Scars... Sexy, right?

Chicks dig scars. At least that's what I've heard. If you ask me, I don't particularly understand the obsession. Are girls really sitting around going, "Tommy has a nice body, but ya know what... it's really missing some sort of disfigurement to make it a GREAT body!" ? If they are (they are), there are some serious fetish problems prevalent in todays youth (there are). After all, R & B singer Seal has it working for him.

Ladies, you're in luck... for concealed beneath my polyester exterior lie not one, but two scars! Woooo two for the price of one! Driving you wild, isn't it? They are located flush on my hairless, egg white, chest. By now, you're no doubt wondering how it was that I obtained such manly medallions. Before I continue, I must warn you that some of these details are disturbing. Continue reading at your own risk... for the manner in which I obtained these scars may shock you. I guarantee, you're opinion on me will change by the end of reading this (it won't).

SCAR NUMBER ONE

I must have been no older than six or seven. Each and every summer, my family would vacation in Cape Cod at our families getaway house. Located in my bedroom sat an antique rocking horse. Made of wood and standing about four feet by two feet, this rocking horse was a cornerstone of the bedroom. When I was little, I would delight in spending countless hours (minutes) on this horse. But now I was six (or seven) and the horse was too small for me. Instead of climbing on top of it, I melancholically pushed the empty apparatus from the front. I would start out slow, then increase the rate and speed at which I pushed and shoved. That was until it kicked back. The tip of the nose caught my flat chest square, and out poured blood. Before you knew it there was a pool of blood all over the carpet. I would eventually pass out from losing so much blood only to awake at Cape Cod General Hospital -----

Okay, okay... that really isn't true. I tried to juice that up a bit for ratings... and sympathy. Truth is, there wasn't too much blood at all... but there was a gash (more of a scrape, really). In actuality, it really didn't hurt. Yet, to this day there remains a one inch scar from this fateful incident. (Remember... I warned you to stop reading).

SCAR NUMBER TWO

I... am... ticklish. Very ticklish actually. This has been a constant struggle for my entire life. Take doctor visits for example: When my doctor had to do that test where they lays hands on your abdomen, I would be giggling like a little girl. It was embarrassing. Every time... giggles. Not very manly whatsoever.

As soon as anyone got their hands (no pun intended) on this piece of information, they would not hesitate to use it. I was tickle fodder. An old girlfriend (as in ex, not elderly) used to abuse this knowledge constantly. I would be doubled over on the floor, laughing hysterically, trying to gasp a breath, while praying that it would soon be over. The tickling got so severe that at one point, I obtained a nice scratch on my chest, located kiddie corner to my rocking horse scar. It bled a little... and it hurt... but this girl just kept on scratching me to death. All the while, there I lay, laughing hysterically at my pain. Needless to say this was not a proud moment in the life of me.

There you have it. My two scars: one from a rocking horse. The other from a fight of tickles. Manly, right? No? It would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

:)