A sack in which one places their nuts for safe-keeping. Having one's own nutsack prevents his nuts from being mistaken for someone else's and mixed up in their nutsack. We have yet to devise the perfect nutsack, however. The sacks we are currently provided with are quite sensitive and not at all able to withstand a sudden drop, let alone a little weather-beating.

Susan and Stephanie and I had forged a kind of instant summer-camp bond - you know, it either fades or disappears entirely. It's probably more important in memory than fact.
We had wandered off the campus of the tiny liberal-arts college where the conference was being held to Albertson's, I think to buy Pepsi and peanut butter and string cheese and French bread, but it's been too long now to say for sure.
Two blocks away there was a rodeo going on.
We crossed to the parking lot of the dollar store. A little red pickup came to a dead halt at the stop sign just a few feet away from where we stood with our grocery bags.
There was a fat guy with a shaved head, probably 15 years our senior, riding in the bed of said pickup. He yelled:
"Oh my God, my __________ itches."
A debate ensued, as Stephanie distinctly heard him say,
"My buttcrack itches," and Susan believed she heard,
"My nustsack itches."
I hadn't been paying enough attention to cast a vote, because I didn't realize he was talking to us until after he had gone.
It was more important in retrospect, which is why I still remember what I was wearing that day: a pink-and blue plaid skirt, which frequently incites the Catholic schoolgirl symptom in certain middle-aged men, a navy blue V-neck tee, and little blue slouch socks to match. I remember the way our three shadows stretched and merged on the pavement ahead of us. I remember the heat, which was unbearable. I remember the smell of cowshit which was the city's trademark.