I’ve always had a bit of a mixed relationship with my foreskin.
As a younger man, engaged in my first serious sexual relationship with a rather nice girl called Jo, I had my first, foreskin-related mishap. Naive and over-eager, I attempted intercourse without so much as a nod to foreplay, and Jo’s rather lovely vagina was less than receptive*. Afterwards, looking down, I noticed a blob of blood on the bed.
“Are the decorators in?” I asked, like James Bond. When she shook her head, I suddenly remembered the slight stinging pain I’d felt on entry.
The little blob of blood was a piece of my frenulum. I’d lost some cock.
Fast-forward through the years, and my foreskin has been, well, a bit of schmuck on occasion. Like the time it decided to get a great big scabby sore growing on the inside of it. That was an ace laugh. Urinating was a bit like putting salt and vinegar on a sucking chest wound.
Then, of course, there was the hilarious STI (STD? VD? Could someone come up with an acronym and stick to it, please? Is there a resolution somewhere that states that the abbreviation for the clap has to change every few years? Is it a fashion thing? Along with their annual collections, do fashion designers say, “… And zis year, everyone vill be calling zee clap zee SWRB, daaaaahling.”**) scare, which has turned into one of those things that causes me to uncontrollably wince whenever I remember it.
For the past five months or so, there’s been a bit of a cock-bother escalation.
My foreskin is quite loose and flabby. It’s often been susceptible to a condition I would characterise as chapping. I’m still not sure whether you can actually get chapped foreskin, but it looked chapped: red, sore and flaky. Five months ago, this not-unusual chapping turned into a series of splits and fissures that were like rifling around the head of my cock.
This was fairly painful, but worse, very embarrassing too. Especially when you’re in a casual, sex-orientated relationship (remember Lisa?). When in repose, the scabs and sores weren’t too noticeable, but as soon as I became tumescent, they blossomed, bled a little, and turned the old chap into one of those knobbly novelty condoms that only seem to be sold from machines in pub toilets.
Whilst it didn’t finish Lisa and me, it certainly contributed, and although there were no regrets, the embarrassment remains. People talk, don’t they? My late night paranoia attacks have all featured Lisa in the starring role, chatting to her friends.
“Well, you know, it was only meant to be a laugh while I was getting over my ex, but he had this horrible scabby cock…”
And it was horrible. The sores would start to heal and form scabs, and since the scabs were on an area of the body noted for its elasticity, they would take on a life of their own, growing to such a size that they would actually overlap my cock.
Like most men, I adopted the it’ll-go-away-by-itself approach. Despite significant evidence to the contrary, I’ve always believed this to be a panacea. Perhaps it is. Perhaps I’ve just never left things long enough for it to work. Then again, death cures all.
So anyway, I resolved to see a doctor. Then promptly cancelled the first appointment I made on the grounds that it wasn’t looking quite as bad when the appointment loomed. I’m not a complete coward; I have, in the past, sought a second opinion on my penile predicaments, but I honestly thought the it’ll-go-away-by-itself treatment was beginning to kick in.
It didn’t go away by itself. It came back angrier and scabbier than ever, like Spandau Ballet with eczema. I made another appointment.
Last Friday, I attended.
I was immediately wrong-footed by the doctor being female. Now, I’ve thought on this some more, and I’m not sure why it bothered me at the time. When I saw a male doctor about the scab inside my foreskin, it was far more uncomfortable. I had to hold the skin back while he stared at wreckage and then, just when I though the worst was over, he gave my cock a wholly unnecessary prod. I was faintly appalled by it all.
This time, the doctor was a young, attractive Indian woman with a warm bedside manner. She asked me some questions, some of which were clearly intended to ascertain whether I could have the clap (SWRB) or not. Then came showtime.
I was directed to the examination table. The doctor then played her trump card.
“I’ll have to get a chaperone for the examination.”
Awesome.
She returned with a female nurse with silver hair and a slightly embarrassed expression. I pulled my pants down.
I was then subjected to a very thorough examination.
There’s the old cliche about having one’s knob examined that states that men live in mortal fear of becoming aroused. I was in mortal fear of suddenly hearing my doctor and her chaperone burst into a fit of giggles. I stared at the ceiling and thought of England.
And then it was over. I was prescribed some cream and given a rather friendly smile. I said, “Thank you, Doctor.” I always make a point of formally addressing a doctor when I visit one; don’t know why.
So here I am a week later, with a cock that no longer looks like Basra. Now I just need to get laid. Wish me luck.
Obligatory Woody update: Woody has a cataract and is blind in one eye. Getting this information from a specialist cost 357 quid.
Oh, and the picture at the top is the commission I did for Grasslimb.
* Reading this back, I should maybe point out that this was all properly consensual stuff and that I was young, stupid and inexperienced. Jo suffered no more discomfort than any woman putting up with the inept sexual advances of an idiot boy. So, probably quite a bit, then. We’re rubbish.
** Slept With Russell Brand
