My girlfriend tied the gown shut around my back, thoughtfully leaving my arse on display, whilst a young nurse fed me painkillers. “These won’t wear off until a long time after the surgery,” she explained, with a sympathy that suggested I might be needing them.
And then we were on the trolley, crashing through double doors like they do in ER. My girlfriend was left beyond the last set of doors after issuing a final warning; “You’ll be fine, as long as you don’t think about getting a boner!”
Suddenly six people were working on me simultaneously. A stab in my hand for the anaesthetic, oxygen mask over my mouth and nose, two doctors taking turns in asking me questions whilst another wired me up to blood pressure and heart monitors.
“Wait!” I shouted. “I need to wee first!”
And that was the last thing I remembered.
When I woke up I felt great. High, even. And inexplicably my bladder was empty. Oh shit. That probably went some way towards explaining the look on the surgeon’s face. At some point during the procedure I must have pissed all over him. “Welcome back,” he said, none too convincingly. I had a brief thought that if there ever was a guy not to urinate on, this was him. The man with the knife. Thank God I was still attached.
An enormous tube snaked out of… well, out of the end of me. It led to a bag full of… well, you can imagine. A recovery nurse followed my gaze to where the bag hung from my gurney.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. We’re going to give you one of these.” She flung a packet into my lap. It contained a kazoo.
“What, I whistle when my bag needs emptying?”
“Ha! No. Here…” With a deft touch she whipped off the bag, opened the packet and attached the kazoo to the end of my tube. The tube from my end, that is. “You use this,” she explained.
Quite how was left to my imagination.
My cock was gigantic. Unbelievable. I wondered if they’d added collagen – either that, or there’d been a cock-up (no pun intended!) and they’d accidentally transplanted the knob from a giraffe. “It’s just fluid absorption,” the nurse informed me. “Don’t worry, it’ll be back to normal soon.”
As I left she offered me a syringe of clear liquid. “You use this if it gets sore,” she said. “You use it in… that area… you sort of… squeeze it in… put a bit in…”
I had to stop her. She was almost making me embarrassed. “Honestly, you can say it,” I told her. “I’ve just had my penis routed out. A whole operating theatre full of people have had their fingers up there. I’d really rather you told me where to put that stuff.”
“Okay. You squeeze it inside the end of your penis. It’s anaesthetic and lubricant. It’ll help.”
“Thanks. I’m sure it will.”
And it did.
For the next two days even moving was an agony. Going to the toilet was an experience I’m working hard to forget. I had to shuffle around the house legs akimbo, as though I’d lost my horse and had a chapped arse to boot. Climbing our rather narrow staircase was achieved mostly with my arms and teeth. By the time I’d shambled up, and weed, and got back down the stairs, I invariably needed to go again… It was two very long days and sleepless nights before the nurse came to remove my kazoo.
I was in so much pain that the weirdness of the situation didn’t strike me until I’d wrestled my pants down around my ankles. There I lay, naked on my bed, whilst a middle aged woman I’d never met made small talk about the weather as she poked my penis with the end of a biro. “You didn’t have to take all your clothes off,” she said. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me to drop trouser without first shedding my t-shirt. To be honest I was just thinking about the industrial-sized cable that appeared to connect my willy to the musical instrument of choice for football fans everywhere. And about how much it would hurt when it was removed.
Down to business. The nurse was donning a rubber glove. “That’s a massive one,” she observed. And yes, she was talking about the tube.
“Well, I overheard the doctor discussing drill bit sizes before the op,” I told her. “You know that thing they bored the channel tunnel with? I think they borrowed that in the end.”
Nervous laughter followed. It was mine. Because the nurse was doing things with syringes, shooting me regular smiles in an encouraging manner – which could only mean one thing. She was about to inflict a massive amount of pain.
“This might be a little uncomfortable,” she warned.
Why the subterfuge? I mean, I knew it was going to hurt like hell. Sure as shit she knew it. So why the pretence? At least treat me like a man! Even if I am about to squeal like a pig. Honestly, I don’t think she was kidding anyone in the room. Had she said, “Okay, brace yourself, tense your arse cheeks and bite down on this piece of wood, ‘cause this is gonna feel like I’m raping your penis with a red hot poker covered in battery acid…” – well, at least I’d have had some respect for her honesty.
It wasn’t actually that bad.
Though before you breathe that sigh of empathetic relief, please re-read the sentence above; it wasn’t that bad. There was no acid. Just searing, red hot agony from bell-end to bowels as the tube was wrenched into the light of day.
Oh. My. God. Ouch. I swear you’d need a general anaesthetic to get a tube that thick down my neck, let alone up my willy. Thankfully it was now back outside of me, where it belonged. And as a token of her respect for the courage I’d shown, the nurse quite thoughtfully left the tube on my desk. At least I guess that’s why she did it, as I can’t think of any practical use she expected me to put it to. I could probably make 25 good strong straws out of it, but who would I get to drink out of them?
Anyway, back to me. I bled rather substantially and passed out.
And that, as they say, was that. I could walk again almost immediately. The pain subsided, as did (regrettably) my cock. I did consider illustrating the swelling with ‘before’ and ‘after’ style photos but luckily enough Krista hid the camera until I came to my senses.
And the consequence was, I have now regained the ability to pee up a wall. And write my name in the snow. In fact, with my new high-pressure nozzle, I could probably carve my name in plate steel. So if in future you see me running for the loo – get the hell out of my way! I could wee through you, and cut the next five guys behind you in half. Next time I get into a pub brawl I’ll have the rarely observed option of urinating my way out…
(And in the meantime – probably best not to stand next to me at the urinal.)