Trigger Warning: Penis
A short story about questionable decisions, my penis, and the human body doing human body things.
Let me start by saying, I am stupid. Not, “has trouble with complex math,” stupid, but “how has this person survived forty-eight years on a planet that is always actively trying to kill stupid people,” stupid. I am telling you this to save you the trouble of typing it in the comments later.
Also, this story contains the word penis. A lot. It is literally about a thing that happened to my penis. If you find that sort of thing off-putting, I suggest you stop RIGHT NOW, because it is going to get much, much worse. Penis.
Oh, you're still here. You and I clearly have bad decision making in common. We should start a club. Does your therapist know you're into this sort of thing? Anyway…
This story actually starts in 2001. On a summer day when I had $50 burning a hole in my pocket and an even less functional brain than I do now. A normal teenager in my situation would have bought a giant bag of weed, but I already had a giant bag of weed so I did the next best thing and decided to get my penis pierced. No, that's not “the thing,” this is still the setup. A little patience please. I promise, “the thing” is coming. Let me cook!
Where was I, oh yeah, the piercing. Back then the only place to get a piercing in Rochester was Wild Side on Monroe Avenue, and the only piercer who was going to pierce a penis was Ken. An old guy who had probably poked more holes in more people than I've ever even met.
The piercing was a dydo piercing. That means it entered the head of my penis from the rim, and exited near the urethra. That's the fancy word for pee hole. At least someone taught me that. Might have been the same uncle who taught me that the middle finger is how you say “hello,” in French though. Yes, it hurt. Yes, it bled. Yes, asking your best friend’s sister for a maxi pad is fucking embarrassing beyond belief. No, telling my friends about the maxi pad was not a good idea.
On the flip side, when you drive a metal shaft through the head of your penis, it swells. Not just a little bit either. My dick was HUGE. So of course I ran around offering to show it to everyone and anyone. That's not the disturbing part. The disturbing part is that 99% of people, even strangers, would respond with, “yeah, lemme see that motherfucker.”
Fast-forward about a decade, and I'm pissing in the woods one day and notice the jewelry is gone. It was definitely there last night.
I called my wife. She looked in a very specific place, and she, well… She found the missing jewelry there. Oh, come on, I've said penis eleventy one times already, don't start clutching pearls at the mention of a little sex. That was the day I stopped wearing the jewelry in that specific hole. For obvious reasons, I think.
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Several years later, I noticed a small hard lump in the head of my penis, right in line with the fistula (that's the fancy word for piercing hole, but I might have learned that from the previously mentioned uncle as well). I did what any American male would do when confronted with such things. I reminded myself that I was in fact invincible and ignored it. (See second paragraph).
Another year went by, and the hard little lump had grown significantly and was causing some discomfort. Like any American male would, I decided if it was still there in a week, I’d call a doctor.
A month passed. The lump had grown considerably and now actually hurt sometimes. I checked with my wallet and it said “not today, asshole,” so I decided if it was still there in a month, I’d call a doctor anyway. Wallet be damned.
Six months passed. My fucking dick hurt. All the time. My wallet was still being a motherfucker face though. I was going to have to deal with this manually.
So listen, you’ve stuck with me through some rough reading up till now. I feel like we have a bond. You know more about my wiener than anyone but me at this point, and that's special. Now, I care about you, and your mental health, so I'm telling you now, this is it. The final boss. Your last chance to fuck off.
I started probing the affected area with my thumbs, looking for the approximate shape and size of the thing, and while probing I found that I could move it. The sensation was unpleasant. Mildly painful, and stretchy/poppy, but whatever the object was it was not attached to me, just in me. Good to know.
The probing had moved the object along the fistula toward the urethra-facing opening, so I continued to stretch and massage my penis in an attempt to continue moving it. If someone had come through my front door they would have found me upside down on the couch doing very confusing things with my penis while my asshole directly faced the front door like a security camera. Not my best look. Also, if I'm being totally honest, probably not my worst.
Several minutes of this proved I could move the thing, but I could not get it out. I could see it, though. It was almost white-colored. If I pushed just right it would hurt real bad, and the opening would gape a bit and I could see my new nemesis. Whitish, shiny smooth, and absolutely refusing to fucking move out.
I had an idea. I oriented myself right side up, stood and went to my bedroom to grab a long barbell that used to live in my tongue. (Yeah, I had lots of holes), then strode pantsless to the basement for some K-Y Jelly.
I removed one ball from the barbell and used the post to lube the fistula from both ends. Then I inserted from the rim and pushed. The hole gaped and grew like a fleshy Eye of Sauron as pain of a magnitude I had never previously experienced turned my entire universe into a penis.
I pushed harder.
The pain grew in intensity. There was no more penis, only pain, and the feral need to evict this uninvited motherfucker from my cock. I was no longer Mike. There was no more thought. I was a machine designed to evict matter from a place it was never meant to be. A force of nature.
The flesh around the opening began to tear as it grew. There was blood, and more pain.
I pushed harder.
The agony reached a screaming crescendo. I was certain I had died and this was hell. Then relief. Sweet, brilliant relief on a cosmic fucking scale, followed immediately by a soft tick as the object landed on the hardwood floor.
It was about a half centimeter wide and looked like a shiny little pearl. I don't know what it is or what it's made of. I'm not a doctor and can't afford one. I kept it, and one day I might have it turned into jewelry.
Tell your therapist I said “Hi.”
