A Birthday Surprise

So it's official, I'm now completely without balls!
What other explanation can there possibly be for standing outside my girlfriend’s apartment while she and her ex are both inside, doing God only knows what?
How else can I explain the overriding impulse to slink guiltily away, before somebody notices me lurking like a peeping Tom in the pre-dawn shadows?
It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t just felt the hood of his car; the cool surface providing evidence enough that it, and therefore he, have been here all night. I didn’t want to touch it; I knew I wouldn’t like the conclusiveness of my test, but still I looked on in helpless surprise as my arm reached out, hovered above and then came to rest on the metallic blue paintwork. I wish sometimes that we shared 99% of our DNA with ostriches rather than Chimps; it would make us more prone to bury our heads when faced with such unpalatable situations.
I think this whole debacle would hurt a little less if it weren’t her 24th birthday and, despite my meticulous forward planning, my chance of being the first person she sees today is now as deflated as my ego. But the worst thing of all? I’m standing here like a prize moron with a dozen roses in one hand and a shiny ‘Happy Birthday’ helium balloon in the other. I don’t think I could feel more vulnerable and stupid if I’d woken up to find I’d sleepwalked, naked, into the living room and the assembled ladies of my Mom’s book club. Again.
I’ve been planning Gina’s surprise breakfast in bed for weeks and this morning I woke at five a.m. to make sure everything went smoothly and my girl’s 25th year started off as I hoped it would continue, with me proving to her that I love her beyond measure. But this? This is an eventuality I hadn’t anticipated.
My stomach has been doing somersaults since I rounded the corner and saw his flashy little car parked in the street and now I’m shaking, too. The next thing I know I’ll start crying and, with the exception of growing a pair of pert 36 C’s, my transformation from ‘Danny’ to ‘Danielle’ will be complete. Although if I do grow some breasts they may prove useful, considering my luck with the ladies! I’m fairly certain that a man with his own boobs will never be bored. I don’t mean ‘man-boobs’ though, I mean proper girly-bumps. I can’t see ‘man-boobs’ generating more than a few days of fun.