens in slow, quiet stages. Small nips at a time. The tiny bite of a tiny fish that gradually gnaws the monster into a puppy.

When I was first married I roared the most bellicose bellow. My long-married neighbors shook with a fear that was laughable. I shit in their yards and stole ripe grapes from their vines.

I rolled with their dogs and their children cried to see me covered in grass and happy with a great golden glee. A sick glee that could not be contained. A glee that shone out of my giant, hard balls that clacked when I walked; clacked like brass beaters--brass well shined and stone hard.

The first bites came in stages, slow stages. They were stolen from me like the braided hair of Samson. Would you like another taco, dear?

I shouldn't. Why not.

Would you like a snack cake? They're little debbie.

I shouldn't, but I will.

Through tacos and little debbie (that slut) did my great sack full of giant brass gonads become soft and weak.

No longer do I roll with the neighbor's dog and when the new man bellows I cower.

I should warn him but I'm too full of snack cakes and tacos.