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

Impaled!

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."

"But--"

"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.

Dude.

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...