chilled hands and toasty twins

my barnyard thermal adventures

Saturday night at the barn was a cold one. I was freezing.

I had to move to stay warm.

I grabbed a rake and moved sand from the edge of the arena into the deep rut dug down by hundreds of hoof falls.

The rake had a metal handle. Gloveless, I was unprotected from the harsh chill.

I raked and raked until I was finally a comfortable temperature.

Well.

Mostly.

My hands had gone numb. They were about as cold as the cold icy stares from an activist when you make fun of activists.¹

My hands cramped from lack of circulation.

Useless yet warm, I sat down.

Once seated, I opened my pants and put both of my hands on my balls. There’s no better place for frozen hands than on ones own nuts. Sure, it’s chilly on the nuts, but the immediate warmth, comfort and reassurance that comes from cradling my balls more than makes up for it.

That’s when it happened.

The pain started.

Do you know that pain?

No, not the pain of icy hands on the nuts.

(there’s a bit of pleasure there)

I’m talking about the pain that comes f…