Here's a story that I probably shouldn't tell, and you probably shouldn't read. It involves psoriasis, an aging dermatologist, blood, and my penis. So if any of those things are going to bother you, stop reading right now.
I have psoriasis, or as the old television commercials used to say, "The heartbreak of psoriasis." The problem with this disease is that it tends to attack the more tender areas of your skin. About twelve or so years ago I noticed that the skin on my man-parts was starting to look funny. It sort of looked like the flesh of Godzilla, all scaly and bumpy. So I looked up a dermatologist through my insurance company and made an appointment. On the morning of my appointment with the doctor I put on some nice slacks, a nice shirt, clean underwear, and socks. When I got to the doctor's office, I told the elderly receptionist my name and she told me that the doctor would see me shortly. Now by elderly, I mean probably around sixty five to seventy years old. I wondered if it was the doctor's mother. That would be nice, if the doctor gave his mom a nice cushy job in her senior years. My opinion changed as soon as I was ushered into the doctor's examination room. He had to be near ninety years old. That might have been his daughter out there. No matter, old is good. Old is experience and I was happy to have an experienced doctor. I explained to the doctor what my problem was.
"Okay, drop your pants and let me have a look.... Um... uh-huh.... I see. That looks like classic psoriasis. I'll give you a cream that should clear that up in a matter of days."
I was relieved. There is nothing more terrifying to a man than watching his penis turn into a horribly useless lump of flesh.
"One thing though." The doctor interjected, "I'd like to take a small biopsy of that tissue and send it in just to be safe."
Having survived cancer once, I was gung-ho for biopsies and making sure nothing was malignant. So I watched as the doctor took some kind of tool and stabbed me in the dick. He put the little sample that he removed into a container and told me to go ahead and pull up my pants, we were done. The doctor and the nurse left me alone in the room to put myself back together.
There are some people who willingly drill holes into their flesh and stick things through those holes. They call them piercings. One such piercing is called a "Prince Albert". If you have a "Prince Albert", you are a moron. That little stabbing by the doctor hurt, and I cannot imagine disfiguring yourself and suffering through all that discomfort just because you want to be one of the cool kids. Anyway, I pulled up my underpants and my pants, not looking down because it was pretty disturbing what had gone on down there. It was when I was tucking my shirt into my pants that I noticed that there was some moisture. Had I peed myself? Did the anesthetic cause temporary incontinence? I looked down. My khaki pants were crimson red. There was blood all across the front of my pants and down my legs. Everything was soaked with blood. I quickly pulled my pants and underpants back down. To my horror blood was squirting out of the side of my penis. I screamed out for the doctor. For nearly a minute I was screaming for the doctor, but nobody came. I opened the examination room door and looked up and down the hall. Nobody was out there. In the distance I could hear voices and fearing that I only had a few more minutes before I passed out from loss of blood, I waddled down the hall with my pants around my ankles and a large wad of tissues to stem the flow of blood.
I'm sure nurses see a lot of things in the course of their jobs. From the look on this nurse's face I don't think she had ever seen anything like what was coming down the hall at her.
"Help, help me. I'm bleeding." I cried.
Now as a gay man it is very, and I mean very rare that I have ever shown a woman my 'manhood', but I didn't hesitate.
"Look! Something's very wrong here."
It took four stitches to stop the bleeding. All the time the doctor was mumbling about that never happening before, while the nurse apologized over and over again. I had to sit there in the examination room with a sheet over me for about thirty minutes while Mark drove up there with fresh pants, shirt, underpants, and socks. The doctor retired soon after that visit, and I read in the local paper that he died recently. As for me, I'm just fine. I pulled the stitches out myself.
Now clear your mind of all those images with this video.