(A horror story about drugs.)
I’ll just start by saying I didn’t have health insurance. Couldn’t afford it.
Anyway, when I started dating Marie, I was worried our age difference would be a problem. So, before our third date, when I figured things might get physical, I asked my buddy if he’d let me have one of his er*ctile dysfunction pills. He obliged.
The date went wonderfully. The time in my apartment afterward went even better. I’ll keep it classy and just say she was impressed by more than just my huge aquarium. That’s not a euphemism, by the way; I have a really cool aquarium. Of course, if I’d gotten rid of it after Mom died, I probably could’ve afforded health insurance. But I’m getting off topic.
As the night came to a close and Marie was saying goodbye because she had to work early, I realized I was still, well, aroused. For lack of a better term, my c*ck was harder than trying to put a dry sock on a wet foot. Marie, to her credit, took it as a compliment. She left, and I was alone. Alone with it.
I did what I could to bring it down, and yes, that means what you think it does. A half hour and 300 p*rn clips later, there was another successful firing. I cleaned up and went to make something to eat.
The image of a 44 year-old man sporting a turgid erection as he makes a sandwich is not one I’d like you to hold on to, but for the purposes of this story, it’s kinda important. So I’m sorry about that. But as the sandwich was built, I became increasingly aware that I might be having a legitimate medical issue. I stood in the kitchen, trying to eat, but I had a hard time focusing on the the pastrami. A different meat was on my mind.
With a growing sense of concern, I waddled back to my computer desk. Here’s a tip: if you ever want to feel disgusted, do a search for “priapism.” Even better, do a search for “untreated priapism.” You’ll be regaled with images of poor guys who, for whatever reason, had erections that wouldn’t go down. Over time, the blood trapped in there went bad, and the organ began to rot. It turns purple, then black. The sufferer not only can lose his dick, but could die of blood poisoning if all that nasty stuff goes into his bloodstream.
I didn’t want to lose my dick. I didn’t want to die. But I also didn’t want to have to declare bankruptcy. As much as I was terrified of my condition, I simply couldn’t afford to go to the ER. So, after more Googling, I realized what I had to do.
Mom died in 2014. She was diabetic. I’d gotten rid of most of her medical stuff, but I still had some. Of those “some,” one thing was relevant to this particular story. A needle. Yes. And again, I’m sorry.
I sterilized the head of my p*nis with some rubbing alcohol, and before I could lose my nerve, I stuck it in and pulled on the plunger. Having my hog sucked had never been so painful.
The hypodermic needle filled with dick blood. When it was full, it was obvious the head gotten smaller. I squirted the blood down the sink, then did it twice more. When all was said and done, my soggy, Swiss-cheesed glans sat at the end of my shaft like a beanie on the tip of a pool cue.
The shaft was a major problem. Besides the pain in my glans from the needle marks, the shaft itself ached terribly. I’d been about seven hours since Marie and I had started fooling around. Everything I read online said eight hours was the absolute limit before irreversible damage would occur. I had to hurry.
Try as I might, I couldn’t get the needle to work properly in the shaft. Part of it was the pain, which was a thousand times worse than it’d been on the tip, but the other part was how the biology of that area is. It’s not just a basic tube that can be emptied and filled. It’s more like a sponge with many chambers which fill with blood, then clamp shut. I could empty a chamber or two with the needle, but I’d have to stick myself hundreds of times to get it done. I simply didn’t have the time. Plus, I was terrified of further injuring myself if I pushed the needle too deep.
I started to panic and I felt myself getting dizzy. Some of it was from the pain, certainly, but to this day I’d swear I’d already started to get poisoned. That freaked me out even more. Short of stabbing my c*ck over and over and over with the needle and probably destroying the organ in the process, another part of me worried that, in my panic, I’d break the needle off inside. It wasn’t going to happen. I’d rather die.
Panic mixed with despair as I knew I’d probably have to call 911. I cradled my face in my hands and cried for a minute, then got up and headed toward the phone. As I passed the aquarium, I stopped. The exotic fish stared, no doubt judging me. I didn’t care. I’d figured something out. Something that, in my haze of fear and panic, seemed reasonable. Now, a year later, I can barely comprehend how I took the next step.
The biggest fish in my tank, the red-ear sunfish, has a special diet. Regular fish food won’t do it. No, the red-ear sunfish needs to eat leeches. And in the small refrigerator next to the aquarium, I had a box of them.
My dizziness had grown severe and I dropped to my knees and opened the little fridge, pulled out the box, stuffed my hand in, and pushed a handful of the writhing, black leeches against my awful, blood-filled dick. The last sight I had before passing out was the biggest of the leeches pushing its mouth against my shaft.
I was out for hours. When I woke up, it was morning. For a brief moment, I was confused. I couldn’t remember why I was on the floor. To my credit, it all came flooding back pretty quickly. I gasped and jumped to my feet. Here’s another tip: if you’ve had leeches sucking your dick for a few hours, don’t jump to your feet.
I felt terrible pain as the engorged leeches, unable to support their own weight, were ripped off my body. All but one, which had attached itself to my pubic area and could rest its weight on the base of my p*nis, dropped onto the hardwood floor. Two of them burst like blood-filled water balloons while the other three just writhed pathetically. I shrieked and slapped at the one connected to me. It flew off, hit the side of the aquarium, and splattered.
As disgusted as I was, I felt intense and overwhelming relief. My stupid, tiny, flaccid dick hung from me like a newborn doorstop. I poked it a couple times, amazed that it still had feeling. Its color looked decent enough. Somehow, despite doing everything wrong and doing things out of panic that I would’ve never considered otherwise, my dick had survived. And so had I.
So that’s about it. Later that night, I gave the thing a test firing. It worked. Then, as I waited with bated breath, it returned to its normal, pathetic size. No harm, no foul. I have to admit, though, I still have a hard time receiving oral sex without thinking of those leeches. And I guess maybe now you will, too.