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Wednesday, 28 November 2012

image for My Life as a Man #34

When having an 8 1/2" pecker is a bad thing!

It is 3:37 in the morning and I cannot get to sleep. I'm going to the Veterans Hospital this morning to have a cystoscopy done to find out where, exactly, the "abnormal" cells are coming from that they found in my urine. I had bladder cancer way back in 1991 and went through surgery to remove the tumors, then came radiation and chemotherapy. I was no picnic, but I got through it.

This time through, I already know where the bad cells are coming from: my right kidney has a large cyst-like growth on the part where the ureter connects to it. It is causing me pain in my right lower back. I'm not looking forward to the treatment at all.

But I'm frightened about today's procedure more than anything else. You see, a cystoscopy is done by passing a fairly large, flexible tube through your penis and into your bladder. The first time I had it done the urologist used no anesthesia (hell, the first three times I had it done the doctor used no anesthesia). I must admit, even the thought of a doctor putting a tube up my pecker is enough to reduce me to a blithering idiot.

Even though they are going to use a drug that will make me mostly unaware of the roughest part of the procedure, it is my belief that the damned quack should have given me the anesthesia about 9:00 last night. And a shitload of it too!!!

I know, I know, you women have the same procedure done to you, but it isn't the same at all. To get to a woman's bladder is just a short jog up, maybe half-an-inch of pee pee pathway; to get to mine, the sadist has to go through a tube 8 ½" long.

Yes, my pecker is 8 ½" long, or at least that is what my last girlfriend claimed. Honestly, I haven't actually measured my tally-whacker since 7th grade, and it was about 5" long then (give or take an inch).

Well, what she actually said was that her last boyfriend told her his pecker was 8 ½" long and mine dick is as long as his, so mine, as logic dictates, must be 8 ½" long too.

Whether it is or isn't 8 ½" long, the quackapractor is going to shove a hard rubber tube up my pecker, and even if I'm not totally conscious during the procedure, it is going to hurt like hell every time I take a leak for the next week or so, and I'll be totally conscious for all of that.

And what if something goes terribly wrong this morning? What if the tube pokes a hole out the side of my dick say, oh, 4" up? Then he's going to have to fix that hole, probably with stitches, and I'll end up being the "proud" owner of a Frankendick!

What if some chick wants to have a go (I mean, what if I wake up in an alternate universe where some really hot porn star wants 8 ½" of my tube steak boogie and I have to whip out Elmo [yes, Elmo] and Elmo has turned all black and purple and is sporting 17 cat-gut sutures?) do you think any woman is going to want to play with me then?

To be honest, I'm 61-years-old and to get Elmo going these days I have to resort to gulping down pecker pills to get Elmo in the mood at all. But with 17 sutures tacked across the length and breadth of even so mighty a rod of 8 ½" that Elmo is, Elmo might not want to play.

First off, I'm not saying there is any woman out there who is going to pass my limping form on the street and fall right there at my feet begging me to screw her. I mean, that has never happened before in my whole life.

But what if it happened the day after tomorrow, I mean a passing woman falls at my feet and begs me to "Ground pound" her, right then and there on the street--after the doctor accidentally pokes a two inch hole in the side of my dick?

I won't be able to service her, and therefore my life will surely end when she takes out an ad in the local paper telling everyone what a limp dick I am.

What am I saying? Of course that is what will happen. My dick will be "out of service" just at the very time the woman of my dreams begs me to ravish her on Kanawha Boulevard, right in front of the Culture Center where I work, and I won't be able to at all.

Or worse, Elmo will stand out proud and ready for action, but the woman will run screaming in fright after she gets a look at my swollen, black and blue, cat-gut stitched shmalwauser, and die from shock.

And I'll go to jail for murder, for life. And I'll become some 450 pound, lifer-biker's bitch.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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