I once nicked some mid-shaft skin while trimming my pubes with clippers. It healed into this weird hard bump dead-center on the ventral side. Meat skin, especially when held taut against a raging boner, made this petrous lump quite noticeable during romantic events for some time, as I didn’t have medical insurance to get it peeped. Girls never made mention of it, which I found odd because for all they knew, it was a genital wart. I would’ve happily explained it, but none asked and some internal taboo prevented me from discussing dick bumps, even ones of innocent origin.
So, eventually this girlfriend, a Category 5 Whorricane mind you, brings it up, and I explain it to her and she says it feels like “a pearl” is sewn under my skin and it feels really good–this makes me want to vomit. I have anticipated somebody asking and not caring, but I have not foreseen somebody proclaiming that scar tissue helps get them off. In retrospect, I should’ve known better, considering that this girl had recently allowed her gynecologist to go down on her during an examination and had raved about it to her girlfriends who secretly told me—but that is a tale for another day.
Now gainfully employed, I go to the doctor. I explain to him the origin and he tells me that something must’ve gotten in the wound when it was healing, so the body kind of encapsulated it in thick skin. He then asks me if I want it removed so I am left to decide between worrying about explaining the state of my dong to every woman for the rest of my life or having dick surgery. I opt for the latter. Girlfriend actually complains about this, so I bribe her by farting in her mouth and slapping her with a latex glove.
The day of the event comes and I have no idea what to expect. Are they going to freeze it? Put some doctor-strength Compound W on it? Whittle it off with a carrot peeler? Turns out it’s just gonna be a good ole’ appointment with the scalpel, an event I’d hoped was limited to the time when nobody asked me if they could lop off part of my infant penis because some Jew thought it was like giving a high-five to Yahweh or some shit.
I get laid out on an operating table, bottomless. They then drape this blue sheet over me that has a cockhole cut out of it which I realize is Jew-related again. Maybe people wouldn’t hate Jews so much if they didn’t instantly associate them with penile mutilation.
The dick is now terrified, alone on stage like a frozen, talentless child. A trillion candlepower floodlight is now positioned over it, but the warmth does little to ease it back to baseline limpness–instead it remains shriveled, yet rigid and can retreat no further. Next, somebody dumps a cupful of iodine all over my crotch and 100% of it trickles into my buttcrack. Now my dick looks like somebody treated it with Thompson’s Water Seal. At this point, putting a little beret on the helmet wouldn’t have made me feel any less dignified.
Oh, but we’re not done yet. Along comes a needle full of local anesthetic and its big enough to lance Clarence Boddiker. At this point, I’ve stopped looking. Prickles of pain are followed by numbness. It’s there, but not- like a phantom limb.
The scalpel gets broken out and at this point. The dick is grasped. I can feel a little. Its not painful, but its horrible as I can feel the scalpel almost “saw” through threads of flesh– think of cutting the tendrils off a Koosh Ball. Like that, but on your dickshaft.
As if everything I’ve described to this point wasn’t bad enough, some motherfucker opens the door to the room which is right off a busy hallway. He starts chatting with the doctor while the door remains fully open, revealing to all who walk by an isolated orange dick with a huge light on it. Things like that tend to draw the motherfucking eye of passersby.
Like a woman realizing she’s helpless against the man raping her, I give up and go to a blank place. The cutting is done and the stitching beings–eight stitches to be exact. I can’t believe that many are required, but at the same time I’m glad its close to over with and that I have avoided a lifetime of seated urination. They wrap it up in gauze with the helmet poking out pig-in-the-blanket-style. They tell me I can’t have sex or masturbate until the stitches come out…did you go to Hollywood Upstairs Medical School too? But this no-duh advice actually leads into something I hadn’t forecasted. Those pesky involuntaries of the night–where id rules.
That same afternoon, I fly out to Boston to meet my Dad who is in town for some reason. I do some boozing, then some drinking. Pops drinks a solitary Campari and Tonic with a lime wedge. We’re back at the hotel, asleep in our beds and, sure enough, REM sleep steers me in a randy direction and before I know it, I’m giving that fetid hotel mattress a couple of gentle grinds. Then, pop pop pop. Stitches let loose like rivets shooting from the hull of a doomed submarine. Its sticky and hot down south, but its not that stuff girls swallow in hope of being liked.
I spring out of the bed like a downed karate master and rush to the bathroom and flick on the light to find my hands, stomach and thighs covered in blood. I’m suddenly experiencing the rite of passage of a teenage girl. I frantically try and dam the flow with some Kleenex. My Dad wakes up to see what’s going on (I’d made mention of my “pickle,” but clearly he’d forgotten about it in his slumbery state). So he freaks out and rushes over to help me and, oh yeah, he’s naked. This scene plays out vividly in the massive bathroom mirror. A naked father desperately trying to help his son stop bleeding due to stitches popped from a nocturnal erection that were there only because, some time back, a young man didn’t give pube-trimming the ardent focus it so clearly deserved.
Two weeks later, after having regained its confidence and vigor, the tortured member returned to full active duty, much to the pleasure of the cock-deprived girlfriend who had doubtlessly scheduled daily PAP smears while I was on the shelf. After a performance that saw no embarassment or bloodshed, all seemed well until this was said to me with a disappointed shrug and a wrinkled nose.
“I kinda miss the bump.”