A BRIEF FORAY INTO MY PERSONAL SEX HISTORY
Back in 1992 I had prostate surgery. Doctors were surprised: “So young,” they muttered as the shiny surgical blade sliced through that walnut sized organ that serves the vital function of producing sperm in the male species. Actually not the cute little sperm cells themselves, but the fluid that delivers them. In reality, I have no idea what my surgeon, Dr. Parsons, might have discussed during surgery - The stock market? The latest development in prostectomies? The new Carpenters’ Christmas song? - since I was asleep. The “So young,” comment however, was real and muttered to me with a sigh while awake at some point between the “discovery” phase at my primary care physician’s office, his middle finger rotating up my butt, and all the pre-surgery, pre-op consultations up at John’s Hopkins. At the time, because my cancer was so far along, surgery was the only option even though implanted radioactive “seeds” was the newest treatment system back then. Thankfully, there are more options today. Just my luck to have missed out on the new wave of prostate cancer treatments. I was 47 years old at the time.
After a painful recovery that included the maniacal but ultimately unsuccessful wrenching’s by a medical technician on a catheter tube stuck in my penis prior to my discharge (it later fell out of it’s own accord at home) I began to adjust to my new spremless sex life. Back then, Viagra worked pretty well giving me an erection that wasn’t quite as steel-like as my pre-op one, but sufficiently rigid to do the job.
Fast forward twenty years and my urologist informs me that after years of low “0.0” to “0.2” results from PSA tests conducted at regular intervals since the operation, the cancer has returned at the “seat of the now vanished prostate.” My PSA scores had been slowly rising over the prior three years. Nothing to worry about he said; a targeted radiation therapy would take care of the problem. So for two months – 10 weeks, in fact, five days a week - I hiked myself up to Sibley Memorial Hospital and lying flat on my back was slowly passed through a noisy, giant, rotating machine spewing radiation beams into my body. Targeted beams, of course; presumably narrow and hitting the cells with pinpoint accuracy. Judging by my subsequent PSA results, the treatment was successful.
This time, however, the old Viagra erectile dysfunction supplement didn’t work nearly as well. Sure, the blue pills did give me a hard on sufficient to jack off (spermless, don’t forget) if I used a couple of cock rings in addition to the Viagra or wrapped a leather band tightly around my dick and testicles. Since I was seeing my urologist, (BTW a real cutie! Jock type! Love to visit him!) every three months following the radiation therapy, he would always ask me about my erections. My standard reply was “They’re okay, but not like they used to be.” Admittedly, I considered our discussions somewhat of a turn-on, given that they guy is drop-dead handsome, tall, square jawed and eminently fuckable. I rather enjoyed our exchanges. He was forever going on about how there were other methods I could try if I wanted to.
Well, one day when he asked me if I would like to try the “hard-on-by-chemistry” method and I agreed. Occasionally our Big Pharma folks do invent something worthwhile. This, he explained, would require using diabetes-type syringes with which I could poke my penis and load up the injectable fluid into my dick. He explained the basic procedure and told me that the serum had to be kept in the freezer. There was another non-freezable variety but my insurance didn’t cover it. He also told me not to use it more than two or three times a week. “Not a problem,” I replied. It had been a long time since I’d had sex – alone or with someone else – three times a week. But that was before I met my Indian partner.
He disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned to the examination room with one of those small bottles full of clear liquid with the rubber insert in the top, a needle point syringe and a couple of alcohol wipes. “I’ll do this one to demonstrate how it’s done,” he said, opening up one of the alcohol rubs. “Hey,” I thought to myself, “this could turn out to be fun!” Of course I had never injected myself with anything never having been a diabetic nor a heroin user. Sitting next to me I couldn’t help feeling that old sparkle of “interest” that flashes through my body anytime I’m close to a terrifically attractive man who is gazing intently at my genitals. “Stretch out your penis for me,” he instructed, and me, taking my penis in my left hand and pulling it to it’s full length (about five flaccid inches) I was thinking “Yeah, too bad Doc that even stretched out I wouldn’t be able to do anything useful with it. “Okay,” he continued, “now you’re going to have to experiment to see what dosage is right for you,” as he tipped the bottle upside down and inserted the syringe into the top. “I’m going to give you 20 milligrams today,” he continued pulling back on the syringe’s plunger “and we’ll see how it goes.” I could see the markings on the side of the syringe and he filled it maybe one-quarter of the way down. He handed me an alcohol wipe. “Wipe you penis and keep it stretched for me. I’m going to inject it into the side of your penis midway along its length.”
I mean, pre-prostate follies, this exchange would have immediately sent blood rushing into my dick. But given the circumstances – a medical examination room is only an attractive sex rendezvous in porn films – I was more nervous than excited. As instructed, I wiped my dick and he brought the syringe closer. “Now just keep a tight grip. This shouldn’t hurt. Just a slight prick,” as he thrust the needle into the side of my dick, stopped for a second and slowly pushed the plunger down filling my penis with the mysterious fluid.
Removing the syringe, he said, “It helps if you squeeze your penis for few minutes until it fills up with blood. It should take about 10 or 15 minutes to come to full erection.” I did as instructed. “I’ll be back in a while to check on you.” Dr. Parsons left the examination room leaving me sitting in a chair tightly holding my penis in my right hand. Since I am right handed, it didn’t feel all that strange.
Glory of glories! As I sat there with my hand wrapped around my dick, I could feel it enlarging. Wow! It was a miracle! After about ten or twelve minutes I was sporting a hard on like I hadn’t experienced since my teenage years. Rock solid and stiff as carbon steel. It was truly amazing! Doc returned and said: “Well, looks like you’re good to go!”
It was difficult driving home with my massively erect dick uncomfortably crowding my pants. But whatever “difficulties” I was experiencing, they weren’t enough to suppress my outright glee at my gloriously engorged penis. It was amazing! Once home, however, I quickly stripped, and sitting stark naked in front of my computer watched some porn and was able to come to an orgasm pretty easily. My hunky urologist, Dr. Parsons, told me that I should call him if I had any problems including if I had an erection that lasted longer than four hours. (We all know the warning that comes with the Viagra adverts on TV.) Well, six hours later with a massive erection that showed no signs of softening, I was beginning to panic. Went to the freezer for some ice cubes, put them in a plastic bag and rested the ice pack on my still erect package. After a couple more hours I could feel my dick starting to soften around the “edges.” “Damn,” I thought. “I guess 20 milligrams is too much. I’ll do less next time.”
It took about eight hours for my dick to actually return to its normal, i.e. useless, except for pissing, state. And subsequently I’ve found that even at the 10-12 milligram level I inject myself with, my erections last for a least five or six hours. So far, no untoward side effects. I keep thinking that this condition would be perfect for sex parties. Or for making porn movies. Hey, gay or straight I’m there! Now there’s a very practical solution to the ups and downs of the stock market that keep throwing me into a depressive funk now that I don’t earn a salary. And I’m guessing that as a business proposition, I could deduct the cost of my erection chemicals and supplies as a legitimate business expense.
All right. So there you have it: the complete prostate follies as I’ve experienced them. One thing I will leave you with: If you ever wind up in the same situation as I did, don’t hesitate to try the injectable chemical solution. It works! Trust me on this one!