My Last Blow-Out with The Sexiest Man in My Life Almost Became the Nightmare of My Life, Part 2

There were only two people – an elderly couple – sitting in the ER waiting room when I arrived, dressed in baggy shorts and an oversize button down shirt I usually only wore to cover up my leather harness while I drove over to the Ramrod on a Saturday night.

I was coolly clinical with the perky black registrar at the desk and white lied about suffering from erectile dysfunction, and how the pills did nothing but give me a headache, and how a friend had prescription medication injections for his penis and how I had asked him to try it on me. Only, only what should have been a six hour junket had turned into a 10, going on 11 hour nightmare. My dick hurt bad – real bad.

I repeated my tale for the intake nurse who said they would have to call in a urologist. Then she led me to an exam room and instructed me to strip, leaving a hospital gown on the side of the exam table. Several other hospital personnel – a patent rep and a staff doctor useless for anything more than asking questions came in over the next 45 minutes while, still smacked out, I sat, stood, sat, stood, trying to find a comfortable position for my aching dick but to no avail. Twice, I even ventured out of the room, oblivious to the bump under my gown, to ask if they had heard from the urologist.

“He’s on his way.”

From where? Bulgaria? I think they were taking secret delight in watching this stupid bastard suffer.

Finally, finally he arrived, looking like an absent minded professor, bald, egged head, with dark horn rimmed glasses and gawky. He spent the first ten minutes that felt like another eternity going through some fucken medical history form – Jesus !  Then he had me lie on the exam table as he and the nurse – female nurse – took a gander at my never–quit pecker.  I was still high from last night’s slam, but quickly brought up all the Benadryl I had swallowed which seemed to work as a good cover story to explain my erratic behavior and non-stop gibberish.

Now I confess I’ve had my share of Nazi sex fantasies, you know, being tied to a cross bar butt naked while hot, young, blond, blue-eyed German soldiers play with my privates under some evil commandant’s orders. But this – this made my fantasies look like a Shirley Temple flick.

After scrutinizing my dilemma, Herr Professor sat down beside the exam table and gave me his pronouncement.

There‘s blood trapped in the chambers of your penis. I will first have to drain the excess blood, then fill the chambers with saline solution. Hopefully that should diminish your erection.”

Then without a pause, he added the kicker: “This procedure will leave you permanently impotent.”

Crazy as it sounds, I actually felt half relieved by his life sentence. I could finally free myself of my addiction to the hook-up sites and hang up my jock-strap. This insatiable hunt which was only leading me into darker and darker realms of depravity would finally come to an end.

He had shaved my pubes, dick and balls and my upper thighs (remember, I’m a hairy guy) and was ready to numb up my dick for the “final solution” when it happened.

“Well, you’re a lucky man,” he proclaimed genuinely happy about what he saw. “It looks like it’s going down. We may not have to perform the surgery after all.”

Had the Benadryl finally kicked in?

Thank God for Walgreen’s.

For the next hour, I lay there, an icepack on my crotch, as I contemplated the insane merry-go-round ride I had been on the past few weeks, recognizing that if this phallic fiasco wasn’t a wake-up call, I was dead. But through all this doom and gloom of what might have been, I still got a chuckle when I overheard the nurse who had been in the room mutter to her cohorts at the nurses station just outside my half open exam room door, “He’s got a nice one.”

Back home later that morning, I called Bill to let him know I had avoided the knife and what the urologist had described would have been a “bloody, very bloody procedure,” then  went on about finishing up the preparations for my trip up to the Poconos and George. I had planned to leave the following morning – Sunday morning – and now it looked like I still could. I first thought about canceling a rendezvous in Jacksonville on my way up with a web fuck buddy of mine but then thought I would use the opportunity to test whether King Peter was still King, having suffered the most hellish night of his realm. And if he didn’t perform his royal duties, well, so be it. I deserved it.

Cleaning up my bedroom from the fuckfest of the night before – it seemed like it had happened centuries ago – I found that Todd had left behind a pile of accruements –  cockrings, leather gloves, and my favorite oddity, a gas mask for inhaling his home made poppers – and I e’d him without divulging my little episode in the ER that I’d bring the shit with me later that afternoon to that Celebration of Life for his old pal, Don.

The house – a million dollar baby right on a canal with a huge private dock – was loaded with older gay men like me when I arrived about 6, and Todd, the only one dressed in a suit and tie and sweating like a pig, made it a point to give me a hug when he saw me. Interestingly, Brent never showed, but I wasn’t about to open a can of worms and call him to see if he had suffered a fate similar to mine.

I didn’t want to know.

A large blow-up of the late Man of The Hour stood on the fireplace mantel. I instantly recognized him.

I chatted with a few brittle types, and then with Don’s fiftyish younger sister, who lived outside Atlanta where she raised horses. Finally, I was able to retrieve Todd from the maddening crowd and asked if we could talk privately. We snuck out to the empty patio where I relayed to him my tale of terror. He seemed unruffled by what the urologist had said to me about the procedure rendering me permanently impotent as if he had heard it all before. Now I wondered if his own persistent erection issues – even after he shot his own dick up – were the result more of him having gone under the knife rather than the smack.

“I gave you and Brent 2 cc. Next time, I’ll cut it back to 1.5.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I lied. I had vowed to myself I would never play with fire again. If Viagra couldn’t cut it, so be it.

Back inside, a tall, thin older guy with a mop of hair that was a cross between Einstein and Harpo Marx, asked if I went to the Zoo, the old Gold’s gym. No, I replied, I went to LA Fitness, but the query had served its purpose as an icebreaker.

We soon drifted as only gay men could to what our preferences were in guys. Ernie liked ‘em hairy and built and pointed to his partner three conversations away. I took that as a cue to hold up my polo shirt.

“Think I qualify?” I asked.

His eyes lit up as he scanned my hairy chest and abs.

“Sure do,” was his reply.

“So how do you know Todd?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, Todd gets around. He and I and my partner Bob have played a few times. He’s one hunk of man.”

“Sure is.”

“And you – how do you know Todd?” he asked in a patronizing tone.

It was my golden moment to lay it on thick.

“Oh we’ve played too, in fact, he and I had a threesome with a mutual hottie just last night.”

Ernie took the cue and excused himself to the bar.

I spent the end of the evening talking to some female friend of Don’s sister who was enchanted by all my political pontificating.

“You ever consider running for office?” she said.

I laughed.

“No,” she insisted, “You sound more intelligent than most of the politicos out there right now.”

Just then Todd walked into our conversation.

“Do you know your friend here isn’t just good looking, but smart too?” she exclaimed.

“Sure do, “replied Todd, putting his hand around my shoulders.

Then the two of them began to commiserate abut Don and their reminiscing quickly turned to tears. Todd, my butch, incredibly handsome leather man with an insatiable addiction to drugs and sex was crying like a baby.

A few minutes later as the two of us left in his truck so he could drive me to mine a block away and discreetly retrieve his toys, I voiced my opinion that I had recognized Don from his picture and that I was sure we had fucked around in the bath house years before.

“No surprise to me, “said Todd who just moments before had been crying his eyes out over his dearly departed pal. “Don was a pig. Capital P-I-G.”

As I handed him his goody bag from my car, Todd bid me farewell, and added, “Text me when you get to PA. I want to know you made it in OK.”

I nodded I would. Funny coming from a fuck buddy I thought. Or did he feel just a little guilty about my penis crisis? But I was an adult male and had nobody to blame about what happened than myself.

My Jacksonville web bud, Terry, whom I connected with the following evening, had once been something of a heart throb. We had met on the web and first played a year ago on a similar trip up to PA. We were clones – short, nicely built and very furry – and I invited him down for long weekend where people instantly took us for lovers. This time, though, the blush was off the rose. He had gained weight and looked his age, 49. But with a Viagra coursing through my loins and hope in my brain, I was determined to make him feel good, and happily fucked him awhile til Mr. Peter began to fade, more I think from the long drive and the fact I was, well, bored with Terry, who in the end was just another bottom who did little else but shove his ass in my face, than from the ordeal my dick had gone through a mere 36 hours before.

Two days later, settled in PA, George already nitpicking me about leaving a half empty water bottle from my trip in the frig, and complaining for the two hundred fifth time that our next door neighbor was running a meth lab that was slowly poisoning us, I texted Todd a non-committal message.

“Hey buddy. Arrived in PA yesterday, Hope all is well with you. Ray.”

Next day, I got my reply.

“Was waiting to hear from you.  Glad you’re OK. See you soon.”

Labor Day, my destined return date, was only seven weeks away. Would I be a changed man by then?

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