Author: thumper

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The wide world of porn

Yesterday, I tweeted:

My first exposure to porn was a brief flash of printed penis when I was young. Had to be quite young as my recollection is it happened when we lived in the first house I can remember so maybe about five years old or so. I was at a friend’s who lived with his single mom and I remember a Playgirl magazine (at least I assume that’s what it was) open to its centerfold on a chair. That was the first time I saw another guy’s dick and I remember it totally blowing me away. It wasn’t hard (since that would be vulgar), but it was big. You know, compared to a five-year-old’s, they’re all big. This entire event lasted seconds but has stuck with me my whole life.

How I started to look at porn in a serious way is almost too cliche to admit: My dad’s Playboys when I was ten or eleven or so. He stashed them in what he may have thought was a good hiding place in the bathroom, but it wasn’t. I poured over these magazines, eventually even reading them. I wasn’t just interested in seeing the woman, I wanted to get a peek into this secret world of grown-up naked stuff. The things they would never discuss with or around a kid. The first time I saw the term “cock ring” was in a Playboy and they were not fans of them (they said it was a gay thing — the Playboy editors were fairly conventionally prudish, considering). I was also unsure of the dirty Alice in Wonderland comic where Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum stood side by side with their hands in each other’s pants and the mushroom, instead of making Alice taller or shorter, made her tits so big they burst out of her pretty blue and white dress.

Soon after, I recall looking at those and other magazines with my friend Larry (who was from Florida and profoundly racist) along with some other dude from next door and me saying something about how all these naked women were fine, but seeing a guy every once in a while would be good, too. They both thought that was pretty funny and laughed at me. Like, why in the hell would you want to see a dude, dude? That was the first time I realized that maybe what I liked (re: naked people) was not what the other boys liked. Or, at least what they’d admit to liking since Larry was yet another in a long line of purportedly straight boys who was happy to have naked play time with me.

In general, I think porn is a good and natural thing. Sure, it can cause issues (like unrealistic expectations of what real sex is like and body image issues for all genders, etc.), but wanting to look at porn and enjoy it is, I think, a basic human desire. I think it has a lot to do with our fundamental inclination towards sexual promiscuity (see: Sex At Dawn). We get off seeing others fuck because we’re wired to. Anyway, I think the modern version of my dad’s Playboys is way, way better.

The thing I really appreciate about Tumblr over the hidden stash of girly mags thing is that the act of using someone else’s porn at such an early stage fixes in your mind to what’s “normal.” You have no exposure to anything else so you don’t even know there’s a spectrum of erotic imagery and words from which to partake. And then you might innocently say something like, “Gosh, it’d be nice to see a naked guy every once in a while,” to your pals and get laughed at. On Tumblr, you can find the entire breadth and depth of human sexual expression laid out before you. And that’s a social benefit.

I believe that exposure to people who are different than those your immediate life experience typically includes leads to an understanding of them and their motivations and that leads to tolerance. I’m a big fan of tolerance, as a general rule. My main Tumblr is a pretty good reflection of my interests in that it’s filled with images of men and woman and men with men and women with men and women with women. A bisexual’s paradise. Over the time I’ve been curating it, 3,403 people have chosen to follow it on Tumblr (and another couple of hundred visit its URL every day according to Google Analytics).

Typically, what happens is someone stumbles upon my stash and likes or reblogs a whole bunch of stuff all at once, along the way following me. I can see through this reblogging/liking  and visiting their own Tumblrs what kind of stuff they’re interested in and nine times out of ten, they go for one gender or the other exclusively. But they also often follow me which means they’re going to be exposed to their non-preferred gender frequently as the images I choose to include get posted. So, when they’re on the Tumblr and getting all hot and bothered and playing with their fiddly bits (or clawing at the containers covering their fiddly bits), they’re exposed to all manner of erotic stuff. Stuff inside their comfort zone, stuff outside their comfort zone, stuff they never even thought about before. And not just from me. Tumblr is littered with this stuff. I wonder how many kids today identify as flexible or bi or pan or whatever word they choose (let’s all try and get “biflexipan” in our conversation today) because they saw things on Tumblr that got them off they wouldn’t have otherwise seen had they been paging through the stuck-together pages of Dad’s magazines?

I also wonder how Tumblr is affecting women’s sexual empowerment. Boys finding their dad’s stash is pretty common (or at least it was when the stash was physical rather than virtual), but I’ve never heard it said the same was true for women. At what time was porn for women even a thing? For how many women was their first exposure to the stuff through their boyfriends or husbands? Now, they can sample the entirely of human sexual interests in their own time and follow their own bliss. They can form an idea of their sexuality prior to going out and trying to practice it in way I just don’t think was possible before. I think this is a big fucking deal.

I know my son’s looking at porn because he’s a) 16, b) a human male, and c) has internet access. I’m actually pretty happy for him that he’s coming of age in this environment and not the one I grew up in. Eventually, my daughter will start to be interested in sex as well (come on, Dad, she already is). Perhaps the easy access to porn, which bothers so many, might end up being something good for her, too.

Based on the things I’m told and hear from my peers who have kids, my thoughts on this are pretty far out there. We like to pretend our children will never be as we were. That we can keep them from seeing that sex and sexuality is a thing in the world until they get married. But I remember being young. I remember the lengths I went to to explore sex and I also remember all the things my friends were doing right along with me (and sometimes to me). Humans are sexual animals. Even the young ones. I hope being able to see all of it like they can on Tumblr will help them find themselves faster than people of my generation or older.

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But what about Belle?

Reader Mario commented:

I’m new here, so excuse me if this question has been previously addressed. Since your wife allows you to have sex on the side with another person and you’re doing that, obviously you could hardly object if she did the same (though I’m not assuming you would, in fact, object). If that has already happened, or if you anticipate it could happen, how do you feel about it? And I don’t mean as a fantasy scenario, but as a real situation.

I’ve written about this from both real life and a fantasy perspective, but I don’t know that I’ve really given it much time since our marriage has opened up.

First off, there’s no way I can have sex on the side but then pretend like for her to do so would be a problem. Of course, if it’s OK for me, it’s OK for her. This is speaking as Belle’s husband and not as a sub. I am quite confident in my position in her heart and am not worried she’d find someone she liked better than me. She might find someone she liked as much or better in certain regards, but I’m the love of her life and we both know it (as she is mine, of course).

With me, there’s stuff I want to do that she just can’t provide because of her gender. She could get pretty close using helpful objects and I’d be really cool with that, but she doesn’t want to (that’s more or less how we ended up with the current arrangement). On the face of it, it doesn’t seem like she’s missing out since she’s essentially into guys and I’m a guy. But, I’m not a normal guy and she’s not always able to have the kind of sex she likes with me. Plus, I’m all subby and shit and maybe she wants someone a bit more assertive or even dominating. I can pretend and play at that, but I’m sure there’s a style of sex she might want from time to time that I’m not so great at providing. I’m totally OK with that, perhaps because of my perspective as someone who wants things none of his sex partners can 100% provide. (Protip: Even if you’re not bi, no sex partner will ever give you 100% of what you want.)

Thing is, my Belle’s not just into sex. She wants there to be a more complete package. At least, that’s what she says. When she was younger, there was one guy with whom she had a relationship she pretty much controlled and they fucked just to fuck (at least, that’s my recollection of it), but she now professes a need for emotion to be involved as well. That also makes perfect sense to me as I’ve almost always been that way myself. I’ve had a lot of sex partners over the years, but very few that I had no emotional connection to at all (maybe not love, but friendship). So I wouldn’t be alarmed at the prospect she’d become emotionally connected to this mythical side person. I’d expect it.

I’m not saying I wouldn’t be jealous. I know I would be, but I don’t think a little competition is bad at all. Again, it’s about confidence. The thought of having to vie for her attention to a certain extent, but assured that I’d always ultimately be her primary partner, is thoroughly exciting to me. Sure, yes, there’s a subby thing going on there. There are aspects of their relationship that could work really well against my kinks, but this wouldn’t ultimately be about me. It would be about her. I think it’s important to understand I get that and would never try and direct her somewhere to satisfy my desires through her actions.

There was a time when I would have said there was zero chance something like this would ever happen. I still don’t think there’s much a chance, but it’s more than zero. I love her enough that I’d do whatever I could to help her achieve this if it’s what she wants. Ultimately, I want her to be as happy as possible and to get as much enjoyment as one can from life.

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Lipstick, meet pig

Big news today! No, not the Supreme Court argument over marriage equity. No, not the Baltimore riots. NO, not the tragedy in Tibet.

THERE’S GOING TO BE A GOLD CB-6000!

Dateline: Las Vegas.

Male chastity device manufacturer CB-X Male Chastity is putting the finishing touches on its new luxury chastity device, the CB-6000 Gold.

Man, gold is the new black, isn’t it? What can’t you get in gold these days? Apparently, they’re taking preorders to see how many of these shiny, shiny things to make. It doesn’t appear to be on their site as of this writing, but maybe soon.

This is where I kinda lost it, though…

The CB-6000 Gold combines the trending color combination of gold and black, reflecting CB-X’s philosophy as a luxury brand.

Luxury brand? OK, look. I get that the CB-X line is, apparently, the most popular male chastity device line on the planet. But it’s not fucking luxurious unless lots of fiddly plastic bits and ripped up scrotum skin count as the lifestyle of the rich and famous. The CB-6000 is a painful, uncomfortable dinosaur and CB-X badly needs to come out with a product that reflects improvements in male chastity design (such as ergonomic A-rings, simpler locking mechanisms, no-seam tubes, and the radical innovation of rounded surfaces). What’s their answer to the Holy Trainer? Shiny paint. Please.

They’ve milked (see what I did there) just about every ounce of value out of the CB-6000. Time to move on. I’m sure they’ll sell a million of the damned things (probably literally), but in my opinion, painting the CB-6000 up in gold is like putting lipstick on a pig. It makes the pig look marginally better, but it’s still a pig. Oink, oink.

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Homecoming

Belle’s home from her two week overseas adventure so all’s right in the world again. It’s been hard keeping my hands to myself and I’m sure I’m annoying her with the attention, but I’m just so happy to have her back in the house.

She landed Friday afternoon and was in the typical jet-lagged haze for the rest of the day. I was able to keep her up until 9:00 PM (totally innocent — we were watching Friends) but then she crashed and was sound asleep seconds after she settled in. At about 4:00 AM, the penis in its tube woke me up. I realized she was laying there staring at the ceiling so I made my move. Turned out pretty well. She gave me the key and I got her off with a fully hard penis waiting impatiently between us. Then, when it was time for me to go for a ride, she told me she wanted to feel me come inside her. A little part of me rebelled at the notion, but I didn’t say anything and dutifully ejacualted as requried. It was not a great orgasm as orgasms go and I’m OK with that. But it was copious and that’s pretty much what she wanted. She told me she needed to feel me “mark” her on her return. That the orgasm had nothing to do with me, really. Sort of an unfortunate byproduct of what she needed to have happen. Regardless, she wanted me locked right back up. I was only out about three hours.

I was out and about all day and not in the office until late in the afternoon. I stopped in only because I was expecting a package from Mr. S to be waiting for me. Indeed, there it was. My business partner called me out for only coming in to pick up a package and wanted to know what was in it. I said it was something for home but he wouldn’t have any of that.

“It’s clearly something you don’t want to tell me about.”

“Clearly.”

“Now I know it has to be something illicit.”

“You’ll never know, will you?”

“You mean you have secrets you don’t share with me?”

I wanted to say, “As a matter of fact, I do. Not only does my wife lock my cock in a steel cage just about all the time and I go weeks and months without coming, I like to stick things in my butt and, oh, I have a boyfriend I get to fuck around with on the side. Did I mention the bondage thing? Or the masochistic tendencies? How’s that for secrets? Want any more?” But all I said was, “You have no idea.”

In the envelope was the Oxballs Cock Lock. I’ll be posting my full impression later, but I was anxious to get it home in time for the weekend. I’ve been wearing it since.

Yesterday’s orgasm has really done nothing to my overall horniness level. I was ready and raring again this morning for something, though Belle told me that there would be no more coming for me any time soon and I wasn’t getting out of whatever device I happened to be in, either. Regardless, I wanted to feel her come, but I wasn’t pushy about it. Luckily, she was amenable to the idea.

Before we got down to it, though, she told me how she and our trainer had been flirting with one another via text while she was gone. I’m convinced this is SOP for male trainers and their female clients. Belle knows what this does to me and, even though I asked for details, she wasn’t forthcoming. I told her I’m pretty sure that someday he’ll send her a cock shot. Yes, he’s that kind of guy. I’m sure with a tiny bit of encouragement from her, it’s entirely with the realm of possibility.

FullSizeRender 18This is not a new thing with him. He once sent her a picture of himself shirtless. Yeah, I know. Fucking hot, right? Based on my own personal experience, I know a guy who will send that picture is also a guy who will send others and of a more personal nature.

Anyway, I immediately wanted to fuck her. She wanted to be marked yesterday, but today, it was me craving the marking. But nope. Wasn’t going to happen.

Before we started, she got her new little purple vibe out of her drawer. She had taken it on the trip with her and, she reports, used it multiple times to get off. I, of course, got off zero times while she was gone. Yes, of course, she knew that. And now I know that one of the times she got off was while she was on the plane. I told her back when I doing that sort of thing, I’d jack off on planes, too. She said that sounded hard to do in one’s seat which is where she was when she did it with her vibrator. In her seat. GAH.

Yes, it was in business class which meant a lot more privacy than back where the they keep the goats, chickens, and regular people, and the thrum of the engines probably helped cover the thrum of the little vibe, but still. Jesus, I wanted her.

The best I got was to be the one pressing it against her clit when she came. And that’s pretty great, too, of course. She told me I might get out tomorrow for some fucking, but I’m certainly not coming.

After her orgasm, we laid in bed and chatted and snuggled. She looked across the room where the t-shirt I got for Drew was and she reminded me I forgot to give it to him. I mentioned to her the recent comment on his blog about how he was “taking me down a path she can’t follow” and the seemingly persistent impression of some people that she’s been coerced into this arrangement that allows me to have my fun with Drew. Like she’s a wilting ingenue in the sidelights.

In fact, giving me permission to play outside our marriage was her idea. She proactively gave me that option based on rules and guidelines she established. The notion among some readers that she’s a victim in all this or that I’m somehow taking advantage of her is preposterous. I’m honestly perplexed by this. I told her these types of people are worried about how Drew is going to ruin our marriage. She laughed and said something along the lines of, “Yeah, look how terrible it is.” I told her how there was concern that Drew was turning me gay. She laughed and laughed. “He’s doing a bad job of it,” was her thought.

In fact, Belle is and always has been the one who holds all the cards in my extracurricular activities. I operate under her rules and within what she’s comfortable with. She lets me do with him a) things she is not interested in doing with me, and b) things she cannot do with me but that she knows I want. She’s as much in control of that relationship as she is ours.

I suppose there will always be those who worry I’m going to leave Belle for Drew or some other man. That, contrary to everything I’ve written here on the topic, I’m not the bisexual heteromantic guy who thinks boobies are awesome and loves to munch on pussy. Luckily, the only person whose thoughts on that matter really count is not one of those people. Belle is confident in her position over my heart. She knows me. Knows what I want. What I need. And I am so happy and feel so lucky that she handles me as well as she does in whatever bed I find myself.

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Dancing around the paradox

I’m told the commenter I reference in this post is probably a troll. Doesn’t change the thesis of my post, but if so, he should rot in hell for being a lying douche.

A reader calling themselves maxnsue left a comment on an older post discussing the concept of permanent orgasm denial. In part, they wrote…

I am in permanent orgasm denial at my wife’s request. [That’s all you have to know as the rest is probably bullshit.]

There’s a lot to unpack in that comment and I’ve only included three-fifths of it here, but the critical element I want to focus on is the fact that the reader’s wife [assuming there is one] was the one who made the decision to permanently take his orgasm off the table.

Right now, it’s only been something like three weeks since I last came. For some, that may sound like a long time, but it isn’t for us. Now that the kidney stone unpleasantness is behind me, my ability to feel and enjoy denial is back as it hasn’t been in months. And I mean back. It is not any kind of hyperbole for me to say that I feel at my best when I’m denied. When external downer forces like the kidney stone thing aren’t present, this, right here, is the way I want to be forever. Like I said the other day, sure, I crave orgasmic release, but I do not want to come.

There’s a kind of Zen-like dance men like me need to perform regarding orgasm. I don’t want them. I want to crave them, but that’s different. I want the need to come to claw at me in the moment I’m in her and on the edge. I want to feel it push at my higher brain as if my life depended on squirting inside her, but that’s it. I would be honestly disappointed if, when she gets home later this week, she let me come. Now that I’m feeling it again, I want to keep feeling it. I never want to not feel it. This is what I hope to be forever.

But not having orgasms is only one part of the denial Oreo (not the creamy center, obviously…maybe an Oreo is the wrong metaphor). The other half is knowing I don’t control my own orgasm. I could beg and cajole Belle to leave me like this forever, but it’s sweetest when it’s her will at work and not mine. If I were to make too much of a production about being permanently denied it would take something off the experience. Whatever happens, it has to be her choice. It took me years to really get that, but I get it now.

So yeah, maxnsue’s situation is very appealing to me. I get where he’s coming from and really appreciate the allure of it. But that kind of dynamic only works when it happens organically as theirs has. It’s perhaps the fundamental paradox of D/s. Being too prescriptive to one’s dominant partner to the point of them doing exactly what the sub wants makes what the sub gets less satisfying. The best bet for everyone concerned is to establish rubbery, bouncy boundaries and then let the top push the sub to them (but not necessarily over them).

Belle gets home tomorrow. I don’t know if she has plans or has spent any time thinking about my state, but I hope she leaves me as I am. I do not want to come. But, if she says I have to, I will. Nowhere is it written that a sub will always want what their dominant lets/requires they have.

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When absence becomes a verb

Had to live through another sleep-deprived night yesterday that was maybe 70% caused by hormonal denial build-up and 30% sick kid up in the middle of the night. Seems like these all-nighters don’t come as often as they used to, but the resolution of my recent kidney stone thing has allowed my libedo to come rushing back like someone turning the tap on Niagara Falls. I tried to write a post yesterday, but my foggy dementia from lack of sleep made it not so great.

The thing I was trying to get out was something you’ll either get because your Rorschach patterns of kink and proclivity resembles mine sufficiently or you won’t. As I said, I’m really horny, but I have no desire to play with the penis. Well, I mean, if I was told I could, I’d do it in a millisecond, but the overlapping factors of submission and obedience and faith and trust all soaking in a hot bath of hormones cause me to not think of it as a pleasure object. Not something that is right for me to focus on or have access to or have any rights over. I had to remove the Steelheart the other day because of the kidney thing and felt a great craving to get it back on as soon as I could. I had legitimate access to a free stick of meat filled with all kinds of wonderful pleasure receptors and honestly wanted nothing to do with it. Because the pleasure received by returning to the condition in which I was placed and expected to be (and how I was expected to act) overwhelmed the other kind of more immediate and direct pleasure.

Same thing happened yesterday. I had to get out for the doctor visit and found myself actually resentful at the disruption. I have gone to the doctor locked up before, but not when it involves the thing being locked, so I do understand why it’s necessary and all that, but it pissed me off more than I was expecting. Once the visit was over, even before I was out of the building, I felt the need to be back in the Steelheart the same way I need that first shot of caffeine in the morning. A hungering edge to be contained again. Feeling the cold steel wrapped again around the shaft of the penis brought a palpable sense of relief and comfort to me.

And it goes beyond that. Belle has said I look odd to her when I’m not in the Steelheart and the pink meat is flopping around naturally. That, as I’ve said, she honestly prefers me to be locked up (both from how it makes me look and act). And I like that. I’m more than OK with that. I want that. Men are conditioned by culture and probably even by evolution to be driven by this idea that they are somehow measured as men by their penis and how it measures and what they do with it. But in our relationship, she’d rather I not use it on her. She’s grown to favor the kind of sex we have that leaves the penis in it’s trap. She’d rather it stay where it is most of the time and remain absent from the dynamic.

But, of course, it is part of the dynamic. It can’t not be. But its contribution now is its absence. What it’s going through by not being allowed out and the void left behind when you’re having terrific and rewarding sexual relations with a man without depending on his cock. In spite of it. In fact, in neither of my sexual relationships is its absence considered a problem. Drew, commenting on the photo I posted last time of the free penis, said something to the effect that it’s not even how he thinks of me. That he wouldn’t know how to relate to me if I had a free penis with him. He also prefers the steel and honestly has no interest in getting to what’s inside.

And I do not miss my freedom. I don’t miss being able to play with it whenever I want and I don’t miss not being able to stick in people or that they can’t touch it most of the time. After just a short period of denial and chastity, it becomes who I am. Not a thing we do. Or a thing on me. When it’s working, it is me. Even when it wakes me up at 3:00 AM. I rarely if ever think anymore, “Man, I wish this thing was off me.” I almost always think, “Man, I wish this thing would stop trying to break out.” The craving for the thing locked away and the sensation that comes from it never goes away, but it transforms. That energy transmutes into something positive.

Anyway. There’s a little mid-week trip down the physiological rabbit hole that is my sexuality. I could go on, but it’d just get tiresome.

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Fuck you and your fucking binary scale of human sexuality

Yesterday, HuffPo’s “Gay Voices” published an article titled “Larry Kramer On His New Book, The American People, Which Identifies George Washington, Ben Franklin And More As Gay.” WOW, I thought. Ben Fucking Franklin!? The septuagenarian notorious in France for his  dalliances with the ladies while serving as American ambassador? A homo!? Let alone old George. Poor Martha. After all this time, we find out she was just his beard.

In The American People, Kramer describes George Washington as a man who had sex with men — a “big queen,” he said in an interview — and writes the same of Alexander Hamilton, who “was in love with George,” Ben Franklin, Andrew Jackson, Franklin Pierce, James Buchanan, and “the most powerful gay man” in American history, J. Edgar Hoover.

Oooooh. I see. Not gay. Just “men who had sex with men.” Excuse me while I go bang my fucking head against this fucking brick wall.

I’m not going to argue the historical elements of the text because I’m not qualified. For the sake of the argument, I’ll concede that all these guys had sex with others of their gender. But for fuck’s sake, it’s two-thousand fucking fifteen. Can we stop reducing all same-sex sexual activity to “gay!?” Ben Franklin was not fucking gay. He loved the ladies. That wasn’t for show. Maybe he loved the boys, too, but he wasn’t “gay” as defined as “homosexual” as defined as “an enduring pattern of emotional, romantic, and/or sexual attractions primarily or exclusively to people of the same sex.”

Jesus Christ.

I get that the whole “bisexual invisibility” thing is heavily driven by the fact that bisexuals melt into both the gay and heteronormative social structures absent a concerted effort to make their distinction known. But this kind of shit doesn’t help. Bisexuality is a known thing in the world, but nowhere in the piece does the writer even pretend like there is anything other than gay or straight. And HuffPo’s not the only one. The Guardian also published a piece on the book with only one reference to the word “bisexual” and only in passing.

This kind of shit perpetuates the myth than human sexuality is binary. That we are defined as people by the acts we sometimes do. Occasionally, I pick something up with my left hand but that doesn’t make me left-handed. Maybe George Washington once sucked a dick, but that doesn’t make him gay. It doesn’t even make him fucking bisexual unless he really, really liked it. Maybe Lincoln “enjoyed the company” of the other men back in his circuit courts days, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t also passionate about Mary (before she turned into a psycho, anyway).

Why? Why does this still happen? We don’t live in the Seventies anymore. The world is full of great big beautiful gradations of experience and identity. Why can’t these articles even hint at it, let alone embrace it?

I’d argue that by perpetuating the binary myth the author damages his own premise. We need to publicize that it’s perfectly normal and incredibly common for humans (even old historical ones) to have sexual contact with others of their gender at some point in their lives. Once that becomes common knowledge, a lot of the stigma around same-sex sex would evaporate.

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Stoned

In what is hopefully the final entry in my grand kidney stone epic, today was the day the little fucker finally showed itself. Please, if you tire of hearing about it or just aren’t that into men’s urinary issues, feel free to read something else (though I do provide a picture of the penis after the jump if you’re into that kind of men’s urinary issue).

As I said last time, I’ve felt the thing moving along from being on the backside of my prostate to actually in my prostate to just the other side over the course of the past six or so weeks. Then I stopped feeling anything. It occurred to me last night, in fact, that I hadn’t felt anything odd at all in my nether regions all day and perhaps the entire adventure was over. But no. There was one more nasty little thing to deal with.

This morning, I was peeing (like you do) and, since I’m in a chastity device and at home, I was sitting down. I felt something move inside me. Like, it was stuck and then jumped forward. I expected to look down and see it in the bowl, but there was nothing there. Odd.

I came home from work to wait on some workmen (who will be here between noon and 5:00, of course) and went to have another pee. This time, I felt something akin to a sharp pain slide down from about the middle of the penis to the end of it. Then it got stuck right at the end and jabbed and poked and felt like tiny piranha gnashing away. A tiny urethral piranha (it could happen).

I went and grabbed the emergency key (in what might be the closest thing to an emergency that ever led me to do so) and removed all the steel. As soon as I slipped the PA ring out, a dark little object presented itself nestled right in cleft at the end of the penis. I touched it and the devil rock popped out. And, of course, the next thing I did was tweet its picture to the world.

https://twitter.com/thumperMN/status/587689136888373248

Here’s an alternate view. THE FUCKING THING HAS RAZORS BUILT INTO IT.

My previously scheduled doctor’s appointment is tomorrow. I will be presenting my new little razory friend to him at that time for dissection and analysis. I wonder if he’ll want to do anything else to me like an ultrasound to suss out any of its buddies hiding up inside me.

Whatever. He can do what he likes. I’m just so fucking happy the little piece of shit is finally out of me. That’s six weeks of hell I never want to put up with again.

Since all the steel was off and out anyway, I took the opportunity to clean up what turned out to be an overly exuberant manscaping endeavor I started the day before. No matter how pliable the penis is, when it’s locked up there are some crannies a razor can’t get to. My original intention was to simply trim up the pubes to the length Belle finds acceptable but had the trimmer set wrong and, well, there you have it. Then, last night as I was going to bed, I realized I was less than 24 hours from going to the doctor to discuss an issue that, last time I saw a different doctor about, led to him making me drop my pants so he could poke and prod and flop the penis around in inspection. Only this time, I’d be potentially doing it sans hair. Which, I suppose, isn’t anything my regular doctor hasn’t seen before and it’s certainly something I have no issue showing, you know, the entire fucking planet, but somehow still leaves me feeling a bit sheepish. Like, a shorn sheep perhaps.

Anyway, I snapped another (I think) far sexier picture (because I’m a peverted exhibitionist, after all) before locking the entire package back up. You can find that obviously very NSFW picture after the jump. Or, if you linked directly to this post from somewhere, it’s staring you in the face right now…

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