Ever wonder how your penis would feel if someone slammed it in a door? Um, I never caught the little guy in a door (in the zipper of my trousers once or twice) but I can imagine it would feel akin to what I’ve been feeling since my surgery a week ago today. All went well, or so I’m told. I can’t say for sure that it did because I fell asleep and missed the whole damned procedure. The surgeon said it did and since when I awoke all the critical pieces were still were they were when I went to sleep, I figure that for now, I’ll take his word for it.
My wife and I went out for a few hours this evening to our favorite restaurant and water hole. After sitting for an hour or so, I said I needed to take a short walk outside just to get off my butt. As I walked back an forth in front of the door for a few minutes, this scenario played out in my head: a younger patron approaches, and seeing me walking in a slightly hunched over position, says to me, “Are you okay, Pops?”
Undaunted, I respond, “Oh hell yeah, sonny, I’m fine. But my dick is absolutely killing me.” There’s no doubt he’d probably go inside and complain to the manager about the dirty old man lurking outside his restaurant.
So therein lies part of my challenge since last week: what to tell certain people—like Mom, my coworkers and various friends and acquaintances—to explain why I’m pretty much out of normal commission for the time being. All of the nurses who attended me of course knew the reason I was there. In younger years I would have been self-conscious, embarrassed to even speculate at what they might be thinking about me. Times… and we along with it… change, do we not?
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