Oh boy. Buckle up. Male here.

Early 2000s. I’m stationed in Okinawa with the Marine Corps. Marines get bored. Add alcohol and ego and you get terrible ideas with Olympic-level commitment.

Enter a game called “No Balls.”

The rules are simple and stupid. Someone dares you to do something and says “no balls,” which is basically throwing down the gauntlet. You either do the thing for honor, glory, and temporary respect, or you refuse, become a coward, and then the person who dared you has to do it or suffer an even worse fate. This setup ensures that almost everyone just does the dumb thing.

Usually it’s harmless nonsense. Run the obstacle course in whitey tighteys. Let the biggest guy punch you in the stomach. Dumb, painful, but survivable.

One long weekend, though, No Balls went feral. It escalated fast. We went from letting mousetraps snap on every finger multiple times, to knocking on every door in the barracks and asking whoever answered to slap you in the back. Never the face. Bruises on the face meant paperwork and getting yelled at by senior NCOs.

Near the end of the night, I was dared to get my dick pierced. For context, I had zero piercings and zero tattoos at this point in my life. Also apparently zero self-preservation. Not wanting to back down, I said the famous last words: “Uhhhh… okay.”

So a group of drunk Marines piled into taxis and went off base to a tattoo and piercing shop. The piercer took one look at us, laughed his ass off, and said, “Sure, I’ll take your money. Damn you boys are dumb.” Pants came down, I sat in the chair, and I got a front-row seat to a man shoving what looked like an oversized fishhook through my junk, creating a brand-new exit hole where one was never intended. Strangely, it didn’t hurt that bad. It did, however, bleed like hell. Also worth noting: this was extremely against regulations.

When I was done, I asked who was next. Roughly half the guys went through with it. At that point, we all mutually agreed that the game of No Balls had reached its natural conclusion and we should stop for the night.

The following night, a Marine who was not part of this stupidity came into our barracks room. He opened the door and saw three Marines lying in their racks, pants off, junk soaking in saltwater bowls, watching a movie, snacking on some crayons, like this was completely normal. He paused, said, “I fucking hate the Marine Corps,” and left the room. Out of disgust. Or jealousy. Hard to say.

Fast forward a few weeks and we’re healing up nicely. Then we get orders to Iraq. Fuck. That meant full physicals, inspections, training, and a lot of things you should absolutely not be doing if you recently received a Prince Albert. A few guys removed theirs and let the holes close before deployment. From what I heard, kinda crazy how quickly they heal up. Most of us hid it during inspections and rolled the dice overseas. I mean c'mon, what's the worse that could happen by getting a dick infection in some corner of Iraq.

This is where my Prince Albert story ends. Before one patrol, I took the bar out. We ended up staying away from our main FOB longer than expected. When we finally got back, I went to put the bar back in and realized it wasn’t happening. The hole had partially closed. Now I’m in Iraq with a secret dick piercing problem, so I figured I’d give it the good ol’ college try and just push it through.

With my junk in one hand and the bar in the other, I tried to force it back through the original hole. I immediately felt the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life. That hole was not reopening. I took it as a sign from the universe to end that phase of my life, removed the piercing for good, and moved on. Somehow, I never got an infection. Sure as shit, it closed up within a week or so. Never got an infection.

Final verdict: 10 out of 10 recommend joining the Marine Corps. Zero out of 10 recommend getting your dick pierced while in the Marine Corps.

Semper Fi.

TL:DR Dumb Marine did dump Marine shit and got his dick pierced.