Saturday, November 18, 2017

Stupid prostate tricks: The end

I've been hesitant to post this less I jinx myself. But you good readers (all three of you) deserve an update. My prostate is clean. I can once again orgasm without pain. This is a good thing.

Following my cock's impalement back in July, the torturer doctor prescribed me two months' worth of antibiotics. I took these through the remainder of July, all through August and into September, and slowly, gradually, the stabbing pain that came whenever I came faded. That was at about the six week mark. I continued to take the medication for two weeks after that. Then, I held my breath. Remember, the first time I was treated for this stuff, the pain went away, but returned once I'd been off the antibiotics for a month. This time, a month passed, then another.

The infection's gone. Thank goodness. But I confess that whenever I get close to coming, I still tense up, waiting for that stab of pain to undermine my pleasure. Conditioned reflexes are hard to overcome.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017


Stop me if you've heard this before--the urologist put me on ciprofloxacin, for a month, by the end of which I'd experienced only modest improvements in my symptoms. My symptoms, for those of you joining late, are sharp, spasms of pain in my prostate during ejaculation, coinciding with the prostrate's contractions during said event. I'm sure you'll agree this is not an apropos time to experience such pains.

So the urologist, who'd been confident in the ciprofloxacin's ability to cure me before, decides to prescribe amoxicillin clavulanate potassium to finish me off... and gives me a two-week prescription. Not entirely comfortable with modern medicine's intent to turn my prostate into a breeding ground for drug-resistant bacteria, I pointed out to him the fact that I'd been pain-free for an entire week while still on doxycycline, and the infection still came back. He dismissed this out of hand.

"Two weeks should be enough."


"Two weeks should be enough."

Well, after two weeks, my symptoms had improved. The pain came intermittently. I might go two orgasms without, but then on the third, zing! Clearly I wasn't cured, but the urologist wasn't having any of it. He flat-out refused to renew my prescription.

"You've been on antibiotics a long time," he sniffed. "That should be enough."

"But Doc," I pointed out, "I still have, you know, symptoms." He dismissed that out of hand. "That should clear up on its own. You've had enough antibiotics."

Well, guess what happened the following two weeks I was off antibiotics? Pretty much the opposite of clearing up on its own. Naturally, the urologist was surprised at this development, and asked me all the same questions he'd asked before. Can I say here that he's something of an arrogant prick? He never listened to me before, and didn't now. Clearly my infection gets better when treated with antibiotics, but the treatment's always been cut off too soon. No, this makes too much sense, so instead, he orders a cytoscopy.


Fortunately, Dr. Jellyfinger was out of town for an extended period, so I lucked into a different urologist--one who looked and sounded like Bill Hader. "Lucked" may be a strong word, but this second urologist was much more attentive to my observations. Alas, that's the best I can say. It's all downhill the rest of the way.

> A cytoscopy involved shoving a viewing device down (or up, depending on your vantage point) my cock to take a look-see at my prostate. If you think that sounds like fun, you'd be wrong. I stripped off my pants and laid there on the exam table as the nurse came in with a tray of syringes. She picks my flaccid cock up and sticks on of the syringes into the tip. "This is going to feel a little strange," she said, and injected the whole syringe of anesthetic into me. "This will numb you so you don't feel anything when the scope goes in," she said. "Although it doesn't really seem to work on the prostate." Gee, thanks. That's very reassuring. Then there's another, larger syringe filled with lubricant and/or distilled water. I'm not entirely clear on that. Regardless, it's a lot, and it all goes into me. Then she takes a kind of metal prong and clamps the head of my cock shut so it all doesn't come spewing out. My cock looks like a turkey wired up for the Thanksgiving roast. And just to satisfy the curious out there, never was I in danger of getting hard through all this indignity. But the worst was yet to come. Take a look at this:

Yeah, that's what went into me. I was expecting a super-thin fiber optic of somesuch. This thing had to be a quarter inch thick. Seriously, it was enormous. No way could it go in without splitting me open. Well, it went in. I don't know how. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe regularly. It didn't hurt exactly--the anesthetic seemed to be doing its job--but damn, it wasn't comfortable. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me and I took a look. There was my poor, flaccid cock, accordioned down to 2-3 inches, impaled vertically on this monster shaft. And said shaft kept going in! It was like my penis was some reluctant python, choking down another snake even though it really didn't want to.

Then the doc said something I'll never forget. "I'm coming up to the prostate. This may be a little uncomfortable."

Holy fuck, folks. If someone asks you if they could shove a quarter-inch camera through your prostate, you say no! If my urethra was a quarter-inch in diameter, barely, then my prostate had squeezed that section down to maybe an eighth of an inch. I didn't cry out, but I grunted. Painfully. My breathing got very fast. I might've started sweating. All I remember was a long, protracted forcing of that monster scope through a hole far too narrow to accommodate. After a couple hours of this, the pressure eased. Finally! I thought. It seemed that it would never end.

"Okay," the urologist said, "I'm going to push it the rest of the way through the prostate now."

The second half of the journey was no less wonderful than the first half. I felt the scope come out the other side, though, and so help me, I clenched. I do not recommend this. Clenching when an enormous camera is shoved down your cock is bad enough, but when it's two sized to big to fit through your prostate, it's much, much worse. Then the urologist decided to play Seawolf for a while in my bladder, twisting the scope back and forth like a periscope. I kept waiting for the torpedoes to launch.

All in all, it felt like 20 feet of scope went into me. In reality, it was probably more like six inches, but even that was too much. But apart from an enlarged prostate, which pretty much all men have at my age, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He removed the scope in a quick stroke, like he was pulling the sword from the stone, gave me some tissues and left to allow me to get cleaned up. My poor, abused cock started disgorging all the water and lubricant like a tube of KY that had seen better days. Seriously, big globs of goo just lurched out of my penis, which remained stretched wide open because of that monster scope they'd just pulled out of me. The stuff just kept coming and coming and coming. I knew they'd pumped me up with clear fluid to inflate my bladder to get a good look at it, but it felt like a full pint dribbled out of me before all was said and done.

My prostate wasn't too happy, either. It cramped and spasmed for four or five hours afterward. It hurt like hell to pee for more than eight hours after. Specifically, when the pee passed through my prostate (I'm very aware of it's location by this point), there was an intense burning sensation, which triggered a new round of prostate cramping.

So what did I get for this experience? Another prescription of amoxicillin clavulanate potassium. This one's good for six weeks, not just two, so that's progress I suppose. Maybe one of these days I'll be able to put my cock in Legs and not flinch in anticipation of pain where there should be only pleasure. Wish me luck.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Stupid prostate tricks part 3

So, a quick recap. I developed a nasty pain in my prostate during orgasm. My doc diagnosed me with chronic prostatitis and prescribed the antibiotic doxycycline, expecting my infection to clear up within two weeks. That two weeks turned into two months on doxycycline before he switched me to ciprofloxacin to finish the job. Folks, I have to say that ciprofloxacin did a serious number on my gastrointestinal tract. Lots of churning, lots of gas, multiple daily bouts of squirty poops of the most vile stench imaginable. And this is with probiotic supplements and eating my weight in yogurt daily. For a month I suffered this way, until, in the final week, that nasty, stabbing pain in my prostate during what should be the happiest of happy times went away.

Hooray! I once again enjoyed pain-free orgasms! For almost a month. Yes, sometime around week four, post-ciprofloxacin, the prostate pain returned. There are few things as depressing as knowing you're in for 1) pain during orgasm and 2) more nasty antibiotics. Because of the stubborn nature of this infection, my doc referred me to a urologist, henceforth known as Dr. Jellyfinger. He was disturbingly blase about my condition. But after some discussion and uncomfortable poking and prodding, gave me a prescription for ciprofloxacin. Yes, another month on that gut-destroying toxin. And guess what? A month's treatment didn't knock it out, so I'm currently on a two-week extension. If that doesn't cure it, we're considering shoving napalm up my ass to burn the whole thing out.

There's one interesting angle to all this--I am hyper-aware of my prostate these days. When I orgasm, I'm focused on my prostate. The first two, three, four contractions are fine, but once we get to, say, number five, that's when the pain starts manifesting. And it does so in a tight, fiery crescent along the right half of my prostate. Is that weird? I know exactly where this bacterial infection has taken root, and could point it out on a life-size model of my reproductive system, if such a thing existed. I'd happily trade that hard-earned knowledge for a return to the days of pain-free sex, however.

How the hell does bacteria get up in my prostate in the first place? I's not like I've been shoving anything up my urethra...

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Stupid prostate tricks part 2

Remember last time when my doctor expected the doxycycline to knock out my infection in maybe a week? Turns out he was off the mark by a little. I ended up taking the doxycycline for two months. And guess what? Still not cured. Those antibiotics got me most of the way there, but that's a massive amount to pump my system full without reaching endgame. Here's the thing--my prostate pain has been significantly reduced in severity and duration, but not eliminated. When I orgasm, the prostate goes into a series of intense contractions, which propel the ejaculation. Most of the time I wouldn't pay attention to the individual contractions, because hey, the overall effect feels pretty good. But when the pain is linked with those contractions, you fixate on it pretty intensely. The first three or four contractions, which are the strongest and most orgasmic, have been pain-free for more than a month. When that goes off, I'm thinking, "Maybe I'm finally clear!" But then around contraction five, or six, or maybe even seven, with the orgasm tailing off and ejaculation ejaculated, a little jab will hit me in the waning throes and I wince and curse because I'm still not well.

"Chronic prostatitis" is the official diagnosis, and my doc is stumped. My blood work is normal and there are no physical signs of cancer. No blood in my urine and no pain beyond the orgasm. In fact, of the various potential conditions I may have, I present the symptoms for none of them beyond the pain. The only real possibility beyond a very persistent bacterial infection is an abscess on my prostate. He doesn't think that's likely because my pain would be greater. In any event, I'm now on ciprofloxacin to try and finish the job the doxycycline couldn't, and boy, is the new stuff rough on my digestive system. Even taking probiotic supplements hasn't helped a tremendous amount. If this stuff doesn't clear me up by the end of the month, I get referred to a urologist and have ultrasound in my future. Joy.

The most frustrating part of all of this is checking to see how my prostate is responding to the treatment. With Legs, there's a tremendous amount of incoming stimulation accompanying my orgasms, and it's easy to get distracted and miss signs of pain now that it's much diminished. Which means I have to go solo to focus on my prostate. Alas, between the antibiotic-induced digestive problems and the libido-suppression effects of the bupropion, it's become increasingly difficult for me to A) get hard and B) stay hard long enough to jack off to completion. If that's not a first world problem, I don't know what is. I'm ready to be done with this whole mess.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Stupid prostate tricks

Okay, when last we spoke I was musing about my balls taking on a modest ache if I went went 4-5 days without orgasm. This was odd, sure, especially since I don't get many spontaneous erections because of the bupropion. Well, the point I want to focus on here was my offhand comment that once the ache set in, orgasm felt "like a kick in the balls." Imagine my concern when Legs had her way with me one evening, and without any preceding ache, orgasm felt like a kick in the balls. Ouch. Not a hard kick, mind you. I didn't double-over in agony like you see in those wacky comedies when someone takes a football to the groin. But then again, even a modest tap to the testicles is best avoided.

The next day, without any desire or Legs' nudity to distract me, I took my cock in hand and induced orgasm. Hey, I thought as the wave crested, this feels pretty good... then ejaculation happened and ruined my joy. Holy hell, each spasm of my prostate was like being stabbed with an ice pick. Without Legs to distract me, it was much worse. I tried it a couple more times over the next day or so, with similar results. Folks, ejaculation ain't supposed to hurt. Fortunately, there was no blood in my semen, but even so, the internet informed me that there were several possibilities for my symptoms, almost all of them resulting in certain death. Reluctantly, I made an appointment with Dr. Jellyfinger (hint: "Digital prostate exam" has nothing to do with computers). Turns out my prostate is "boggy" with a pretty massive bacterial infection taking up the entire right side. I got a nice prescription for doxycycline and instructions to avoid the sun and eat plenty of yogurt to mitigate the damage it'll do to my GI tract. With luck, he said, I'd be back to normal in a week and we'd discontinue any additional dosage. Yeah, well, three weeks later and orgasm still brings pain. Not much, mind you, just a little twinge at the end, right about the point where I start thinking that maybe I'm finally free of the unwanted ouch. Just a little jab, right there to tell me, "Nope, you're not quite done yet." This means, of course, the infection was severe and well-established, meaning I'll have to get an additional prescription of that damn doxycycline to make sure the stubborn infection is completely cleared from my prostate and anywhere else it may be hiding.

The moral of this story is, of course, that coming isn't supposed to hurt. Ejaculation's supposed to be a pleasant thing. Sex--solo or with a partner--should have a happy ending unmarred by caveats from the nether regions. So any guy experiencing not-right symptoms should check with a doctor.

On the bright side, my PSA levels are low, so I've got no sign of prostate cancer. That, I'll take.

Saturday, September 3, 2016

Blue balls?

When I was a teenager and first started dating, I got the most unbelievably painful cases of blue balls ever. Not that I'd ever heard that term or really understood all guys experienced this to one degree or another. If I was lucky enough for a girl to agree to spend time with me, hell, I'd get rock hard hours before the date in anticipation and stand at attention throughout, just in case she wanted to go out for more than just dinner and a movie. Of course, 95% of the time things never progressed farther than a kiss. I was painfully self-conscious, and desperate not to make a mistake that might offend her. Which meant that I never made any moves, and rarely had second dates. I was awkward and boring. But OH! how I hurt afterwards--barely able to walk. Jacking off afterward for relief was almost as bad, because ejaculation felt like a kick in the balls. After high school, I got much better at reading women's signals (thank goodness!) and discomfort quickly became a non-issue.

I bring this up because until this past year, I'd not thought about blue balls since then (where the hell did that name come from anyway? I'm pretty darn sure I've never witnessed any color change). I'd also assumed the pain was a result of prolonged erections--one of the reasons why priapism is such a burden to those who suffer from that condition. But I've come to realized blue balls can result from prolonged periods of no erections as well. My recent bout of depressed libido has resulted in Legs and myself going two weeks at a stretch without any kind of sex. That's partly because of her busy schedule but mostly my lack of desire. After about five days, I've noticed a deep ache that's mild at first, but grows progressively stronger each day I ignore it. All this time, I'll not have even a hint of an erection--not even the ubiquitous "morning wood." Eventually it'll hurt enough that I have to deal with it, either solo or with Legs. And damn if ejaculation doesn't feel like a kick in the balls.

Fortunately, my libido is showing signs of emerging from its recent dormancy, so this particular problem shouldn't be an issue for the near future. But still, how fucked up is it that lack of libido can lead to blue balls? I tell you, getting old sucks in all kinds of ways I never fathomed.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Pool house

Legs left this morning for a week-long business trip. I'm not terribly happy about this, because I didn't get to do her before she left.

Let me rewind a bit. Since my last post, "Limp," things generally picked up for me in the bedroom. I didn't have a repeat of the deflation in May, and in June my libido surged back, relatively speaking. Not to the level it was before I started taking bupropion, but spontaneous erections started appearing again. And Legs, happily, didn't let many of them go to waste. But once July rolled around, I dropped off a cliff. No desire, no erections, and Legs resorted to ambushing me several times to keep her pussy happy. Which brings us to a couple nights ago. Out of the blue, I wanted her. This was happy news for me, because I'd been close to six weeks since I'd had any stirrings. Unfortunately, Legs was coming off a several back-to-back hard days of work, and was exhausted. She was out before I could even get in a quickie. The next night the reverse happened--long business road trip for me, and exhaustion when I got home. I could've gotten going with a little encouragement from her, but she knew I was wiped out and let me crash. So now I have a week of waiting for her to return to me before we exchange bodily fluids once again.

Lest this occasional and intermittent blog only consist of woe and despair, let me share with you Legs' ambush from last week. We were both floating in the pool, her on a inflatable chair with a spill proof cup of pinot grigio, wearing a turquoise one-piece that showed off her legs. I was just back floating, relaxing, a glass of rum and Coke nearby. We're chatting idly about this and that, when she unexpectedly slides her legs up against mine. "Wanna go to the pool house?" she asks casually. Understand this about Legs--that wasn't a casual request. What she really said was "I'm going to fuck you now, and you don't get any say in the matter."

I followed her into the pool house, and locked the door behind me. There's a wide-open window where passers-by could look in and see everything, but Legs ignores it. Doesn't bother to pull the shade. She turns to face me, deliberately peeling down the turquoise one-piece to free her lovely, full, D-cup breasts. Believe it or not, they were perky C-cups when we first started seeing each other, but they've grown over the years. I don't know if this is common among women or a fluke of nature, but I'm not complaining. She slips the suit off her hips, revealing her tightly trimmed pubic wedge. I'm halfway hard before I'm out of my wet trunks. Still dripping, she flips the pillows off the bed then pushes me back. She straddles me a moment later, wrapping her fingers around my cock and stroking me until she decides I'm hard enough. Then she slips the head of my cock between her pussy lips and forces herself down on me.

The thing about fucking in pools is, that while erotic and sexy, it's not entirely comfortable. Or practical. It washes all the pussy juice away, so that there's intermittent lubrication at best. Now, Legs was still pool-wet, but not pussy-wet. Her labia wrapped around my cock, unyielding. Normally, we'd back off then, and I'd finger her or eat her until she was nice and wet and friction no longer a problem. Not this time. Legs ground herself onto me, thrusting her hips in hard, continuous, forceful jerks. I have to be honest--it hurt. I can only imagine how uncomfortable it was for her. But I knew what she was doing, and so did she. Each thrust took me incrementally deeper into her until suddenly Legs' pussy opened up and swallowed all of my cock in one go. She lifted up, and my dripping cock slathered her pussy lips in slipper slippery juice. Legs didn't let up. She thrust hard and fast onto me, her breathing growing ragged. I took her left breast in my mouth, licking and sucking the nipple as hardened. I grabbed her right ass cheek, digging my fingers in and adding my force to her thrusts. She gasped and shuddered, and her pussy tightened around my cock. She slowed, her thrusts deep but jerky, milking every ounce of pleasure from her orgasm. The she rolled off of me, spreading her legs.

I hooked my arms under her knees and around her thighs, pulling Legs to the edge of the bed. Holding her there, I slid my cock into her pussy. Thrusting slowly, I held up each leg in turn, kissing her arches, ankles and calves. Looking down, I watched my cock slide in and out, in and out. Rhythmically, hypnotically. Eyes closed, arms crossed above her head, Legs lay there smiling, head turned to the side as her breasts gently rocked to and from in time with my thrusting. Words cannot express how much I love this position. I get to see all of her, fondle her legs and watch as I enter her over and over and over. I'm very visual, I could go on this way for hours. Alas, Legs can't. If I take too long, she starts to hurt. And as amazing as this position is, I'm not progressing. With some regret, I pull out.

Legs rolls onto her knees, presenting herself to me, her pussy open and inviting. I climb behind her, grasping her hips, and slide in. Good lord! She's hyper-wet, like her pussy was trying to compensate for all the juice washed away by the pool. She's so wet there's next to no friction, no sensation. I pull out, and run my hand along my cock, squeezing all the wet, wet juice off it before smearing it across her ass. I go in again. Better, but still to wet. I wipe on her ass again, which is now pretty slippery. Her pussy squeezes me as I go in again. Perfect. I grab her ankles as I thrust, leaning back to watch my cock go in and out, faster and faster. Her pussy juice is running down the inside of her thighs, down my cock and dripping from my balls. I feel the eruption building. I release her ankles and grab Legs' ass, shoving her onto me as I come in her deeply. And I keep coming--we'd gone more than a week, and I feel the come gushing out of me, burst after burst, like it's trying to equal her wetness. I give one last shudder, and Legs squeezes my cock as I pull out, milking me fore the last drops of come. Then the little, pale trickle turns into an ivory waterfall spilling out of her pussy, splashing down her thighs to make a thick pool on the already-soaked sheets. Then Legs, with a sly grin, slipped back into her one-piece, and a minute later was back in the pool, finishing the last of her pinot grigio.

(Image source: The Wolf and the Owl via Lady Cheeky.)