My Penis: Three Vignettes

It’s probably not news to you that I’m a calamity magnet. In fact, it’s probably why you read this. I’ve gotten the impression that people most like to read about my misfortunes and mishaps. I’m ok with that. I think you’re going to like this one.

I hurt myself all the time. I also drop things, misplace things, forget things, overreact to things, and generally fuck most things up. This isn’t the end of the world when I stub my toe or lose the remote. But when a certain body part is involved, it tends to magnify the gravity of the situation.

This is going to be a bit graphic, so be warned. For the sake of saving some decency, I’m going to refer to my penis as my Little Guy. This isn’t some ironic joke, like calling a big fat guy Tiny. This is just what Baby happens to call it. And that’s not even the humiliating part of the story.

In fact, I have three other humiliating stories to tell about my Little Guy.

Number One

Back when I was in high school I was sleeping with a girl with a less than pristine reputation. Granted, my reputation probably made her look like a saint, but that’s a different story for a different time. Let’s just say we were both rather sexually active.

I had just gone through a whole series of those really graphic sex ed classes where they show you how banged up your privates get if you get things like warts or herpes or the clap. Because I wanted (and was miraculously able) to do it all the time I figured it was basically a given that my Little Guy was going to rot off sooner rather than later. I was very paranoid.

So I am about to have sex with this girl and it’s completely dark in the room. She has the protection I insist (against her wishes) on using, and I fumble my way through putting it on in the dark. We finish doing what we did, and I get up to go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom. I stumble, completely naked, into the also dark bathroom and hunt for the light switch. I eventually find it and flip it, only to be blinded by the lights. When I am finally able to see again I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and my knees literally buckle. My Little Guy is a shade of red that nobody’s Little Guy should ever be. Think fire engine. Now think of an infected, contagious, biohazard colored fire engine. I am certain my sexual career is over. When I regain my composure I realize I’m fine. It’s a bright red novelty condom. Crisis averted.

Post script to this story: If this ever happens to you, don’t go back to the bedroom and say to the girl, “Holy shit, for a minute there I thought you gave me the worst STD ever!” Chicks don’t dig that.

Number Two

There is a guy in every gym that everyone hates. He is the guy that doesn’t have an ounce of basketball ability, but insists on playing to get a workout. He takes up space on the court, turns the ball over, fouls the hell out of you, and is really nothing more than an injury waiting to happen.

In college I had the misfortune of having to be guarded by That Guy one fateful day. Knowing my luck, I’m basically just trying to get through the game without having to be put in an ambulance. At one point the ball gets lose and That Guy and I are running towards it from opposite directions. A collision is eminent, so I brace myself for the impact and grit my teeth. That Guy comes in front foot first, in an inexplicable karate kick motion that makes a fucking beeline for my Little Guy. I take the full force of his foot to my groin and I go down in a heap, only immediately I know something is very, very wrong.

You see, normally when you get hit down there it’s in the balls. That is the part that hurts, and it’s a sickening feeling that you really can’t describe unless it’s happened to you. This pain isn’t like that at all. This is stinging. And stinging on your Little Guy is fucking catastrophic.

As I’m laying there I realize I’m going to have to check Little Guy out, because something is definitely amiss. Only that’s hard to do when a crowd of people has gathered around you to say really helpful things like, “God damn, that must have hurt!” They get me up, and I make my way to the locker room and into a stall.

This time my knees buckled and gave out, and I had to sit on the edge of the toilet. When I looked down at my Little Guy all I saw was blood. That Guy’s foot had apparently caught Little Guy at his very base and peeled the skin off from the base to the tip. Like a goddamn sardine tin rolling back. I bled through my underpants and my shorts. And Little Guy was completely out of commission for weeks.

Post script to this story: “No honey, these scabs are from basketball, I’m totally clean” is a very, very, very hard sell.

Number Three

I just recently got contacts for the first time, and I’m having a hell of a time putting them in. I typically have to stand in front of the mirror for a long time and force them in. I’m getting better, but it still takes about ten minutes each morning. I don’t exactly pick up new things easily or gracefully.

So I’m standing at the sink on Monday morning in my underpants, trying to put my god-forsaken contacts in. I’m leaning toward the bathroom mirror, over the sink, trying to line everything up. I’m about to take a stab at insertion when I get that all-too-familiar knee-buckling feeling again. I’m paralyzed with fear, as I have an icy, stinging sensation on the tip of my Little Guy.

I manage to jump back and survey the situation and quickly find the cause of the problem. In my effort to lean over the sink to get closer to the mirror I have somehow found the one square inch of countertop occupied by my open contact case. With my Little Guy. I’ve then dipped the tip of my Little Guy directly into it.

Post script to this story: There is a reason the bottle says “For external use only.” Contact solution in your peehole? Bad idea.