I Threw Like a Trans Girl and Hit the Referee in the Nuts
By: Phoenix Huber
Tags: Sexuality, This Happened To Me, BDSM, Humor, LGBTQ

HUMOR

I Threw Like a Trans Girl and Hit the Referee in the Nuts

I had an evil curse and no man’s jewels were safe from it

Photo by Dan Zen on Flickr. Representative of my face after my terrible aim in dodgeball cost the referee his pride.

Ever since I saw 101 Dalmatians with Glenn Close, I’ve had an odd fascination. My heart flutters when fellows get bonked in the beans.

An errant soccer ball could bop him between the legs. He could trip over an electric fence. It makes no difference to my secret sadistic side. Her name is “Victoria Ballsoff.” I’m still ashamed to admit she exists.

Listen, I don’t condone any form of violence. It always bothered me ballbusting was seen as fair comedic game for movies, when other bodily injuries were treated with sensitivity. Though I now understand why.

The knee-jerk laughter all boils down to the undeniable hilarity of underscoring the vulnerability all males share. That, no matter how cool or badass or brilliant they are up to that moment of abject pain and humiliation. When a lucky or vicious shot to the gonads doubles him over, it tickles funny bones everywhere.

- Film director Ron Howard, reported by Peter Gerstenang of LA Weekly

Folks do practice cock and ball torture consensually They exercise precaution to stay safe. You can also just talk about your BDSM kinks. Do a mock roleplay where no one actually gets hurt. But 10 years ago, I didn’t understand all that.

Raised in a conservative town, this transgender girl was convinced she was going straight to Hell because:

I was attracted to men. Especially Arizona Diamondbacks players and Wilmer Valderrama. I hated everything about being a boy and just wanted to be pink, girly, and grow a pair of boobs. My obsession with testicular trauma put me on par with the Devil! One day when I was 17 or so, I YouTubed the museum scene from Transformers 2 after I’d seen it on TV. The guilt from watching poor “Leo Spitz” taser his own brovaries weighed 89,000 pounds in the center of my chest!

Together, these 3 demons formed a triple sin! Surely God would punish me for being such a bad, bad… er, whatever I was.

But instead, I suffered nothing at all. It was the men all around me who suddenly started keeling over in pain! (Note: The following sequence of events is exaggerated for humor but based on my true story.)

R.I.P. Brad’s giggle berries

First up was Brad. Brad was my #1 crush in my whole wide 17-year-old-world. His after-school hobby was flicking Gatorade caps with his fingers, as if they were miniature frisbees. Unique, right?

One fateful afternoon, the quad was almost empty except for Brad and a few of his friends. Apparently, one of the friends was actually a frenemy… He flicked a Gatorade cap that landed right in Brad’s lap zone!

I heard the commotion from inside an abandoned classroom. Where I was studying. Because I was a nerd.

“What happened?” I gasped through the window.

“Brad’s balls got jeopardized,” his friend announced. Brad groaned in agony and rolled over on the pavement like a dying walrus.

Gosh, of all the guys in the school who could have been nutcracked right in front of me. Why did it have to be my crush? I cared about him — and his cojones!

Was this just a coincidence, or could evil omens be afoot?

My crush was only the first of many victims of the curse

The following week, our gym teacher was showing me how to lift weights. Sadly, I was the only one who needed to be shown. That’s when he accidentally dropped the dumbbell on his own ding-dong!

New Year’s Eve downtown was a night to remember. I was minding my own business when some random clique of 2 girls and a guy interrupted my dance party mojo to hand me a condom.

Why the hickey were they randomly handing me a condom, you ask? I wanted to know the same thing! I asked and the guy said to me, “It’s so people like you don’t go around spreading AIDS. You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch.” (His exact words.)

Ha, they thought I was sick because I’m transgender. If only they knew…

As the condom-gifting guy turned to leave, he was met by bad luck. An angry drunk girl, who had been arguing with her girlfriend this entire time, flung her handbag wildly in rage. The purse slipped from her fingers, arced through the crisp winter air, and pegged Mr. Condoms squarely in the eggs.

Talk about a New Year’s ball drop. And revenge of the queers.

So maybe that time I only felt 50% sorry for the guy’s suffering. But this whole thing became incredibly aggravating when I started online dating.

It got so bad I had to shut down my dating profile. I kept getting messages like:

I was reading your profile when my iPhone fell and goinked me in the gonads. Maybe this means we’re meant to be?

Any gent who took me to a restaurant was in for a rude surprise. The salt shaker would slide off the table on its own accord. Like it was magnetized by his marbles! Or a steaming bowl of soup would launch itself off the waitress’s tray and ransack his well-ironed trousers.

I learned to avoid the bike racks at university. Every time, I’d catch sight of a dude hopping aboard his bike too enthusiastically and almost face-planting from the pain!

No other explanation: I was cursed!

I listened to what The Almighty One was trying to tell me

It finally occurred to me. Perhaps God was punishing me for my nerdiness, rather than my sexual deviance? Determined to be a good Samaritan for innocent males, I took up a sport.

Trampoline dodgeball — yes, I chose the funnest activity ever! Just bounce around like a giddy bunny while flinging balls everywhere. The only thing that makes the game even more ecstatic is when the referee is kinda cute.

Admittedly, I throw like a trans girl. No, not like Savannah Burton, who was Canada’s first openly transgender dodgeball pro and could probably kick your ass. Rather, I throw like a trans girl named Phoenix whose upper arm strength rivals that of a starfish.

I was hopping around having the time of my life, like a curse-free kangaroo! For a moment, I thought I had defeated the evil hex forever! Then, the unthinkable happened.

Standing off to the side, Mr. Referee blew his whistle. The dodgeball game had started. So I threw the ball that was in my hand. I hurled it with all my can’t-do-2-pushups might!

I could feel the force of my wrist against that ball. I was certain I had never thrown so hard in all my life! But my aim was so absolutely, dreadfully terrible, the ball veered to the right and flew into the referee’s nether region.

Well, as you can imagine, he winced. He bent over blushing. What you might not have expected is that white-and-red heart patterned boxer shorts began billowing out from above his khakis.

What had my life become, some live-action version of a raunchy Sunday cartoon? Some freakish Inception-esque manifestation of my fetishes? I wanted to marry that man.

Everyone laughed, even the handsome pant-sagging referee whose acorns were now aching. Except for me. I was mortified by my mistake, and I was so sick and tired of this dang curse!

But somewhere deep inside me, my repressed inner dominatrix was more than just laughing… she was cackling.

And I wondered in that moment if, by some sickening mental sorcery, I was somehow making all of this happen…

It’s November 2020 and I’m still testing positive for the Ballbusting Curse

I know COVID-19 is far deadlier than the occasional nut shot, but still! I deserve a little sympathy for this horrific jinx that follows me everywhere and makes all my interactions with men unbearably ridden with remorse.

More importantly, feel sorry for the men! If only Hermione Granger were here. She’d cast Finite incantatem to reverse the curse. She’d bring them dittany — lots and lots of dittany!

Also, I regret to inform you of something.

This curse travels across the internet.

If you’re reading this and are a man who has huevos, there’s a 30% chance you will be ballbusted sometime in the next 48 hours.

If you’re a 5'10" rainbow-haired Liechtensteinian lad who runs a donkey sanctuary, then you are my type. That means the percentage rises to 80%. I’m sorry.

(Just kidding! Like I’m going to tell you my type right now. This has all been more than enough personal humiliation for one day, thank you very much!)

If you’re a dude without nuts, there’s a staggering 95% chance you’ll have a dream tonight. Your imaginary gonads will get clobbered by an errant soccer ball. You can finally experience what you’ve been missing out on all these years!

In all fairness, y’all ought to countercurse me and give me dreams about childbirth and period pains — ouch!

Fortunately, if you’re a pre-op trans woman like me, or a non-binary person with prunes, you can rest easy. In exchange for the discrimination we have suffered, the magic fairy protects us from testicular terror. Trust me. I’ve tried to punch my own nether region to even the score, but my aim is so horrendous I barely hit my hipbone.

Editor’s note: Brad’s giggle berries, the dumbbell, trampoline dodgeball… it all happened! However, the timeline and names were changed. Other anecdotes were either wildly distorted or fabricated out of my ass.

Update 11/9/2020: I just took a trip to see Madam Pomfrey. The lady informed me I am Ballbusting Curse free! Your apricots will be okay, everybody! Huge relief, right? It turns out, the real cause of the problem was my rampant sexual repression. As soon as I typed up this story, the hex went away!

Have a safe, serene, and snicker-filled day, folks! ❤