I can write lots of different ways and use lots of different styles, but it's hard for me to write funny. I can be sharp, coy, quickmouth, and I can surely make people laugh face to face, but I can't do it in print. So you'll just have to take my word for it that this whole story was really funny, or perhaps fun for me.
I had bought a new toy about three weeks ago, a larger version of the Aneros called a Progasm...catchy name that. Owing to the crush of tax season and the fact that I don't have the spare time to play with it, it sat in the closet for a while, until one day when I just couldn't look at the screen or any client's grubby papers for a moment longer, and I decided it was time to have some fun for myself. So I went to the closet, where I keep the toys, and took out my new toy, and blanched at the size of it, as I always do with something new. Long story short, as they say in the depths of Brooklyn, it worked out and fit just fine, and I had a great time with it...slightly difficult getting it in, and then of course it didn't want to come out, but it did, and I had that wonderfully full feeling with it.
There is indeed a point to this story. Fast forward five days, and all of a sudden, I'm having some pain when I pee, like real pain...and so I wait a day or two, and then Saturday morning go to the doctor...remember this is New York, you can do anything at any time, if you're willing to pay for it. My normal doctor isn't in, of course, but there's this nice woman doctor holding down the fort, and so I tell her my tale of woe. She draws a few conclusions, has me pee (painfully) in a cup in the next room, and decides that even though the urine is clear, there's a touch of blood in it (she tests it with some chemical strip). She writes a script for cipro, and sends me on my way...doesn't look at the body part in question, let alone touch it. And I realize that she's embarassed, at the very most, and shy at the very least. I catch the feeling from her, and hold back the vital information.
Fast forward to today, Wednesday, I'm five days into the cipro, no improvement, and so I go back to the doctor and see a nice young doctor, who says he needs to do a visual, a touchy feelie, and probe my prostate as well. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. And so I start to tell him how I think I got the painful peeing syndrome, that nothing goes into my penis, but things certainly do go into other parts of me. And I'm really laying the whole story on the line, and he's wide eyed, he's a doctor but this is all new to him, people stick things up there to "heighten sexual pleasure" as he puts it. And now he's really enjoying the conversation, I can see that he wants to talk about it some more, and so we do, although he doesn't get the graphic details, just the basic understanding of what gets done and why. But he's digging it. I've made his day, I can see that.
He sends me off with a referral to see a urologist, with a probable test that I will only describe for the real masochists and pain whores out there, so close your eyes if this freaks you out. The test consists of running a fibre optic tube of some sort into my penis to see if there's a blockage or some sort of physical damage. OK, you can look now. We finish the chat, and we shake hands, he wishes me good luck, and asks me to let him know what the final outcome is. And I can see that he can't wait to head back to the staff lounge and retell this tale. I visit this practice to have blood taken every three months, and I can't wait to see how I'm treated the next time.
Earwigs-Handle Me With Care by the Traveling Wilburys, Misty by Errol Garner