I guess I'm Just Lucky (uninterrupted)

From Tim Hayward

Wed, 25 Oct 1995

It all began at the sixteenth birthday party. My girlfriend (no names, she is now a fairly well known actress in the UK and a raging lesbian)had decided to celebrate by throwing a fancy dress party in a local hotel. My costume for the occasion was that of a clown. Red nose, 2 foot long boots, hoop waisted baggy trousers on elastic braces, rainbow shirt and fright wig. Hers was 'Scarlet O'Hara' in full crinoline and bonnet. Two other points should be added...

1. I was a virgin - though I'm fairly sure,in retrospect, that she wasn't.

2. I had never sucessfully been able to fully retract my foreskin. I could manage about halfway back in a state of detumescence but that was fairly painful.

As the evening progressed our hormones ran amok and it became fairly apparent that an alcohol fueled grappling session was in order. We searched frantically for a secluded space which turned out to be a toilet stall next to the deserted children's swimming pool. Within a short time the situation had escalated to a point at which full intercourse became imperative and, somehow, I was leaning against the wall at a sharp angle, trying to hold my waistband down against the pull of the elastic braces. 'Scarlet' pulled the crinoline up, covering her head, slung a leg over me and lowered herself over me as I effected entry up the leg of the Victorian bloomers.

Suddenly, things went radically wrong. My foreskin, forced back by penetrating a tight, rather poorly lubricated fud, felt like it was about to split. I yelled and the slick soles of my long clown boots began to slip out from under me on the wet, tiled bathroom floor. 'Scarlet' assuming that my cries and wriggling were ecstatic, bore down with greater weight. My arms flailed to grab a handhold and I released the waistband of the trousers which whipped up, like a reversed guillotine, the wooden hoop slamming into my nuts and I fell, smashing the toilet bowl with my head. I was rendered unconcious immediately but, I was told later, retained enough erection for 'Scarlet', screened from the fiasco by her skirts and unaware of my predicament, to finish the task in hand.

I came round in an ambulance, staring at an EMT who couldn't quite restrain her giggles as she explained that I had concussion, cranial lacerations and a split foreskin.

In the emergency room, the surgeon kindly explained just how useless foreskins were as the anaesthetic began to work and I lapsed into blissfull darkness.

A day later I was walking around with a gigantic bulge in my trousers. My Cock-and-balls unit looked like three large purple tennis balls and I had carefully swaddled them in several layers of cotton wool (I wasn't taking any chances). This, unfortunately, gave the impression that I was hung like a brontosaurus, a promise that I was in no condition to fulfil.

It was during the second night of my recovery that the problems began. As male A.T.ers will be aware, men think about sex many times a day and may dream of it at night. Teenage men think about sex almost constantly and are often woken by nocturnal emissions. It was something of a suprise to me, however, to discover that the male has, on average, eight or nine erections per night. Actually, 'surprise' is not quite the right word. Eight times a night I was woken by the feeling of my swollen broken knob trying to burst it's stitches. Imagine, if you can a 1 1/4" Whitworth thread wingnut, heated to red heat and screwed down over your glans. Hold that thought.

After two nights without sleep I called the Doctor who, with somewhat less than professional gravity, suggested sleeping with a bowl of ice next to the bed.

For three weeks, each night was broken by eight episodes of plunging the todger into iced water.

The last weekend before the stitches were due out was cold and crisp. There was a splendid wind and I had committed to sail in a dinghy race. As I was crew in a Fireball this involved hanging out over the side in a trapeze harness. For the unnautical amongst you, the trapeze harness fits like a diaper with braces and locks a square steel plate with a hook between navel and genitals. The hook connects into a wire leading to the top of the mast and enables one to hang out of the boat and counterbalance it at speed.

We sailed well and fast until, quite suddenly, the prow of the boat failed to ride over a wave and 'dug in'. This is an experience akin to hitting a brick wall. All loose items are flung forward. I my case, I described a long, pendulum-like arc forward until gravity overcame momentum and I swung back toward the boat. My harness hook caught on the mainstay and my full weight forced the corner of the steel plate into my genitals.

It was so cold that I couldn't really feel much pain and we sailed back to the clubhouse. It was only as we walked to the changing room that my partner noticed the blood leaking from the ankle of my wetsuit.

With some trepidation, I pulled down the zip. My chest was stained red and as the zip passed crotch level, what was left of my penis flopped out accompanied by one or two small pieces of flesh and about a pint of blood and seawater. I am ashamed to say that I fainted

15 yrs later Mr Happy functions perfectly. The original circumcision scar is neat on the left hand side but stretches about 2" down on the right to meet the vertical tear and it's 17 stitches. A fair bit of skin was lost so the hairline is slightly higher than I'd like but, generally speaking, it has served it's purpose. At college I gained the nickname 'piefrill' as its crimped edges resembled a Cornish pastie (English joke) but aside from that have received few complaints. Strangely, women seem to regard it fondly, like a beaten up tom-cat with torn ears and scars.

I'm rather proud of it really.

Face it Guys - could she recognise yours in the dark?

____________________________
And I, with these, mine eyes, have seen
Appalling stuff called Margerine
Consumed by men in Bethnal Green...

Hilaire Belloc