Two of my Burning Man campmates were named Michael. It got a little exhausting to be calling them by both their first and last names, but it felt a weird to just go by last names, as if we were on some sort of freaky protosexual desert football team.

“Stallings! Get hand me my zebra print gstring and goggles! I’m heading out into the field!”

See? It just doesn’t work. We had Shaffer and we had Kim, but usually we just called them by both their first and last names.

Campmate Shaffer had quite a penchant for sassy clothing. He was famous for wearing these furry ass-less chaps with a lace up cod piece. At other points during the week, he sported tiny mesh underwear and a pink and red fur loin cloth. Oh, and did I mention he’s straight? Often, his girlfriend was in a matching scandalous outfit, and they would roam the playa with their portable cocktails and pasties, hunting for the lost beats and hidden corners of lascivious secrets.

Anyway, on the day of the burn, Shaffer was lounging around in one of his pair of teeny-tiny lace-up-the-sides shorts. As they are sometimes want to do when men wear very teeny-tiny shorts, a testicle had oozed out of one of the leg holes.

This being Burning Man, testicles were on display like Peeps at Easter-time, so none of us were particularly offended, but I did give Campmate Shaffer a little heads-up that he was exposed.

“Eh, whatever,” he said, waving his hand and continuing to sip away on his blended martini.

Since he obviously didn’t care if I stared, I glanced down again and noted that his exposed testicle was, well, a little raw looking. I pointed this out to him.

“Yeah, I think I got a little chafed from my bicycle seat,” he answered offhandedly.

“Well then,” I managed before bursting out laughing, “I guess that from now on, we’ll just have to call you MICHAEL CHAFER.” Then I deteriorated into a pile of self-amused mirth.

And thus, a nickname was born.