|Dangerspouse Rides Again|
Garage - Track
Jan. 23, 2016 - 7:49 a.m.
"There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses." (Ezekiel 23:20, NIV)
This has always been one of my favorite Bible passages. For one thing it shows that the Japanese did not, in fact, invent bukakke. For another...I mean, c'mon. Who doesn't love horses? With big dicks that shoot semen all over you? No wonder Christian fundies trot this passage out when they're trying to net new recruits. Right?
Ok, ok. I know, I know. I read the Bible. All of it. (Which is probably why I'm an atheist.) I know that chick with the ancient freak flag flying was an allegory. But still. The fact that the All Knowing and All Powerful Creator of Heaven and Earth (and ISIS) used the story of a girl who craves BBC and a thick layer of frosting as an example we can all relate to says an awful lot about both of us.
I bring this up because sometime in the possible near future I myself will not be applying the frosting.
See, one thing I conveniently left out of my "OMG - I'm gay!" entry a while back was that after the doc got done fingering me and telling me how nice I smelled, he said "Oh by the way, you've got an enlarged prostate. I'm gonna give you some pills. Take them, and come back in a couple of weeks."
No sweat. Show me a middle aged guy who doesn't have an enlarged prostate. I took the pills and a couple of weeks later went back for a follow-up.
The follow-up consisted of peeing into a bucket Justin Beiber style. The bucket was set on a very sensitive scale that recorded the rate at which I was was filling it up. After I was done they took an ultrasound of my nether regions to see how empty I was.
"Bad news" said the doc. "The pills, they did nothing. You're peeing at the rate of a very small rat, and when you think you're done you're really only half empty. I want you to come back next week so I can run some more tests."
Ok. Whatever. I'll come back, they'll draw some blood or take an MRI or something, and I'll get some different pills that will do the trick.
Ignorance sure is bliss.
The next week I walked into the doctor's office, waved a breezy wave to the receptionist, and headed to the exam room.
When the nurse walked in carrying a syringe I rolled up my sleeve and stuck my arm out.
I just looked at her.
"Didn't the doctor tell you?" she said.
"Er, yeah." I said. "You're doing more tests, right?"
"Yes. But not blood tests."
"Then, what?" I felt my face start to flush a bit, the first faint twinges of panic as it dawned on me what sort of test I was in for.
"We have to see how much your bladder is being blocked, and then see the overall shape of your prostate."
"And how do you intend to do that?" I said.
"With scopes" she replied. "These scopes." and she held up two plumber's snakes, one slightly thicker than the other and both about three feet long.
"You've got two holes, right?"
"...Yeeeeeah" I didn't like where this was going.
"Well, we send one scope up each. This thinner one goes up your urethra. And this one (she hoisted what looked like a 4-inch diameter dryer hose) gets inserted into your colon."
I stared at her. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Faint twinges" quickly shot to "Fight or (especially) Flight....NOW".
I think Nurse Ratched there sensed my unease. "Oh don't worry, you'll be fine. Now take your pants off and lie back. I have to prep you."
"YOU? Not the doctor??"
"Me. Drop 'em."
For about two seconds I weighed in my mind the relative merits of "punch her in the face and making a break for it" vs. "put up with a procedure obviously learned from the Nazi concentration camp medical literature, but one that might save my life".
I opted for the wrong one. I dropped my pants.
Ok this is gonna get graphic, so gather the kids and pay attention.
I lay back on the table - the cold, cold table - and as soon as I did the nurse placed a cloth over my groin. It had a cutout circle so Little Elvis could poke his head up.
But apparently Little Elvis could not poke his head up far enough. Did I mention how cold the table was? And how scared I was? And how I'm not exactly Lexington Steele to begin with, even when warm and relaxed?
But of course, they anticipated that. The nurse reached over and grabbed what looked like a Leggo rocket launching scaffold with a ring on top and set it on my stomach. Then she
GRABBED THE TOP OF MY PENIS, STRETCHED IT UP TO THE TOP OF THE SCAFFOLD, AND CLAMPED THE RING AROUND IT.
Let me repeat that, in case you missed it.
A woman I only met only 4 minutes ago GRABBED THE TOP OF MY PENIS, STRETCHED IT TO THE TOP OF A LEGO SCAFFOLDING, THEN CLAMPED A RING AROUND IT.
Granted, this has happened to me before. But it's always been preceded by a nice meal and maybe some roofies. Or a lot of money.
Anyway, there I was splayed out on a table, pantsless and with my dick clamped in some kind of dick clamping contraption that looked like a mini trebuchet, wondering what was next. I figured at least it couldn't get any worse.
And then it got worse.
The nurse picked up the syringe.
"What are you doing with that thing?" I said, my voice rising. " What are you going to do with that syringe?"
"I'm just going to numb the tip of your penis so you don't feel the scope going in." she said.
"You're going to numb me...with a needle? You don't think THAT will hurt?? YOU'RE GOING TO STICK A NEEDLE IN MY PENIS! Do you even know what you're saying?! No! No!! Put the scope in without it! I'm married, I can take pain! NOOOOOO!!!!!" I could feel sweat from my forehead pouring into my ears.
"It's out" she said.
"It's out. The needle's out. You'll be completely numb in a minute. I'll go get the doctor and we can start the procedure." She walked out of the room.
Huh. I guess I'm tougher than I thought. I lay back and congratulated myself on being so manly.
A minute later the door opened and in walked Dr. Mengele, Nurse Needles right behind.
"Well, well, well" he said. "I hear someone is afraid of needles, eh? Well don't worry. That's the last one, unless something goes wrong." He looked over the dick rigging job and gave a nod to Nurse Diesel, who handed him the thinner of the two plumbing snakes.
"Here's what's going to happen, Mr. Spouse" he said. "I'm going to send this scope up your urethra and into your bladder. When it gets there I'm going to fill your bladder with water through a second tube attached to the camera. You're going to feel like you have to urinate really badly, but DON'T URINATE. I'm going to take a look around while your bladder is distended for a minute and then pull out. As soon as I do you can run to the bathroom and relieve yourself. Ready?"
He laughed. And inserted the scope.
To be honest, I didn't feel a thing. Whatever was in that syringe was the Good Stuff. I felt a slight bit of pressure, but other tha OHMYGODIHAVETOPEERIGHTNOW!!
I gasped and closed my eyes and thought dry thoughts. Holy I.P. Daily jokes, Batman! It was like I drank an entire kegger by myself and then two pots of black coffee to keep myself awake afterwards and the nearest bathroom/tree/hobo was two days away by bumpy stagecoach. I had to GO. NOW!
A moment that felt like a year later I sensed a slight tugging, then a "pop" as the scope was withdrawn.
"Ok, you can go now" the nurse said, as she unhooked Little Elvis from his Iron Maiden.
I leaped off the table and sprinted out the door, not even bothering to put my pants on. Down the hall, second door on the left, just past the receptionist's desk. The receptionist didn't even look up. This must be a regular occurrence at a urologist office.
I stood in front of the toilet and let fly. And as soon as I did....
The rush of pressurized fluid shooting down Little Elvis felt like a river of flaming acid. About a teaspoon of liquid shot out the tip before I reflexively and involuntarily slammed the valve shut - no mean feat for a guy - and literally dropped to my knees next to the toilet. I stayed there, hunched over with my forehead almost touching the floor and cupping Little Elvis in both my hands, for a good 5 minutes trying to catch my breath. It would have been longer - I might still be there today in fact - but I still had to pee so bad I wanted to cry.
This time I tried sitting down. It wasn't any less painful, but at least I was ready for it this time and I didn't have to worry about losing my balance when I blacked out. Little by little, teaspoon by teaspoon, I was able to get it all out. I was in that bathroom a half an hour, if it was a minute.
I walked, still naked from my shirt down, back into the examination room. The doctor smiled. "Want another injection?" I just stared at him, then went to grab my pants.
"Whoa, hold on sport" he said. "You're only half done." He held up the thicker of the two scopes.
"Aw, shit" I said.
"Try not to" he said. "Now lie on your side and relax. Take some deep breaths, and it'll be over before you know it."
Well, what can I say? I rolled onto my side and had a tube the size and texture of a durian fruit shoved up my ass. And despite breathing deeply and thinking about kittens riding unicorns, it was most decidedly NOT over before I knew it. I thought several new continents and mountain ranges must have formed, collided, and drifted away to the other side of the globe before that now reeking tube was pulled from my behind.
When it was the nurse thoughtfully handed me a 4 foot long strip of toilet paper and told me to wipe the lube off myself. "He used lube?" I said. "He's more considerate than I am." I wiped off, tossed the paper in the biohazard bin the nurse pointed to, then put my pants on. Finally. I still felt like I had a guava stuck in my rectum, but I was assured that feeling would pass in a day or two.
"Ok" said the doc. "Give me a minute to get the printouts and I'll come back and discuss what we found. Make yourself comfortable."
Great joke, doc.
I thumbed through the only magazine in the room, an August 1977 edition of "Field and Stream". I kid you not, that's what was there. It was probably left by the previous practice, and when this new doctor moved in he just thought it was part of the decor and left it. Anyway, of all things, the article I opened to was "Michigan Woodcock".
Great joke, magazine.
I tossed the rag back onto the shelf under the exam table and just sat with my eyes closed until the doctor returned. I didn't have long to wait.
"Ok Mr. Spouse, I think I know what's going on" he said when he entered moments later. "Here's the deal: when a prostate starts to enlarge it presses in to the urethra near the base of the bladder on two sides, the upper left and the upper right. That leaves only the bottom third of the tube open for urine to pass through. But you, you lucky man, have what we call a "middle lobe". That's when part of the prostate wraps around and pushes up from the bottom as well. That leaves just a very, very small opening right in the center for fluids to squeeze through. And that's why the pills didn't work. They only relax the buggers on the upper portion."
"Ok, great" I said. "So I'm getting a different pill that will take care of all three now, right?"
"Wrong. There is no such pill."
"Surgery?" I said, "Just so I can pee faster? Yeah, I dunno. I mean, how would you even do that?"
"We insert a very sharp knife up your penis and - "
I stood and put my coat on. "It was nice knowing you, doc. Thanks for figuring out what's going on with my pee, and for sticking a Volkswagen up my ass. Have a nice life!" And I made for the door.
I took my coat off.
"What kind of knife are we talking, doc?"
He smiled. "A very, very small one. And you'll be completely knocked out when we do it, so you won't even know. It sounds gruesome but it's a simple procedure with an almost perfect record of success. If you don't do it, that over enthusiastic prostate of yours is going to squeeze your urethra shut like a garden hose with a truck parked on it. And when that happens...."
I got the idea.
I sighed. "Ok doc, you convinced me. What now?"
"Now? Well now you just have to read over some literature and then decide when and if you want to go through with it. You do have some time. It'll be a few years at least before you're in danger of blowing up like a water balloon and exploding. But I recommend you do it sooner rather than later, because it's likely that you'll start dealing with other consequences like recurring infections well before it gets to that point."
He went on and explained a couple of other details of the surgery, but that's enough for here.
Except for this:
"Now there is one side effect you should know about. Once you have the surgery, you are going to have retrograde ejaculations."
Now, I know what the word "retrograde" means. I use it all the time in my newscasts to describe certain politicians. But I never heard it paired with "ejaculation" before. I looked quizzically at him.
"A retrograde ejaculation" he said, "is an ejaculation that fires backwards, into your bladder. Nothing is going to come out the tip."
"Cool!" I said. "How long will that last?"
He looked at me. "Forever."
"WHAT? Forever? As in, for the rest of my life forever? I'm never, ever gonna decorate my wife's face again??" (Ok, I didn't actually say that last one. But I did think it.)
"Correct. You'll still have orgasms, with regular feeling contractions. But nothing is going to come out."
He went on to explain the anatomical reasons for such a (to me) bizarre side effect but again, that's enough for here. You can look it up if you're interested. Perv.
Finally all that needed to be said was said, and I could go home. I put my coat on and started the long drive back to Dangerhouse. The entire way home I kept kicking back and forth the pros and cons of having the surgery: On the one hand, death. On the other, a life of no semen shooting out of my dick. It was a tough call. I needed a second opinion.
"Hey Sweetie" I said to NewWifey(tm), "I need to talk to you."
"Sure baby" she said. "What's up? Did you see the doctor today?"
"I did, and that's what I want to discuss. The doc ran some tests (I skipped mentioning the dick scaffolding, dick syringes, crying, peeing, crying some more, and the 12" water main up my ass) and they figured out what's wrong with me."
"Great" she said. "What is it?"
"Well, I've got this extra prostate lobe that's pushing against my urethra, and they wanna go in and cut it out with surgery."
"That sounds reasonable" she said. "So what did you want to discuss?"
"Well, see, there's good news and bad news about that." I took a deep breath. "The surgery will keep me from dying an almost unspeakably agonizing death in a few years when my bladder blows apart...but for the rest of my life you won't have anything to swallow when I cum in your mouth." I cringed, waiting for the wail of protest. Instead:
"Ok. What's the bad news?"
"You said the surgery will extend your life, but afterwards you'll have retrograde ejaculations. What's the downside?"
"That IS the downsi - hey, wait a minute. You know what retrograde ejaculations are??"
She put her hands on her hips. "What do you think, I just sit around playing Candy Crush all day? (she does) My husband had a urologist appointment today. I looked up everything I could about the symptoms you told me you had on WebMD and the NIH. I figured out from them that the doctor was probably going to run a scope up your dick and another up your ass, and since your pills didn't work that meant they were probably gonna find a middle lobe. And that means a surgery to cut out the flap that your semen uses as a backstop so it can be fired forwards in a burst of peristalsis. And THAT means that the semen will have to go backwards, into your bladder. So no more in my eye ever again. Am I right?"
I reached down to the floor and picked my jaw up. "Yeah. You're right. Damn." I shook my head. "Hey wait a second. Hang on. What was that about it being good news that I'm gonna be firing blanks into your mouth from now on? You told me you liked swallowing!"
"I told you a lot of things" she said, looking sideways at me. Then she softened a bit. "Look Pookie, I love you. Frankly, swallow...no swallow...it's all great. I'll still go down on you and when you cum and nothing comes out I'll be disappointed. But if it means...ah, who am I kidding. You know what? I should make up a mixture of warm Elmer's glue and salt and see if you like swallowing that. If I told you I loved it when you did, you'd probably do it gladly and tell me you liked it. But you'd be dancing a jig when my back was turned if I had an operation that stopped me from feeding it to you."
I was crushed. My whole marriage was based on a lie!
I think NewWifey(tm) sensed my despair, as she immediately tried to repair the damage. "Ah c'mon, sport" she said. "You still got plenty of chances to spackle my face before you go under the knife, right? I promise I'll swallow each and every time, and love doing it. And after the operation I'll be disappointed for you, but keep kneelin' and bobbin' just the same whenever you want. I just won't get my mascara messed up when you cum then - it's a win-win!" and she gave me a big hug and an even bigger butt squeeze.
God, I love a woman who understands a man's needs. I felt instantly better.
So now I just have to decide when to do this. There's a bit of a recovery following the surgery, so I should have it during non-riding season so I'm not off the bike too long. That means either very soon, or next winter. I'm kinda leaning towards the latter because, well, I do enjoy spackling and messing up mascara and want to continue doing that as long as is safely possible. But also..."Star In A Bukakke Film" is #7 on my Bucket List, and "Male Lead in Film Adaptation of Ezekiel 23:20" is #8. Putting the surgery off til next year gives me a whole 12 months to make those happen. And I just know I can. I know it.
Alright kids, I've gotta wrap this up. I normally don't ramble on quite so long, but like 85 million other people on the Eastern Seaboard I'm trapped inside by "Snowzilla Snowpocalypse Snowmegeddon '16". Nuthin' else to do but write.
Oh wait, yes there is. NewWifey(s) has just finished shoveling the drive.
Time to spackle!
.(Bonus and relevant old "Mr. Science" joke: 'A reader writes and asks "What's the difference between a meteorologist and a meaty urologist?' I'm not sure, but you wouldn't want to bring either one home to meet your parents."