Beware of the Cock Burn
Believe it of not, there was a time in our relationship when Cecilia and I wanted to “take it slow.” This brief period of time lasted, while it was still under our control, for about a week. Here’s the story of how an unfortunate accident forced us to restrain our sexual desire for each other until the time was really right.
For men, stories of “penis injury” rarely elicit less than blood curdling cringes, twisted up taints or shuddering heebie jeebies. Though this horrible experience was nothing like the Bobbitt case (thank god), I did suffer an egregious injury to Mr. Lefty (my cock) on our second date together.
We had dinner at a local seafood joint, and though our first date went smashingly well, there was a strange hesitation on both our parts. Something was “off.” Neither of us could put our finger on it, and it bothered us both deeply (we learned afterwards) that something was amiss during our much-anticipated second date.
After finishing up our grouper and paying the bill, we parted ways in separate cars. No fireworks-kisses or groping, this time. No starry-eyed when-will-I-see-you-agains. None of that. It was a bit awkward and frustrating to say the least. I was disappointed.
In the car on the way home, I wracked my brains to figure out why my date with this alluring, previously engaging and witty beauty hadn’t gone quite so smoothly. I couldn’t figure it out, and it bugged me to no end. Not knowing what she was thinking, I suspected “Well, this is over.” Back to the drawing board.
We both lived, at the time, in the same direction from the restaurant. It just so happened that when I came to a stop at one particular traffic signal, I looked over to see that she was in her car, right next to me. She gave me a sheepish smile, which I returned. Agony. The light turned green and we both proceeded to our respective apartments, but still side-by-side. Alone, but together. My phone rang. It was her.
“That was weird, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“Yeah, something was definitely ‘off’.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“Me neither.” [semi-comfortable silence]
She asked, “You want to come over for a nightcap?”
“What’s a nightcap?” First thing in my mind was she wanted me to spend the night.
“Just an after-dinner drink. Just some chitchat, because I’m feeling like we missed something earlier.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at your place,” and hung up.
Arriving at her apartment, it didn’t take us long to pour a drink in her kitchen and immediately begin ruminating on what might’ve been broken in our dinner conversation. We surmised that it was just the jitters, since we’d been burned so many times in the past on dates and in relationships that being a bit on the reserved or gun-shy side was to be expected. A shared sigh of relief came to us, and we sat on the couch to reacquaint ourselves.
It didn’t take long before we were making out, enjoying each other’s kisses and caresses much like we had at the end of our first date. Cecilia turned me on back then as much as she does today, so there’s no fogginess in my recollection of the passion of that moment. In short time, we were groping at each other’s clothes and in effect, dry-humping the hell out of each other, resisting the unbearable temptation to rip each others’ clothes off. It was hot. Very hot.
This dry-fucking through our clothes went on for a good, sweaty-long while. Breathlessly, I said goodnight and headed home wearing the absurd smirk of a man who just had the privilege of kissing a very beautiful woman. Smiling like an idiot, I got home, threw my keys on the counter and headed to the bathroom to take a leak.
What I found upon unzipping my fly was one of the most upsetting and jarring sights I’d ever seen: my cock was injured. In our rough and enthusiastic dry-humping, I managed to RUB a patch of skin the size of a postage stamp off the bottom of my cock with my boxers, right up by the urethra. It was bright red, looked awful, and throbbed in pain like a beating heart. Terribly unhappy about this, I still had to pee.
It HURT. Let me repeat, ” GODDAMN, IT HURT ” This hurt was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I’d broken bones, suffered from Salmonella, torn ligaments and had a severed ear reattached. Those were trifles of inconvenience compared to this searing, burning pain. I was in Agony with a capital Agony.
For two (extremely) long weeks, Mr. Lefty was out of commission. Cecilia, incredibly saddened and apologetic (I kept reassuring her that it was my fault entirely), waited patiently (mostly) for “him” to heal up. Never did a day go by afterwards that she didn’t ask me about my recovery, and when the day finally did arrive that the scab that’d formed over my ripped flesh had fallen off, she got down on her knees and kissed it gently, tenderly and affectionately. Then, she swallowed it.
The rest, gentle reader, is history. The moral of this story is that if you’re hot, bothered, and not necessarily thinking clearly, providence can sometimes rear its head (pardon the pun) to keep you from making a mistake you’ll later regret.
