What if sex-fiction was written by women, that have only a passing understanding of men's bodies/turn ons? This is how I think they would write it.
His testicles bounced in front of me. He opened his plump lips but annoying words came out. He mumbled something about fantasy football. He ejaculated prematurely and disappointed me. Then he rolled over and went to sleep.
Later, he sat silently and watched the game. His nut sack was like two great orbs before me. They bounced back and forth. I tried to engage him in conversation but he only had something to say about the super bowl. He was so cute.
I couldn't help but sigh imagining those pert testicles. They sagged high and tight. He was getting older though. One day his testicles would sag much lower and not tight. He would be relegated to the back pages of a woman's black book and replaced by a younger man with high and tight testicles.
He batted his eyelashes at me as if begging for me to protect him from the world. His balls bulged in his tiny shorts. I told him that from now on he would wear no underwear because that would be sexy. He poop striped his jeans and did not know how to do his own laundry.
He pulled them off and threw them on the floor, where he intended to pick them up in the morning and put them on again because in his own words "they were mostly still clean."
His pubic hair was a tangled mess, that smelled of Funyuns and sweat. He had never heard of manicuring or even cleaning under his nails. They smelled of the last thing he had eaten. He jabbed his finger inside me as if that was masturbation. His nails snagged my insides but thankfully he thought that ten seconds was enough rubbing and tried to get on with getting on top of me.
He groaned and sweat on me. Then he put his thing into me. He did not wait until I orgasmed. Then he finished and rolled over and went to sleep. He made sure that I had to sleep in the wet spot.
The End.
(In case it was not obvious - this is an attempt at levity)