My Unsuccessful Sex Surgery
For years, I suffered lower back pain from the weight of it. I was embarrassed, from the freakish lower body disfigurement my problem was causing me. And I was ostracized for it. My doctor, at first, tried to convince me it was normal to have an eighteen inch penis. But he was from Japan. How the fuck would he know?
Imagine the fear of a wardrobe malfunction. Running shorts were a distant dream. I had to do my jogging in deep purple pantaloons, to hide my deformity. I begged and begged. I was desperate. Why couldn't I be like all the other men in my bridge group, hung like a Marlboro. They were all happily married, to frigid, workaholic spouses, and had wonderful, dim witted children. There was a crass comment made one evening, something about 'overbidding.' They were friends, for true, but they should know better than to rib a man suffering from 'the long dong.'
The doctor finally consented, and he was willing to do it in his 42nd street walk up. It was supposed to be a simple hack saw and button hole thread job. There were complications. He had to resection it with his cork screw. There was a lot of bleeding.
I should thank my stars the dang thing still sits up and begs, but the scarring and plain cylinder stump of it is a whole new story to tell to the hundreds of stewardesses and nurses I socialize with. Some understand, and accept that I have to use an adjustable wrench to achieve penetration. The others complain, and tell me that their last boy friend was a Virginia Slim. That's all I know to tell you. A malpractice suit is pending. Might lose. Hard to prove your life could get worse after having the long dong. I've turned to religion.
For years, I suffered lower back pain from the weight of it. I was embarrassed, from the freakish lower body disfigurement my problem was causing me. And I was ostracized for it. My doctor, at first, tried to convince me it was normal to have an eighteen inch penis. But he was from Japan. How the fuck would he know?
Imagine the fear of a wardrobe malfunction. Running shorts were a distant dream. I had to do my jogging in deep purple pantaloons, to hide my deformity. I begged and begged. I was desperate. Why couldn't I be like all the other men in my bridge group, hung like a Marlboro. They were all happily married, to frigid, workaholic spouses, and had wonderful, dim witted children. There was a crass comment made one evening, something about 'overbidding.' They were friends, for true, but they should know better than to rib a man suffering from 'the long dong.'
The doctor finally consented, and he was willing to do it in his 42nd street walk up. It was supposed to be a simple hack saw and button hole thread job. There were complications. He had to resection it with his cork screw. There was a lot of bleeding.
I should thank my stars the dang thing still sits up and begs, but the scarring and plain cylinder stump of it is a whole new story to tell to the hundreds of stewardesses and nurses I socialize with. Some understand, and accept that I have to use an adjustable wrench to achieve penetration. The others complain, and tell me that their last boy friend was a Virginia Slim. That's all I know to tell you. A malpractice suit is pending. Might lose. Hard to prove your life could get worse after having the long dong. I've turned to religion.
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