Once upon a time, a little boy woke up his sleeping mother to tell her his pee pee hurt. Not understanding pee pees herself, and realizing he was far too young for the clap, she assured the little boy that perhaps he’d slept on it wrong and it was sore, then sent him back to bed with a kiss.
Her husband scoffed beside her in bed. “You can’t sleep on it wrong, it’s not like a sore shoulder,” he chided into his pillow.
She rolled her eyes and snuggled back under the duvet, as she was dreaming that she was married Benicio del Torro, which was frightening at first because he played Duke the dog-faced boy in Big Top Pee-wee, but he was starting to grow on her and it sounded pretty when he said her name in Spanish.
A few minutes later, the little boy returned, more distressed than before, and seeing that this was clearly a legitimate issue, the wife woke her husband and they carried the boy to the kitchen counter for a better look.
It took some coaxing for the boy to agree to let his mother take a peek, and when she finally pulled his shorts out enough to see, she gasped in horror, startling her husband out of his near slumber against the refrigerator to take a look as well, leaving him a slight shade of green and grabbing his own pee pee in solidarity.
It was swollen, deep purple, and upon closer (awkward) inspection, had something so tightly wrapped around it, it was cutting off circulation entirely.
The woman reached into the freezer and pulled out one cherry popsicle, and handed it to the boy. “Here darling, the cold will help take your mind off the pain, I’m going to get a few things and I’ll try and fix this, don’t worry, okay?” He nodded, and the woman whispered to her husband to get a small pair of scissors from the bathroom while she calmed the little boy down.
She got a warm soaked washrag, and began gently wiping his tear and snot smeared face, as her husband returned with what appeared to be, the largest pair of scissors she had seen in her life.
The little boy, taking one look at the shears, screamed in fear and began thrashing around on the counter, repeatedly hitting his mother with his melting red popsicle.
“What is wrong with you,” she hissed at her husband, “are you going to a ribbon cutting after this?”
She returned her focus to the boy, who was now border line hysterical at the prospect of having his father anywhere near his pee-pee with the scissors.
“Okay sweetie, calm down because I need you to listen to me, I know this hurts very much, but there is something wrapped very very tightly around your pee-pee, and it’s making it so blood doesn’t flow there, and that’s bad because if blood doesn’t flow there, it could die and fall off.” She watched as his eyes dilated with horror. “Yes, very serious, everyone needs pee-pees, so the options are, you let me take whatever it is off myself, and I’ll be super duper gentle, or I call the ambulance and they take you to the hospital to do it.”
The boy glanced to his father, who stood there nodding his head solemnly like some fucked up version of Edward Scissor hands, and then began to thrash and scream again, pleading for them to just forget the whole thing, that it didn’t hurt at all.
The woman turned to her husband, “Okay, I’m going to need you to hold him down; lay on top of him to hold him still enough for me to try and get this thing off of him.”
He did as he was told, holding the little boys arms and chest down with his body weight, distracting him with questions about Legos, ice hockey, and his favorite flavor of soup.
The woman worked fast, dodging kicks to her face and ribs, finally able to move the swollen red skin enough to find a teeny tiny clear rubber band cinched tightly around the little boy. Seeing that the clown scissors would be too large to maneuver under the band, she removed a bobby pin from her hair, and slipped the point under enough that she could lift the band and pulled it off quickly.
Relief swept over the little boy, as as his pee pee shifted from a vibrant plum Eric Stoltz from Mask, to a much more respectably flesh colored Tilda Swinton.
Examining the tiny rubber band, which had come from from the packaging of a set of Star Wars figures, she wondered what had provoked him to put this on himself. The woman had seen this behavior once before, in an all male strip club in Windsor Canada called Danny’s, as it was a common practice among dancers to slip a rubber band under the head of their pee pees to make them appear hard while they danced around on stage. I mean, she had heard of that happening. Not seen it. Heard it. Like Aesop’s Fables or something.
“Baby,” the mother asked the boy who now sat comfortably on the counter, finishing what was left of his beaten ice pop, “did you put this tiny rubber band on your pee pee?”
He looked down and nodded.
“Oh sweetie that’s very dangerous, why would you do that?”
“Well, my hair wasn’t long enough to put it there.”
She looked to her husband who leaned against the counter, face still slightly askew in horror from the evenings events. “What’s with your guys’ need to constantly put stuff on your pee pees, and touch stuff with your pee pees, and hit stuff with your pee pees, is this some sort of caveman thing?”
As he stood there, unable to answer, their other son groggily wandered into the kitchen, awoken by the recent screaming and scuffle. He rubbed the sleep from his face, his eyes finally making contact with his brother who sat pantsless on the bar, cheeks swollen and red from crying, chewing on a wooden popsicle stick. Confused, his eyes then widened in horror as they darted to his mother and father, who stood next to him, holding a giant pair of silver scissors, clothes stained with streaks of red.
The woman walked up to the boy, bent down to eye level and asked, “Is there something around your pee pee, too?”
Satisfied, she padded over to the fridge, grabbed a popsicle for the boy and a bottle of beer for herself.
“Here,” she handed the treat to her son, “ask your father about it, I’m going to take a bath.”
And she did. With Benicio Del Torro, don’t make that face, you don’t know what he’s like in private.