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.
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