Wednesday, January 14, 2015

How Genital Warts Saved My Soul

                Four bulbous discolored dong nodules changed my life forever.  Here's why you should go out and catch HPV, too. 

                My fondness for loose women had come back to bite me, but not in the form of a mouth breathing Fetal Alcohol Syndrome baby or a week’s worth of burning urination.  It was these puffy purple bumps sticking arrogantly out of my flesh saber.
                The first time I saw my wicked impurities manifest on my man shaft, my mind flooded with a sense of defeat and intense self-hatred.  The ghastly sight of these clumpy bumps let loose a flood gate of of shame and disgust about my manly mastiff.  These suckers were huge, but it wasn’t the bumps themselves as much as it was the idea of them.

                There was suddenly a slimey, warty wall between me and the rest of the world.   Not only were these bumps quite unsightly, but are known to be connected to cervical cancer.  Obviously, I don't have to worry about that personally--I don't have a cervix--but it certainly makes the act of drunkenly bulldozing the meat flaps of a lonely lady a potentially harmful situation for the other party.  I'm not talking about the sense of shame that comes over her when she realizes how low in the barrel she scraped that night in the event that she gets to know me better.  I'm talking about cancer and I'm not about that.

                Even if I used a condom, it could still infest her because this little cluster of fuckers sprung up right at the base, where the sun don't shine but also where the rubber don't cover.  I tried on condoms in front of the mirror to check, and much to my dismay, the dark viral lesions showed below the bottom of the wrap much like the stretch marks of a chubby girl in a small T-shirt. 

                Just in case you were curious for another visual, they came about in very much the same way that mushrooms sprout from the base of a tall majestic tree.  And that giant majestic tree is my giant majestic phallus.

                Is this a bit of an overstatement?  No.  The bumpy hard reality is that my cock is literally carcinogenic.  And ugly as fuck, too.  Which is very disgusting but also sort of awesome.

                After a while, it kind of made me feel like an old dirty sailor, you know, with the anchor tattoos and the racist jokes.  You see those guys in photos and movies from the days of lore, smoking cigars in white T-shirts, drinking swill beer from a can, picking up hookers in their cigarette stenched Buicks, watching boxing on a black and white TV with unstable reception in some shitty old man bar.  I'll bet most of those dudes had lumpy lumber, too.

                Overcoming the shame of my beastial outbreak took quite a while for me.  It's kind of funny to think about it now, but in the beginning I felt like I was a cripple slowly wheeling myself off the edge of a giant cliff.  It was a slow, living death on the inside.  But since I'm used to lurking around at various imagined rock bottom scenarios, after a while I was able to regain my wits and spelunk my mind a bit, eventually coming to the conclusion that it’s no big deal after all. 

                There was sense of relief at overcoming the shame.  I eventually became grateful for the scenario, because it put me on the other side of the proverbial fence.  I am now one of those dirty people with a dirty, dirty disease.  I never realized how much I internalized the fear of VD until I spent several cumulative hours staring at those toady nodules.

                As the mornings of me staring at my flawed junk pile on, these little purple bulges swelled up into a Rorschach splatter test.  I began to see a face forming, the leathery, wrinkly, jaundiced face of my Inner Dirty Sailor. The mouth formed a scowl one morning, the dark eyes glaring up at me as if to say, “Why you gotta be such a fuggin’ lil’ quee-uh about this shit, huh?”

                The disapproval of the blue collar burnout, who lives above his favorite bar in a studio apartment with shared toilet and shower, the Inner Dirty Sailor collecting social security, the face of a proud failure, just shaking his head at me.  Why can’t I just get over this?  Why do I have to be crying like a tot?  Just grow up and stop being so pitiful. 

                After all, I’m a grown ass man, with a disease that mostly grown-ups catch.  Most guys learn to grow up when they have a baby, I guess my calling was a shameful infection.  This is my way of becoming one of the big boys, or so the warts told me.

Eventually, I broke down and decided to seek out help in eliminating the warts.  Of course, the virus will always remain, but I had grown tired of looking at them.  They were starting to fuck with  my head, even if I had learned to live with the fact that I now permanently have the Hedonist’s Hex.

                I went to a young, neurotic, Jewish Doctor...actually, he's a Nurse Practitioner, but same diff.

                As he was listening to my heart with his stethoscope, I awkwardly explained that I *might* have genital warts.

                He gave me a look like, Ew, I don't want to touch your dick, faggot.  Just go buy a Freeze Off Kit and do it yourself. 

                Now, he didn't say this outright; online medical sources on the subject--and believe me, I've read plenty--are unanimous on this matter. As are the instructions to the Freeze Off kits.  They all chant the same refrain, "Do not use on your genitals."  And legally, I can't give Medical Advice.  But I can tell you what happened.  Just don't do this at home, kids.  Seriously, I can’t advise doing what I did.

                Anyways, after a moment of silence, Nurse Practitioner Shalom Hebrewman (that's not his real name), related to me how he caught the purple meanies in Hawaii a few years ago and he just froze them off himself.  And he strongly intimated that he didn't want to see my pecker.  All of this is true, other than the fact that he caught it in the state of Hawaii.  I'm making that up.  He didn't say where he was when he caught it.  But Hawaii sounds like a good place to catch the good old naughty bulge syndrome, so I'm sticking with it. 

                I'm sure if I had pressed him on it, he would have froze them off himself.  But I wasn't about to beg a another man to look at my shlong.  Also, it's quite a bit cheaper to do it myself. 

                So I went to Fred Meyer's later on and picked up a Liquid Nitrogen kit.  Like a boss.  Like a man.

                I got home, dropped my drawers and set the Freeze Off Box on by my sink.  I decided to go with CompoundW’s version because of the patented "Precision Tip."  The instructions were fairly straight forward and I had already made up my mind to disregard all of them and do things my way.
                After all, what is one of the loudest proclamations on the box?  "Do not use on your genitals." Ignoring the advice of this large pharmaceutical company to cure the outward signs of a venereal disease is the most Rock n' Roll thing I ever did. 

                I pressed the applicator into the liquid nitrogen reserve releasing the gas with a sharp hiss.  After a few seconds, I pulled the applicator out and examined the frosty, fuming tip.  Satisfied that it was cold enough to burn skin, I jabbed it into my penis and held it until the first wart stung and was covered in snowy, white crystals.

                I repeated this process for the other nefarious nubs and waited about two days to do it again.  The container says to wait two weeks or more before the second application, but they don't even want me to use it on my genitals to begin with, so fuck them. 

                After a few applications, I noticed that some of the warts became crispy on the outside.  I also noticed that the skin felt very sore when my boxers rubbed against it, but it was the joyous agony of victory.

                After all, I was winning the war.  And I beat more than just a few purple bumps.  Becoming a loser in the game of social disease nullified the fear of loss.  More importantly, catching VD made a Man out of me by bringing out my Inner Dirty Sailor. 

I guess you could say that sometimes bad news can be very good for you if you deal with it in the right way.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

The come of my brother; or: Cum in the hand is better than cum in the bush

I have two brothers who have kids. One hit his nut-busts-into-babies quota and got his gonads nipped. My other brother has one kid and might be done.

I asked him if he is going to get a vasectomy like my other brother. He said he never will, he would make his wife get her tubes tied instead. He said he's on his second marriage, and if you have one failed marriage, odds are you'll have another. When he is much older he will probably have a young trophy wife, and she'll probably want kids. Why would he want to deny her the joy of child rearing?

Me? I don't have kids, and am on a five year streak of raw dogging my girlfriend with only one toilet baby. Morbid obesity has its perks.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

My Scrotal Sputum is Excrement

Have you heard?  "Rubbing one off" is the new "pinching a loaf."

                Piles and piles of wads of cotton, latex, and spent spermatozoa lie dormant in landfills across the Western World.  Sometimes, they freeze amongst the shattered glass, construction debris, and assorted neglected plastic items.  Other times, the rain melts the cotton, washes away the seed, discolors the latex.  When the summer comes, it is all left to fester in the heat.

                The innovation and mass production of  disposable phallus sheaths, female contraceptives and abortifacients, coupled with  various government rulings demanding the availability of these innovations produced some awkward distance between fucking and family. 

                Nowadays, to even say words like “erection” and “family” in the same sentence sounds deviant and even a little disturbing.  We've come a long way from our primitive village farmer roots.

                To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, I’ll display another group of verbal associations to fit together.  Try mixing the words “Father” and “Mother” with the phrase “blew a huge load inside.”  Sort of a weird combination of words to fit a sentence around in our modern minds, but the truth is, for thousands of years, families have quite literally come from cumming.  

                The best kept secret of our day and age is that familes still come from cumming.

                If you’re reading this right now, chances are about seven to nine months before you were born your Dad gave your Mom a big gooey cream pie.

                It is also possible that your faceless father opened his trench coat and shot his flesh cannon into a sterile vial for eighty bucks, and a few weeks to a few months later, your Mom thawed out the snake yogurt in the microwave and studiously poured it into the harry gash of your other Mom.   Perhaps she used a turkey baster to squirt it in.  Now that’s Robert Heinlein space age post-family fuck fantasy right there.

                The 20th Century was a time of industrial innovation in the field of pregnancy free fucking.  But the creation of this technology has changed the way we get to know carnal knowledge.  And the way we handle our baby gravy, too. 

                Don't get me wrong, the hedonistic element of busting a nut has always been closely intertwined with the whole babymaking side.  But now that it's not about babies at all for many people, it seems to be moving beyond the hedonistic phase and into the realm of bodily urges, like urination and defecation.  At least, that's how it is for me.

               These days, I don’t even get horny.  I just get this physical urge.  It’s not to ravish and fornicate.  It’s simply this bodily need to release tension.  It feels more like I have to take a shit, except the gigantic turd isn’t in my colon.  It’s in my scrotum.

                 Strangely, this is not an urge I get so much when I see an attractive woman as when I say something awkward in public and everybody subsequently ignores my poorly expressed comment.

                The times I want to free the royal oats the most are when I get letters from my landlord.  Unlike many other occasions, such as when my boss sends me an urgent email or when I am questioned by law enforcement personnel about something, I’m alone in my apartment, so I don’t feel inhibited.  When I see these letters  in my mailbox—which are invariably benign bullshit sent to me by the rental association—I get that full feeling in my balls, like I need to empty them.

At the same time, I climb the ladder of associations and begin to imagine what terrible news could await inside.  I think about what it would be like to live in my van when it is below freezing, how I would need to steal to survive and probably turn to hard drugs to deal with the shame of being homeless.  But I mostly just want to splatter my batter.

                I used to get the urge to urinate when I was in terror.  Now I just want to jack off.   I don’t know about you, but that’s what I call progress.