Oh such great joy today, finally, they took them out! I wrapped them up in bandages and brought them back from the clinic in a dripping red bundle. I hastily put them in the freezer to keep them fresh. That night I poured myself some champagne, crossed my legs, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Before going to bed I visited the freezer again, I felt a need to see them. I spread the bandages open, took one testicle out, and stared at it for a while. I felt such pity for it. I apologized to it and tried to think of ways to help it achieve its purpose in life. In the silent night, filled with the dizziness of post-op anesthetic and champagne, I sat there with the thawing, bleeding testicle in my palm, and I thought of ways to be nice to it.
Then after a moment I knew what its purpose was: even though it had been misplaced by nature, it was still a source of creation, a brush for a canvas, it could produce such magnificent poignant and heavy textures. I forgot about sleep and rushed to my painting room.
I threw a fresh canvas flat on the floor, dropped the testicle on it, and with all the weight and strength that I could muster I smashed my palm down over it. Red pulp, semen and membranes exploded from under my palm, some splashing sideways, some wedging between my fingers. I did not stop to think, I began sliding my down-pressed palm around the canvas, spreading the material around in a spiral. Eventually I felt that the lump under my palm had been used up. I went to the freezer, thawed out the second testicle and repeated the process on another spot on the canvas. When I was finished I flicked my hands at the canvas, adding millions of little stars around the two bloody smears. Satisfied, I went to the bathroom, washed, and went to bed.
The next day I walked into the room only to encounter the most amazing sight: The paint had flourished, it had taken over the canvas and was building new flesh over it. The smudges were no longer abstract, they were forming nipples, the stars had sprouted like lentils and were making hairs, my painting was drawing itself into a man's torso! 'How happy those testicles must be', I thought, 'now they will finally get to make a man the way they always wanted to'.
And how they worked through the days, with such dedication and drive, I watched it all grow and evolve, awed at how what had once been a prison from the inside could be so beautiful from the outside. Finally one night I went in and there was no canvas or materials, just a man's chest lying on my floor, breathing calmly, in peace.
I knelt on the floor next to it, bent over it with tears in my eyes, and I kissed it. Even though it had no face, no limbs, or even a rear side with which to express itself, I could feel its heartbeat. It was so happy, it was free and it was finally loved. I fell asleep next to it.