DikDok

Whatever begins also ends. – Seneca

… Including this dick, evidently. The whole shit show began not too long ago after a brief excursion into a debilitating romp with substance abuse, followed by a whimsical year-long stay in the local county lock-up. Male potency and virility play a non-important role in being incarcerated. Superficially? Sure. I found myself always within earshot of some regional low-life, bragging about his preposterous sexual exploits. But applied sexual prowess is fortunately rarely demonstrated in jail, so when it comes time to put the rubber on the road and do a full-scale pounding of all the cars that ride all over it, utilized male potency doesn’t arise. And after my jury found me not guilty? Let’s just say the judge almost held my middle-aged penis in contempt of court when its oppositionality was showcased following his command, “All Rise.”

Being a proactive individual, I could either wallow in shame or look to modern medicine for the solution. Surely, medical advances catalyzed by a society infatuated with vain endeavors, such as maintaining erections and growing hair back in hopes that other people will want to see those maintained erections, would have the answers that I sought for what I am assured is a common ailment for my age. My foray into a visit with a general practitioner gave me some transient hope as she loaded me up with pills, which she thought could potentially soothe my glaring neurotic predisposition, which, in theory, could soothe my savage mind enough to prep my body for game time. Unfortunately, the problem became worse…William Osler would be rolling in his grave. I had informed my physician that my libido had not improved and was more subdued than ever before. She said it might be beneficial to see a urologist, which in the biz of medicine, is sometimes known as a men’s health doctor or, for the layman…the dick doc. However, she was also quick to point out that my insurance may not cover this sort of appointment, especially in regard to my specific predicament.

I had come to the point where I imagined that the procedure I would ultimately endure, due to medical insurance’s lack of coverage, was something along these lines…I’d meet the “doctor” in some dilapidated office attached to the side of the hospital. He’d sit on his stained and festering lazy-boy recliner, visible green stink lines arising from the questionable upholstery, the result of a lifetime of blasting malodorous farts into its stench-caked cushions.

“So your dick ain’t shit,” he’ll say, to which I’ll meekly respond, “Yeah, lately…” before getting cut off from him hocking a loogie. He’ll follow up by saying, “Well, let’s see it!”

Nervously, I’ll drop my pants before he flicks at it and scoffs, “Just as I suspected…ain’t shit. Guess we’ll have to cut it off.”

Just as my neurotic brain feared, he'll have to cut the whole thing off. I guess it's just a bum dick. Up until this point, I was pretty certain I would be able to keep my genitalia as a mere decoration, though useless, as a testament to a potentially mediocre shrine of antiquity. But here I am, surely looking at a full-bore dickectomy. He’ll tell me that typically they use cutting-edge technology for the procedure; however, because my insurance sucks, they’ll have to use a more archaic method.

He’d begin by grabbing his Welch-Allen thumping rod and start rhythmically beating it against a hollow section on the floor, which appears to be a sewer grate. Irritated by the heavy beating of the rod, two frenzied sewer rats will come scurrying out, deafening our ears from incessant shrieking while running across the room. The surly doctor will jut forward from his lazy-boy recliner and snatch the rats to assess their medical capabilities. The one will writhe in his hand, screeching, while the other will begin to bite his hand viciously. The doctor, smiling at the violent rat savagely gnawing at his hand, will nod his head in approval while boisterously laughing as the blood trickles down his hand, declaring that this particular rat has the appropriate medical skill and, hence, will be the one primarily doing the gnawing. I’ll curiously inquire what the other shrieking rat does since he appears to be less rabid, to which the doctor will inform me that he will be the cock wrangler, holding my penis straight for the medically-trained gnawing rat to perform his work.

Interestingly, next to the sewer grate is a door, which will slowly open to reveal a third and more technologically advanced rat (provided my insurance can cover it). He will have impressive bionic features with a medical device sutured to his head with all sorts of wires and futuristic shit beaming into his brain. The doctor will tell me that he is the alpha rat, the one who commands the other two to do the proper medical procedure. I will be a bit skeptical at first until I see his vacant eyeballs shift into hypnotic swirls, commanding us all to do his bidding against our will. The benefit of being able to afford the third hypnotizing alpha rat is that not only will he keep the other two rats in line, but he will also operate as a sort of makeshift anesthesiologist by hypnotizing me as my penis gets ripped to shreds.

Luckily, this is not how it played out. The doctor was a professional, and I was able to let my penis be judged by a top-of-the-line urologist. Despite his professionalism, he lacked any concrete solution. The main bit of advice he gave me was to stop taking all of the medications that my original doctor had given me, saying that these were adding to my problems. Aside from this, he had no other real suggestions. He said there wasn’t any real physiological reason for my lack of potency.

I found that I had ventured into the ever-so-wonderful paradoxical twilight zone where I am healthy enough for the doctor to deny treatment from a formulary standard as it is deemed unnecessary but unhealthy enough to where he felt it would be wise to spend more money on a specialist who specializes in the specialization of specialties for my special problem.

While I had his attention, his male gaze, if you will, I asked him how my junk looked. From what I could tell, he appreciated the balls it took to ask that question while he was appreciating my balls by uncomfortably mashing them, looking for abnormalities. The doctor assured me that it was bigger than average but that a flaccid penis meant nothing when it was game time. He said, “Let’s just say I wouldn’t let any rats chew it off if that’s what you’re really asking.” Though the flattery was tertiary to the primary point of the appointment, and disregarding the obvious fact that my equipment wasn’t going to win any ribbons at this particular city’s annual march of the dicks, it dawned on me that my virility wasn’t worth giving up and, besides, who’s to say that my penis wouldn’t be able to at least be up for an honorable mention.

So, as it began, I am in the exact same spot as I was in the beginning, but as it ends, I am able to keep my slightly above-average penis as decoration, no rat bites or nothing.