3. Feeling Myself Again
It’s a naturally humourous part of the human anatomy, the penis. Cocks, much like farts, boobies and hiccups are simply funny things. But if you injure it, it’s the most important thing in the world. To men, it’s arguably the most important thing in the world anyway. Life without it is unthinkable. Unbearable, even. I expected the jokes, the inevitable puns, of course I did. If I didn’t want them, I wouldn’t have decided to write about my willy on the internet where my friends could read it (though admittedly the confusion with castration took me by surprise). There was always a niggle at the back of my mind, though. What if it all went wrong? What if it had to come off? Research shows there’s a huge psychological effect when anything medical involving sharp things happens down there. Research is right.
And now I can breathe easily once again. Everything is as it should be. From the depths of swelling, infection, despair and an agonisingly long wait, my penis is risen.
After all the trauma, both operations and a number of hospital visits and routine check-ups all progressing along the lines of:
“I wonder if I could see the doctor quite soon?”
“I’ll have to check her appointments… can I ask what it’s regarding?”
“It’s about my penis. Could she fit me in somewhere?”
Would I go through it all again? Simply put, “No” is the answer. I’ve lost around a stone in weight since the first operation, and I’m pretty certain it isn’t all foreskin. The condition didn’t inhibit any normal function of my penis with no pain ever being felt previously. The only thing I’ve gained from all this is the amount of people who’ve seen my cock. And a lack of embarrassment about showing it to people. Form an orderly queue.
I’m reliably informed that all that happens now is that a crust forms around the wound site before it drops off (the crust drops off, my penis stays firmly on). I know I’m relying on a regenerative system now proven to not be as effective as Wolverine’s here, but all signs are good. My only mutant power seems to be self-cleaning ears. My brother has it too. Do you ever get this thing where you feel something in your ear, and it’s a bit of earwax which has just fallen out? Sometimes the wax is flakey, but occassionally I hit the jackpot and it’s a giant lump of gooey mess that falls out. We’re the next step in earvolution. Okay, we could have asked for better mutant powers like super-healing, death rays from our eyes, the ability to control the weather, or whatever, but it’s a start. Maybe our children will get the cool super powers, but perhaps they’ll just become cleaners. As long as they’re happy.
On a side note, my brother had researched the problem of phimosis and had immediately found a couple of websites suggesting steroid cream as both an easier and pain-free solution. Though he didn’t want to rub it in. This is unfortunately a myth, and doesn’t apply to true 100% British natural phimosis.
If you’d have told me a year ago I’d be writing 1,500 words on my penis, I’d have called you a silly lamb and would have quite probably sent you to Alcatraz. But here it is. Writing about the experience has been somewhat cathartic, and, from what I gather, it’s amused/shocked/intrigued/disgusted a significant amount of people. Well, this is it, I’m afraid. Like penises (penii?), every story has a beginning, middle and a (bell) end.
I hope you’ve enjoyed mine.