So I picked up my pace and hiked as far ahead of the group as I could. I may have been one of the youngest in our group, but I wasn't the fastest. That title went to the movie mogul, my fiftyish roommate, who led the pack almost every day. I couldn't catch up with the movie mogul or pass him, but I could pace myself so that I was always between MM and the rest of the group. When I was fairly certain that I was alone and that I couldn't be seen by anyone ahead of me or behind me, I put my right hand down my shorts, cupped my enormous, salty scrotum in one hand, and lifted it up and away from my burning thighs. I hiked like that for most of the rest of the week: alone, balls in one hand, water bottle in the other. I didn't have to worry about looking like part of a cult or a work-release program anymore; I just looked like a pervert. It didn't help me get any closer to the rich folks, but it kept me from howling in pain with every step.
Dan Savage, Skipping Towards Gomorrah (200-01)