Justin's Life... June 1997

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June 1, 1997

12:47AM (Technically June 2, 1997)

Well, it's June 1st, err... actually June 2nd now, and as you can see, the web site redesign isn't online. Due to an addition to the Members Edition automation, I just finished re-entering every Member's password. I woke up at 7:15AM and, so, I'm pretty exhausted by now.... but I did, however, think that this little preview of the new life background was in order, ya know, just to whet your appetite.


June 14, 1997


As you can see, the new site finally made it online. It's taken a lot of time and energy, so I really hope it's an improvement... which I think it is.

And as you can probably also see, I haven't really been writing a lot lately. It still amazes me that people are tuning in after so much of a "hiatus." Nonetheless, here goes... another little peek into my life.

Well, this morning I woke up and went to the bathroom. Nothing unusual... except that when I got back to the bedroom, I noticed that the front of my boxers were wet. It being the morning and, well, you know, things being the directions that they tend to be in the morning, even that wasn't that unusual. What was unusual was that the wetness wasn't a dot, but rather the entire length of my fly. The area around the opening was damp, but still dry. Only the thick material in the middle was still wet... and then it hit me. I had a wet dream.

I only remember that Larry hugged me a lot last night and that I was dreaming about the guy that I wrote the "Letter To A Friend" to. What I remember of that dream wasn't in a sexual connotation. Yet, at the same time, I remember having another dream, still about high school, and I remember it being erotic, yet I don't remember who it was about. I haven't had a wet dream in seven or eight years, so it was more than a little surprise... that said, I couldn't get the smile off my face for at least time minutes straight.

After figuring out that puzzle and after seeing Larry and Matt off to La Jolla where they were going to spend the day cleaning out the house which is being remodelled, I went shopping to buy some necessary items for the impending CD-ROM. (Geez, I gotta remember how to make sentences which aren't so wordy. )

Anyway, after I saw them off, I went to buy some stuff. During the trip, I thought about the website and debated on when I should reveal what the CD-ROM's contents will be. I figured on one hand, if I say what it is now, I could maybe build some interest and detail the creation, but on the other hand, if I say what it is now, it could be the case of the "Is it ever going to get done?" I mean, some anticipation is good, but too much is worse than none. Like, I remember wanting a computer for the longest time and year after year I didn't get one. By the time the Christmas came where I did get one, it was almost anti-clamatic. I don't want the same thing to happen with the CD-ROM... BUT, I'd really like to detail the creation here... so who knows.

Before the shopping was done, I decided that today, on my day alone, I wanted to see a movie. I called MovieFone when I got back to the house and decided on Volcano, which I'd wanted to see when it came out, but Larry didn't.

The only place it was playing that I knew how to get to was the Beverly Center... and so, off to the 4 o'clock show I went.

After I spent forever looking for a parking space in what I can only assume was the Father's Day sale induced crowded parking lot, I began my trek upward to the eighth floor cinemas.

Somewhere on the seventh floor, though, my trek was interupted. I felt a wet splash hit my leg and when I looked down to see what it was, I couldn't help but notice the spit bubbles. Someone had spit, either intentionally or otherwise, a big bubbly chunk of spit on me. As I tried scraping it off with my other shoe, I began to gag. I tried thinking of other things and fortunately, when I saw a red head standing in the ticket line, I did.

Before reverting back to the thought of the spit, I managed to get a napkin, wet it in the bathroom, and wipe it off my leg. The idea that someone would spit in a mall. I mean, grab some manners.

So, anyway, I sat down in the front row of the "theatre" (and I use that term loosely... in all honesty, I should say, "I sat down in the front row of the room where the big screen projection television was kept"... seriously, it was no more than 20 feet wide at the most... the smallest I've ever seen... but I digress). So, I sat down, and watched the film. I personally liked it. I would have liked it more if I'd known Los Angeles and Wilshire Boulevard better, but the "terror" of the lava was real enough for me. Taking a detour in my drive home to see the buildings that were recreated for the movie only made the movie feel less real... (and anyone who has ever seen a television show taping will know what I'm talking about.)

Tonight, I'm still just taking it easy. I'm writing this and that's about it...


June 24, 1997


Well, later this afternoon I think I'm going to the dermatologist. The reason I say "think" is that the dermatologist is a business partner of Larry's and Larry's going to see him for a bump on his arm. I can go along, but I don't have to.

The reason I'm hesitant, though, is that I'd be going to have him look at my balls; there I said it. --I could have said it more "medically" with scrotum, but I have to remember that there are people reading this who aren't native English speakers... and well, I'm sure "balls" translates.

Anyway, for the last couple of months (if this is too graphic or if you know me, why not just skip ahead to the next entry ) my balls have felt like they've been covered in rubber cement. There's no visible change from how they've always been, but the seem to be "hiding" and rarely come out to play, if you know what I mean. Scratching them only adds to the unpleasantness, and so, I really think they should be looked at and either cultured or whatever. I mean, all I do know is that something is different and I want it back the way it was.

Of course, the idea of going into a doctors office and pulling my pants down isn't exactly the most appealing. Believe it or not, I've never done it before. In Kentucky, if you knew the doctor, you didn't even have to go into the office. For college, I needed a physical, but the doctor simply asked questions about my "underwear region" and never asked me to show him anything. And so, all the way through age 21, I've gotten by without ever showing my stuff to a doctor.

Yeah, I know it's slightly crazy. It's not like doctors haven't seen a million and no one's ever recoiled in fear after I took my underwear off , but still, the idea of showing myself to someone who's not really interested in seeing it, just gets me nervous.


When Larry and I arrived at the parking lot for the doctor's office, I was still nervous about having to drop my drawers... or, well, having to hike up my shorts. (I purposely wore those basketball type shorts, with the loose legs, so that I could simply raise one of the legs and still keep a degree of clothedness. ).

Anyway, as we began travelling upwards in the elevator, I tried calming myself and managed to get a good grip on it... until we walked into the doctors office. The doctor waved to Larry and then the secretary said "Hi Larry." Oh wonderful, everyone knew him and I was there to show my cootie infested balls.

After a couple minutes in the lobby, the nurse called Larry back... remember, the appointment was for Larry, not Larry and me. So, I walked back with him and stood silently as the nurse asked him what the problem was. He said that he had some spots on his arms that he wanted looked at, and then she headed out.

When the doctor came in, Larry and he began talking... and talking... and talking. I just wanted to pull my shorts up, get the diagnosis and go, but they were talking shop... forever.

Eventually, the doctor asked Larry what he wanted him to look at and Larry showed him the spots... little warts, no big deal, he'd simply freeze them off. As the doctor got up and was heading out the door to get the liquid nitrogen, Larry told him there was one more thing... and looked at me.

I hiked up my shorts and said that I couldn't see anything but that they seemed to itch a lot more than before. I moved them around, giving him the view at all angles, and then he said he couldn't see anything. He said that if it were a fungus, it would be red and perhaps scaly and it was neither. He said he'd give me some moisturized, but basically, it was determined that I was crazy: I'd whipped my balls out there for nothing.

Of course, he didn't give me the moisturizer: the nurse did. OK, OK, now in hindsight, I doubt he told her, "Give the younger guy the blah-blah moisturizer for his scrotum," but at the time, all I could think was that she was wondering about my balls.

So, the doctor froze the warts on Larry's arm and we headed out. I survived the ordeal... and I guess a little embarrassment from thinking I had something is better than actually having something

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© 1997 Justin Clouse


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