DISCLAIMER! The following could be said to be in bad taste. In fact it’s disgusting. What can I say? That’s just me I’m afraid. I have bad taste in everything except women (I love you Krista!)
Once there was a boy called Tony, who thought he had a very fun game. He used to race around the top of the climbing frame, stepping quickly from bar to steel bar, amazing all who saw him with his daring.
Until one day he slipped. One foot went in front of the bar; one foot went behind it. And all the weight of an eleven year old boy, multiplied by the average acceleration of a small body in free-fall, went crashing down on to his testicles.
The boy thought it was the end.
He screamed and moaned in such horrendous pain that all onlookers vanished instantly. He was left alone to crawl home, bleating his sorrow and cradling his squashed spuds.
Fast forward to the present, and that boy has never been on a climbing frame since. In fact, he can barely remember the reason why he holds them in such dread. What is apparent to him is that his willy no longer functions like that of a normal man. It can’t shoot round corners or anything, but neither can it squirt. It wees in a dribble and is a constant source of frustration for the small boy, now a man (well, kind of).
Yes, it’s me. And I no longer dribble. Because last week a letter arrived that I’ve been waiting for for a long time: my appointment for Open Cock Surgery.
I had less than three days to psyche myself up. Unfortunately I’d made the mistake of asking a doctor what this operation actually entailed. Bad Idea. Because he actually told me.
Suffice to say it would involve opening my willy as wide as it would go – then a bit wider – and inserting an arc welder. Or what I envision as an arc welder at any rate. Chuckling, the doctor said it was far more like a television camera – with a knife blade on the end. I chose to picture the arc welder. It seemed safer.
As the day arrived, questions bounded into my mind, some of them helpfully placed there by other people. “What if you get an erection during the surgery?” my girlfriend helpfully supplied. “Make sure you ask them,” instructed my mum, who was keenly planning our holiday to Jordan, “ask them how long before you can ride a camel!”
There’s a certain kind of tension which is only to be found in a surgical waiting room. Now imagine sitting in a room with six other guys – all of whom are about to have surgery on their cocks. To say the air was thick with fear would be an understatement on a par with saying the surgeon was unnecessarily cheerful. “All-righty-roo!” He poked his head around the curtain where I was undressing. “We’re gonna have an ittle-bitty look at what’s wrong with you.”
At this juncture I’d like to point out that there is nothing ickle, or bitty, about the area involved. In fact my size was a bit of a concern. “Whew, if we nick that you could bleed to death in seconds!” he said. I think the doc was making a joke. I think.
There was a form to fill out. Choice of anaesthetic? Hm… lots please! If I was placed under local anaesthetic, would I like to be conscious? If so, would I like a ‘tent’ over the operation site or would I like to watch… WATCH? Are you frigging kidding me? They’re going to cut open my penis! That is something no man should ever see. I’d need counselling for the rest of my life if I witnessed it. So… no, thank-you. I’d prefer not to watch you attack my precious, precious sausage with a power tool.
I was moved up this list – being a rare specimen of fitness and health (other than, you know, a block in my cock), they decided to operate on me first. Which was good news, as it meant they weren’t anticipating any problems. I like to hear that when my willy is on the table. But it also meant that my time to mentally prepare myself had just elapsed. I was going in now…
To be continued… (and no, you don’t have to read the rest… I know, ugh!)
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