“A lot of people collect things,” Bob said, leading me through his home. “Some wish to surround themselves with antiques of priceless value and will happily pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for a piece of shit that the rest of us wouldn’t have in our houses. Other people collect things that interest them, regardless of the value, and who’s to say that a child’s treasured boxful of seashells is any less precious than his mother’s lifelong collection of campaign buttons. I collect scrotums.” He looked at me long enough to see my reaction. “That right, scrotums. Just the common ordinary nutsacks that all males are born with fascinate me, and I now have well over a hundred in my collection.”

Well, I must say that I was shocked, and it takes quite a little bit to shock me. I had met Robert L. ‘call me Bob’ Lewis Jr. earlier that day and we were now in his opulent home. I had flown into the Scottsdale airport and spotted a new Grumman Gulfstream IV on the ramp and introduced myself to the pilots, who in turn introduced me to the owner. My Lear 35 is okay, but I wanted something with a little more range and was looking at larger intercontinental jets like the G-IV. Bob was friendly, cordial, and after having shown me through the airplane he invited me up to his winter home.

I didn’t really know Bob, but he knew me, of course. Everybody knows Gregory Holt, world-class golf pro. Winning both the US Open and The Masters twice has made me kind of a public property, so as to speak, and invitations such as his are an everyday occurrence that I usually decline, but he had some interesting material at home regarding his jet that I really wanted to see.

He showed me a complete analysis of the operating costs, although when it comes to things like personal jets the old phrase ‘if you have to ask you can’t afford it’ certainly applies, and then he made us both drinks and took me for a tour of his new home. He saved his Trophy Room, as he called it, for last, and then gave me the little speech about people collecting things as we entered the room.

A brief description of the room? Totally bizarre. It was long and narrow with high ceilings. The walls were adorned with polished walnut plaques, each containing a mounted human scrotum. They had all been carefully tanned, or whatever the procedure was, and artificial testicles duplicating the exact measurements of the originals had been inserted to make them appear incredibly lifelike. Each plaque had a label indicating the name of the testicles’ original owners, as well as the date and location of their removal along with other interesting facts.

The first section of the room seemed to be dedicated with weird or abnormal gonads. One set was twice the size of a basketball, and had been collected in the South Pacific from a man suffering from the elephantiasis filaria. A man with a hydrocele had provided another set. One was huge, the size of a small melon, while the other was perfectly normal, while still another set had one of normal size and one no larger than a peanut. Some were bright red in color, while others were pale and completely hairless, as if taken from a large infant. One set, obviously from a black man, was so hairy that it appeared as if it was sporting a full beard, and one set, although of normal size, hung down almost a foot. “Fascinating, aren’t they?” Bob commented, glancing at my crotch.

“Yes, they most certainly are.” I couldn’t for the life of me explain the hold they had on me or why I was getting an erection. Except for my young son I hadn’t seen another guy naked since high school, and back then we were more interested in our cock size than our balls, and I certainly wasn’t of the persuasion to get turned on by looking at men’s genitals. “Did you, ah, harvest these yourself?” I asked.

“Most of them, yes. Some of the ones were purchased, of course, but only with the proper documentation to prove their authenticity. For example, I naturally demanded before and after pictures of their donor to document their provenance. Others were supplied by less than reputable funeral home personnel.”

“How does one go about convincing the owner to part with his testicles?” I asked.

“Usually they don’t have much choice,” he replied. “The gentleman who was burdened with those was more than happy to see them go,” he said, motioning to the grotesquely swollen scrotum of the elephantiasis victim. “Others are sometimes put into a position where they simply can’t refuse, while some, of course, are no longer in a position to need them,” he said, referring to the deceased donors.

“Do you do the, ah, taxidermy work yourself?”

“Yes.” I went to school for most of a year to learn the trade. It’s basically simple. You carefully remove the scrotal sac and the testicles, and then the testicles are carefully measured to determine their dimensions. The scrotum undergoes a process similar to used to make leather, and then mounted with prosthetic testicles that duplicate the dimensions of the real ones. You look a little dry. Can I freshen your drink?” What I really needed at that point was a cold shower to shrivel my boner, but I settled for another one of his potent cocktails.

The next wall seemed to be reserved for the family jewels of celebrities, and I learned some surprising things. Not all of Jimmy Hoffa is missing; I know exactly where his balls are. Howard Hughes wasn’t really much of a man, and a Hollywood star that died of AIDS a while back did indeed have his boyfriend’s name tattooed in a funny place.

I don’t usually drink much in the daytime, but I accepted his offer of yet another refill as we continued the tour into what he called his Sports Hall of Fame.

I learned that one deceased NASCAR driver had balls that were enough to Intimidate most other guys, and I also learned why a particularly annoying sportscaster had a high, whiney voice. One set, completely unremarkable, was labeled as belonging to an NFL coach that I was sure was recently retired and still very much alive. “He lost a bet as well as the Superbowl,” Bob explained.

I was in pretty tough shape by the end of the tour and unable to drive to my hotel, so I gratefully accepted Bob’s generous offer of one of the extra bedrooms in the mansion.

I awoke the next morning with the worst hangover I had ever had. My eyes seemed to be almost glued shut, and it was painful to even try to open them. Another area of pain was focused in my crotch. My cock was so hard and stiff that it literally hurt. I finally rolled over on my side and managed to get my eyes to focus just as the bedcovers beside me stirred as a girl left the bed. By girl, I don’t mean young lady, I mean girl. She was no more than five feet tall and looked to be only twelve years old: Bald or shaved pussy, small firm breasts, and a tight little ass that had never known the agony of childbirth. She smiled at me and then went into the bathroom to do her thing. Oh shit, I thought. I didn’t remember a thing. I rolled back over to avoid her as she exited the bathroom just as somebody on the other side of me stirred. A young boy shook his eyes open, smiled at me, and then got up and headed for the toilet. He too was merely a child. Barely pubescent, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, no beard, small genitals set in a smattering of crotch hair as fine and wispy as smoke. He peed noisily into the bowl, ran some water over his hands, and came back out and sat with the girl on the sofa in front of the TV.

“Good morning!” Bob said cheerily, bustling into the room.

“Good morning, Uncle Bob,” the kids echoed in unison.

“Here, Holt, drink this,” Bob said, handing me a glass of something. “It’ll make that thing go away.” He pointed to the tent that I was making in the sheets. The kids, still naked, had turned the TV on and were watching what appeared to be a porn movie. The girl had expertly rolled and ignited a joint and was sharing it with her brother. A second look confirmed that I was playing the starring role in the amateur production.

“You cocksucker!” I growled, aware that I had been set up.

“Interesting choice of words, Holt,” he said poking the fast forward button on the remote to advance the picture at a pre-selected location. “Take a look, and tell me who the cocksucker really is.”

I had a sudden urge to puke and then scrub my teeth until my gums bled. “Kids,” Bob called out. “Come over here.” The girl had her hand on the boy’s crotch, fondling his dick. They scurried over to the bedside. “Katie, tell me what happened last night,” Bob ordered.

The girl changed from an experienced whore to a scared little girl in an instant. “Mr. Holt said he was lonely,” she sobbed, searching for words. “He wanted me to keep him company, so I came to his room after dinner. I know I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers, but everybody knows him and he’s so nice. He made me take off my cloths.” She was crying now. “The he put his pee thing in my mouth. I started choking, so he put it here, between my legs instead. It Hurt!” She broke down and sat shuddering on the edge of the bed, bawling, until he touched her shoulder.

“Mr. Holt said he had something to show me, you know?” It was now Billy’s turn. “So I came up here with him, you know, and he took off his clothes and he had a, you know, boner, and he pulled my clothes off too. Then he made me sit on the edge of the bed and he gave me a, uh, you know, blow job. It felt okay but I knew it was, you know, wrong. When he finished he made me turn over and lay on the edge of the bed, and then he, you know, screwed me in the butt and then passed out. I tired to leave after that but the door was, you know, like locked or something, so I crashed on the bed next to him.” The lying little articulate bastard finished carefully rehearsed tale and then went back over and watched TV.

“How much money are you after, Bob?” I asked, now that the blackmail was obvious.

“I don’t want your money,” Bob said, rather indignantly. “I have plenty of my own. I want something else from you.” He then laid the plaque on the edge of the bed. It was just like the others in his trophy room, and had already been engraved with my name and proclaimed me to be one of the best golfers in the world.

“You’re joking, right?” I asked.

“Afraid not,” he answered. “The doctor is downstairs right now, and I have a fully equipped surgery room right here. You are divorced and don’t have a fiancé, and the only ones who will know are you and your personal physician. You can tell him it was a spiritual choice, and you can even take hormones to retain your present appearance and most of your functions. Hell, I can even give you some more of what you took last night. A little bit of that and the ladies won’t even notice that your balls are gone.”

Whatever I had just drank replaced my painful erection with and equally painful desire to piss, so I rose from the bed, still naked, and walked to the bathroom. Cute little innocent Katie was down on her knees sucking her darling brother’s cock. Kids sure grow up fast, don’t they?

I spent a long time in the bathroom weighing my options before coming back in to face Bob. “Take a flying fucking leap and take your little con artists with you. I’m leaving,” I told him, heading for the door. My clothes were nowhere in sight so I wrapped myself in a sheet from the bed.

“You can run but you can’t hide!” Bob warned me. “The doctor downstairs will verify that the children have been molested, and I’ll immediately call the police. You may leave the Maricopa County Jail with your nuts intact, but you’ll sure as hell lose them in the State penitentiary, as well as spending twenty years as a bitch for Bubba and his buddies. They don’t like child molesters. Think it over for a minute. You were basically fucked as soon as you won the last Masters tournament. This way you get to keep playing golf, and who knows, maybe your game will even improve.”

I quit the pro tour right after that. Most golfers go on to do the senior tour but I was all through. Sure, I can still swing the old club and hit the ball, but knowing your competitor is more of a man than you are is enough to screw up your concentration. You have to have balls in order to play against men with balls and I was no longer qualified.

I still see Bob now and then and he always thanks me for my contribution to his collection. I’ll get back at both him and the kids someday; I just haven’t yet figured out how.