One Thursday evening, I sustained a massive injury to my dong. I won’t say how or what happened, well… because that’s another, slightly less important story. What I will say is that when I woke up Friday morning, my penis was bruised, red, sore, and extremely sensitive to the touch. Even maneuvering it for urination was a battle of winces and groans.
That weekend was an interesting one. It was interesting, for the first time in my life, to function for days without a functioning penis. It felt almost as if, for that weekend, I didn’t have one. What transpired was a plethora of sexual, psychological, sociological, spiritual, and biological feelings as I went about my day-to-day routines. I began to understand what impotent males must feel like, and it wasn’t a feeling I’d like to understand permanently.
There were situations I encountered, that had I had a fully functioning penis, I would’ve reacted differently to. There were chance encounters with attractive females and seemingly ironic open-door situations for introductions and ice breaking.
Most of that weekend, I didn’t feel like doing anything. Just hiding indoors until my dong got better. I definitely didn’t want to go out those nights because… well, what if I got unluckily lucky? That’d be a great scene: an amorous romp, heavy and fevered. Clothes being strewn about, lips and bodies locked in embrace. The final shreds of clothing being ripped off only to be stopped cold by my voice and body going rigid… “Wait.” What is it, she’d no doubtedly ask, breathless. “My dong… it’s broken.”
One thing I did do was go shopping for household items. This was one of the situations I mentioned before. After placing my items on the checkout and waiting for the woman ahead of me to purchase her things, I looked up and noticed a very cute checkout girl working behind the register. Immediately, my eyes darted away. Not even gonna try it, not in my condition. I am literally feeling quite dickless.
As luck would have it, the woman ahead of me had her credit card denied. Then another. After a brief discussion with the checkout girl, both agreed to have all her items placed into a shopping cart so that she could return later to pay for them. Fine. Eyes down, I moved forward to pay for my things. “Hi,” the checkout girl greeted, as they are usually required to do. “Hey,” I mumbled.
She scanned my first item and to both of our chagrin, the register bled out a revoltingly long beeeep. We both looked at the register’s screen: it denoted some sort of employee code/sales lockout from the last uncleared purchase. Great. She tried a couple of times to unlock the register with her employee code but of course it wouldn’t work. Finally, she grabbed the phone and called for a supervisor’s assistance.
What followed was what seemed like eighty-thousand hours of uncomfortable silence while waiting for her supervisor, undoubtedly half-turtle, to arrive. All I had to do was make small talk, make like she was just some ugly dude and be friendly-like. I couldn’t. I had all these thoughts zipping through my head: I have no weiner. I should talk to her. I have no weiner. I should flirt with her. I have no weiner. I should just be friendly. I would normally be friendly. I would normally be friendly, flirt with her, and maybe I’d get lucky and hook up with her later and let her discover for herself I have no weiner. All these thoughts blew through my head, tangling me up. I didn’t even want to venture into a conversation that had the potential to lead to something good because right now, anything good would only lead to shock and horror.
There were other situations too, just going about my daily routines, like pumping gas and seeing a vagrant digging through the trashcans. What if he comes over here, I wondered. What if he aggressively panhandles me? If I had a normal weiner, a working one, I’d stand up and defend myself easily. But what if things escalate and we become physical? What he takes a kick at my groin? I’d sprawl out on this gas station ground and bellow like a dying dog. I quickly pumped my gas and got the hell out of there before any potential imagined situation could even occur.
It was a private horror – my broken penis situation. I was walking around with my symbol of manhood gone. It seemed like everything I watched on TV that weekend had hot chicks dancing around in small shorts, too. Man, I’d think, how I’d love to… to what? Cry in front of them? There was nothing I could do to them even if I were lucky enough to have a situation presented to me. I’d change channels and see more hot chicks dancing around in short shorts. Damnit! I began to understand how Hugh Hefner feels. Sexual intercourse with hot females is not just a physical desire, I thought. There is so much psychology going on with it. Imagine, having a non-functioning penis (for whatever reason: old-age, physical disability, old war injury, whatever), yet still utilizing modern medicine to get it erect enough to perform sexual intercourse, despite not being able to feel it. Why? What’s the point? I’d do it in a heartbeat, I acknowledged, after staring at cheerleaders on television rooting for… whatever team it was. Though there may be no physical gratification, there is something psychologically and emotionally pleasing about it. Something possibly ingrained from society. Maybe just an animal urge. Maybe… all of the above.
It is an interesting situation, walking around for days with a non-working unit. It makes you think things, feel things, and think about feeling things you never would have if not temporarily dismembered. I’d suggest trying it for yourself, but it’s not really something I’d advise anyone to go through realistically unless fate made it so. It’s also something I’d never like to go through again. And this was only 3 days before it started to get better, which in turn made me feel a hell of a lot better. Come on boy, I’d mentally urge like Timmy cheering on Lassie. You can do it! Bela Karolyi had nothing on me.
You don’t really think about the psychological ramifications of impotence when you hear about it, just the physical frustrations it must cause. But now I know there must be so much more to it, especially when you live in a sexual society where skin sells and everything about masculinity seems to be measured in size. If all this occurred in just my 3 days, I wondered what it would do if lived with for years, or maybe even a lifetime.
It’d be interesting to find out, but not firsthand. Just find me a subject and I’ll ask the questions.