Strange Things I’ve Done to my Penis

Let me start out saying that if you know me in real life, stop now. You probably don’t want to read further. But if you already stomached my narrative on the horrors of being a man at the doctors office, you’ll be fine.

If you made it this far, I’ll continue by saying that I could just as easily write about “Strange things Ive done to my finger” or “weird happenings with my feet” but that would be boring, which is something I try not to be.

From time to time, I have visited tanning beds. I did it in high school to have a nice color for prom. Throughout college and my early career years, I would get a few sessions in before taking a beach trip to get a nice base tan in an attempt to save myself from a sunburn while on vacation. And this month, I’m taking advantage of a month of tanning that was offered by my new gym. Typically speaking, though, I gave up tanning a long time ago. Having the Vinyl Village pool means that I usually get a little sun before any trips, and having the roof open on the car keeps me slightly tanned year round.

I never was, and never will be, one of those people who tans so much that they turn orange. I saw such a creature this past weekend at a fundraiser. The poor thing must have slept in a sunbed every night…she was literally the color of a basketball, and had almost the same texture. I have also never been one for naked tanning, or clever little “press on tattoos” that leave a pasty white image of a Playboy bunny or something equally tacky on the netherregions. I simply hop into the tanning bed with whatever underwear I have on and leave it at that.

Now, before I learned the supportive benefits of boxer briefs, a nice trunk, or a classic tighty whitie, I pretty much stuck to boxers. And that’s what I had on one day when I got into the tanning bed. I’d already had several sessions, so had a good base, and was up to the point where I tanned for about 10 or 12 minutes a session.  So I got down to my boxers, slapped on those goofy looking glasses, and got in.

All seemed well until later that night. My penis was very tender…the slightest bit of friction from walking or moving about was terribly uncomfortable. And it itched slightly. When I got into the shower I noticed the cause–I’d sunburned my dick! The baggy boxers I had been wearing had apparently gaped open at the fly just enough to expose a lemon-shaped wedge of pasty white shaft skin. Well, at least it had been pasty white. Now it was bright red. The shower water hitting me burned. Rubbing against clothes caused almost nauseating pain for at least two days. And then it itched like crazy. A week later, it peeled! And for weeks I had what appeared to be a lemon-shaped liver spot midway up my wang.

But that isn’t all my poor weiner has had to endure. Skip ahead a few years. My roommate in college got a new computer and for the first time, we had the internet in our home. She and I were surfing ebay one night, trying to find something that we actually needed, though I can’t recall what it was.

We came across an auction for one of those penis enlarging “pumps”. The current price was around $2. Jokingly, J, the roomie, put a bid in on it. Now, since she and I were both new to eBay, we had no idea that what we had just bid on was a dutch auction. (Meaning that there are several of the item up for bids, and there’s a good chance all who bid will end up with one.) But that’s what we had done. Bid two dollars on an instrument guaranteed to add inches to your manhood. A few days later, we got the dreaded email :”Congratulations! The auction has ended and you are the winner of the Long Dong Vacuum Schlong” (or whatever it was called). Not wanting to harm our fresh eBay reputation, we ponied up the two dollars and just paid for the damned thing. Within a week, the pump arrived at our door step. It looked like a combination between a test tube on steroids and a blood pressure cuff. We had a laugh, and it got tossed into my closet.

A few weeks later, I went to bed, and for whatever reason, my mind turned to the device in the closet.

“What the heck?” I figured, “Let’s see if this thing works.” So I squeezed through the rubber gasket at the end, and pumped up the little valve. A few moments later, I was the proud owner of a penis that, while not appreciably larger, was a bit more girthy. But it looked like someone was choking it. It was reddish purple, and the pump was not at all comfortable. Fun over, I released the valve and pulled at the pump.

Only, it wouldn’t move. A few painful yanks, and it hadn’t budged. I walked around my room, giant plastic object hanging from my johnson, and found some lotion–hoping that would provide just enough lubricant to extract myself from the pump.

Half a bottle later, I was still stuck and starting to panic. My mind raced. I thought of ugly lesbians, naked old women, and read a passage or two from the Bible, all in an attempt to wither my weinie. None of it worked.

“I could find a hammer to break the plastic!” I thought. It didn’t occur to me that I would also break my wang. The only thing that swayed me from that solution was the realization that the hammer was in the kitchen, two floors beneath me, and I would have to walk past J to get to it. There was no way in hell I was going to explain the predicament to her.

I wrapped myself, and the giant mass  of plastic and rubber at my groin, in a robe and waddled down the hall to my study. Finding a pair of scissors, I reasoned that I could cut the rubber gasket away to free myself. Then I realized there was nothing but skin on the other side and one false move and I’d have to join a support group founded by John Wayne Bobbitt.

By this point, some amount of time had passed and I was having a major panic attack. I was beginning to think the only way I was getting out of that pump was to go to the hospital and have it removed.

“How will I explain that bill to my parents when they get it?”

“What if I get pulled over by the police on the way to the hospital?”

“How can I even face them at the hospital? This is some urban legend shit right here!”

Too mortified to even think of having to share what I was going through with anyone, I decided to try once more to get it off. The throbbing had subsided some, and I figured that either my dick had fallen asleep or it had shrank a bit and the pressure had relieved itself somewhat. I put on a slathering of lotion and pulled hard at the base of the pump. Miraculously, it flew off and landed on the carpet a few feet away.

My unit was dark red, veins bulging as if they might burst any moment. I was so relieved that a visit to the hospital had been averted that I didn’t even care. Over the next few days, a nasty bruise developed at the base of my penis. Dark purple, then fading away over the next few weeks to varying shades of green and yellow. I guess that’s what I got for wondering if the pump worked…

 

Doin’ The Catwalk Crawl

I don’t know why, but I just laugh my ass off whenever someone wipes out on the catwalk. Maybe it’s because just plain funny to see ANYONE fall, ANYWHERE. But add to it that these are people who normally strut around in a state of unattainable perfection, and it becomes just fucking hilarious.

So I bring to you some side splitting catwalk crashes:

She totally disappeared!

oops!

She needs to wear flats!

And this bitch practically dives on her face:

 

Beyond “Turn Your Head and Cough”

I hear women complain a lot about what they have to go through at the doctor’s office. The yearly mammograms, the pap smears (I’ve been on this Earth for decades, and still don’t know what “pap” is, or why you would want to smear it), the “stirrups”. But you don’t often hear men describe the horrors we suffer when seeking medical care. Maybe it’s because men just don’t go the doctor that often. Maybe it’s because women really do have it worse. But I suspect it’s because us fellas are just too damned embarassed to talk about it.

But someone has to, and that someone, apparently, is me.

Now, we’re all familiar with the indignity that all men suffer during a physical–”Turn your head and cough”. Yes, it’s embarassing to drop trou in a cold exam room and have a doctor feel  up your shriveled balls. Frankly, I figure most men have their hands on their own balls often enough that if there were anything amiss, they would know it. We could probably shave millions a year from our overburdened healthcare system by skipping this redundant step.

But I digress. Most folks think that the “cough”, and for older gentlemen, the prostate exam, is as bad as it gets for men. If only. Let me break this too-long silence and tell all of you–especially the ladies, that us guys have it just as bad as women do.

Rewind a few years. I was a college senior, preparing for my final senior exhibit. I spent the weekend building models and doing sketches, all while hunched over on the floor of my studio. It was no surprise to me when I woke up on Monday morning with what I thought was a “crick” in my back. (If you don’t know what a “crick” is, I suggest you book a flight to the South right away).

Well, the pain got worse as the day progressed. Lying on my back with a pillow under me offered some relief, but the only way I was totally pain free was if I got into my car, turned the lumbar support all the way up, and drove ninety miles an hour to press my back into it. Realizing that “my back is hurting officer” probably wouldn’t get me out of a reckless driving charge,  I went home and took a  handful of Tylenol and went to bed.

When I woke up, the pain was even more intense…to the point I could hardly catch my breath. My college roomie had recently gone through a pinched sciatic nerve, and I wondered if I hadn’t done the same thing to myself. So I gave her a call.

“It almost sounds like a kidney stone.” she said. But I had looked that up on the internet already, and while my symptoms sounded similar, kidney stones did not seem to be something suffered by men barely out of their teens. After another few hours of agony, I heeded her advice and had another friend take me to the hospital.

Upon checking in, the nurse said that she was fairly certain that it WAS a kidney stone. I was taken into a room, and put on a drip of some sort of pain medicine that made the “Smurfs” episode on TV an almost existential experience. I don’t recall much else of the night, but I woke up at some point the next morning in a “real” room. Apparently, in my drug induced state, I’d been through some sort of tests that revealed that there was, in fact, a rather large kidney stone. I was given massive amounts of fluids intraveniously and a two liter of water. They were trying to flush it out, and you would think that peeing every four minutes would do the trick. But it didn’t.

Skip ahead 24 hours, and my urologist has decided that I will need surgery to remove the stone. Surgery that, I was told, would NOT require an incision of any sort. That’s right, kids, they were going to go straight up my penis to get the stone. Thank God for anesthesia.

I woke up a few hours later, groggy, but otherwise feeling much better. The doctor explained that they had inserted some sort of “stent” to keep everything from swelling shut. After getting back to my room, I had to pee, and that’s when things got really bad. First, it burned. Not an irritating “oops, got some soap up there” sort of burn. I’m talking, piss gasoline and light a match kind of burning. I’m certain I was actually crying a bit as I peed. Of course, it didn’t look like pee coming out. It looked like marinara sauce. And there was what appeared to be fishing line hanging out of me.

“That’s the stent.” I was told. I didn’t see how something the thickness of fishing line was going to keep the tubes open, but what did I know.  I stayed at the hospital a few more hours. Once the doctors and nurses were convinced I was functioning properly, I was released to go home. And not a moment too soon. I hadn’t eaten in nearly two days, and I desperately wanted to go home and have a pepperoni roll and a few packs of cigarettes.

The next few days are largely a blur, due in part to the Vicodin I was eating like tic tacs. It was basically, drink water, take pills, pee chunky tomato soup, pass out asleep. Repeat as necessary. Well, wait, I missed a step in that process…

The next paragraph can certainly be filed under “too much information” but it simply can’t be left out. The story of just how bad men have it would not be complete without offering the entire kidney stone experience. Now, as you all know, men often wake up in an apparent state of, shall we say, excitement. This is particularly true of men barely out of their teens. So, as I fell into and out of sleep in the days following my surgery, I would often awaken in a turgid state. The few inches of fishing line would disappear, and as my member would go limp, I would have this agonizing sensation that someone was running barbed wire through it as the fishing line stent reappeared. As I said, I was heavily medicated and sleeping a lot that week, so this happened several times a day.  So went my days: drink water, take pills, pee chunky tomato soup, fall asleep, wake up with morning wood, and scream in agony as my penis retracted along the barbed wire stent as it returned to a flaccid state.

After nearly a week, I’d had enough. The stent was to stay in for four more days, but I called my doctor and begged  him to remove it at once. He agreed, and I rushed to his office. I put on my paper gown, and the doc came in.

“I bet you’re ready to get that out” he said. Which was as ridiculous as asking a person on fire if they were ready for someone to find a fire extinguisher.

“Is this going to hurt?” I asked.

“No, just a pinch. This is the easy part.” he assured me. I’d always thought doctors were fairly honest about that sort of thing, so I had no reason to doubt him. His hand disappeared below my paper gown, “Take a deep breath” he said.

As I filled my lungs, he grabbed my penis with one hand, and the fishing line with the other.

Then he pulled.  HARD. Like he was starting a lawnmower. I was certain he had yanked my penis off altogether. I let out a blood curdling scream, and felt the blood leave my head.

“All over.” he said. And there was the stent. It wasn’t just a piece of fishing line. The first few inches were, then there were a few inches of what appeared to be fishing line wrapped in a spring (think the sort of spring that’s inside a ball point pen). Then there was about a foot and a half of hose. Literally. It wasn’t much thinner than a garden hose, and appeared to be made of the same material. And at the end, a rubber “stopper” no smaller than a half dollar.

I thought I was going to pass out, and apparently so did the doc. “I think you better sit down” he said. Hell no! I was getting out of there. I was almost to the door when I realized I was only wearing a paper gown.

Fast forward a few years. I had a mole/cyst/tumor/alien growth high on one of my legs. Nothing to worry about, but I scheduled to have it removed anyway. The day of the procedure, I arrived at the doctors office, and after filling out the usual paperwork and having my vital signs taken, the nurse told me I’d need to disrobe completely below the waist. Rather than a paper gown, she just gave me a paper sheet.

Now, Im not a terribly modest person under any circumstances. And since I figure doctors and nurses have seen every body part in a variety of colors, sizes, and conditions, I’ve never felt any need to be shy about getting naked around medical professionals.  So Im laid out on my back, feet pointed at the door, naked from the waste down, covered with a paper sheet when the doctor walked in. He tossed the sheet aside, completely exposing me. He went to work, and the nurse behind me fumbled through the cabinets looking for a scalpel. A few painful shots of anesthetic later, the doc made his incision.

And then, the door opened. Another nurse walked in.

“Are there any of those Widgets from Company B in here? All I have is the ones from Company A in my room, and those aren’t as good.” she said.

“There should be some. I thought I told her not order them from Company A anymore?” the doctor said.

“Well, she did.”

“I’ll talk to her about it.” The second nurse found her widgets and left. I was thinking, gee, couldn’t that have waited until, I don’t know, after my cock and balls weren’t laying out in full view of the door?

“Almost got it” the doctor said, “you’re doing fine.”

Then the door opened again. It was the office manager. “I thought you wanted the ones from Company A? They’re 20 percent less.”

“No, it’s not worth it, their widgets just aren’t as good.” the doc said.

“Well, Im sorry, I just thought we should save some money the way we go through them.”

“They aren’t that much more, get some from Company B, and toss out all this crap from Company A.”

At this point, I’m well past uncomfortable, and very near being pissed. This is the second person who has barged in during my procedure, and with something that could clearly have waited until after I was gone. But, as the doc said, I was almost done. I took a deep breath. The nurse passed the doc the stitch kit and he got to work sewing me back up.

And the door opened again. A THIRD person came in.

“We’re going to order lunch from that cafe, do you all want anything?”

“Was that soup I got last week the special, or do they always have it?” the doc asked. I was almost stunned.

“I think it was the special.”

“Well, if they have it, I want that and a turkey club. If not, just the club and a side salad.”

“OK, what about you?” said the third intruder to my nurse. I was well past the “pissed off” threshhold now, but decided releasing my inner bitch was not the best idea, given that the doc had a needle within millimeters of my manhood.

“I’m good.” she said. The intruder turned to leave, got halfway out the door, and turned back…standing there, door fully open, she asked “Oh, what about something to drink?”

“Iced tea.” the doc said, pulling another stitch through. “Unsweetened, but get me some of that raw sugar.”

“There you go…all done.” he said. “That wasn’t so bad was it?”

“Well, the procedure wasn’t.” I said curtly. My meaning was lost on the doc, who told me to schedule a time a week in the future to  have the stitches out.

“I am so sorry.” my nurse said, with an embarassed look on her face. “I’m going to lock this door so you can get dressed, just go to the front desk when you’re done.”

I tucked my overexposed genitals back into my undies, fastened my khakis, and made for the door.

So, see ladies, you aren’t the only ones who suffer indignities at the hands of doctors. And gentlemen, there’s no need to suffer in silence any longer.

Shit Fire Jose!

Welcome to the Vinyl Village! It’s what I affectionately call my neighborhood. It’s one of those pre-planned, built all at once by the same builder, sorts of places. White picket fences line the streets that could be described as tree lined if six foot saplings count for trees nowdays.  Colorful houses, all clad in vinyl siding, line up side by side. As one friend said, “I feel like I’m on the set of the Truman Show.”

So that’s home base for my stories…a normal neighborhood like you would find in any normal suburb. And I think my life is fairly normal, too. I go to work, some days I love it, some days I hate it. I come home too tired to do much else. I’ve got a group of fairly normal friends, and for the most part, a normal family. As many colorful characters as any good southerner would admit to. They drive me crazy and make me smile, and give me enough stories to write a book. (So I’m told.) You’ll meet them all along the way.

What will you find here in the vinyl village? Who knows? The sort of stories we all have…laughs, tears, and embarassing moments.  Moments like I had this morning. I woke up after a somewhat restless night and had some sort of stomach thing going on. I decided I would just work from home and sit here in my pajamas and sip gatorade and ginger ale.  So I called in, went back to bed, and woke up around nine. I staggered downstairs and brewed a pot of coffee. Poured a cup, straight black, and went out on my patio to enjoy it with my morning cigarette. (A nasty habit from college I can’t seem to find a reason to drop). So there I sit, in my PJ’s, enjoying the sun and quiet, totally spaced out and not quite awake yet when suddenly there’s a strange man coming around the corner of the house holding some large long thing.  In the split second lapse from reality that followed, I thought this stranger had a shotgun or something, so I jumped, dropped my cigarette, spilled coffee on myself, and screamed like an 8 year old girl. By the time the coffee singed me, I had returned to the real world and realized that it was Wednesday, after all, and it was just the gardner. He made some apology in Spanish, and I hurried inside to change shirts and dust off my bruised ego.

Just another day in the Vinyl Village.