08-21-2002, 12:25 AM
And now for something completely different. Hopefully this won't run afoul of Mr. Sklansky's posting standards.
So about 10 days ago I'm standing at my lucky urinal at Commerce and I detect a slight discomfort while relieving myself. Well, slight discomfort isn't exactly correct. It was more like scorching, searing, scalding, thermonuclear lava flow. That urinal wasn't so lucky after all.
Now at my age, which is pushing 50, you have what feels like a crematorium inside Mr. Happy, you call the doctor pronto . He tells me to come right over, which of course I do. They run a unrinalysis and everything comes up negative. Great.
The doctor inquires as to whether there have been any changes in my habits or diet or anything else. The only thing I can think of is that, at the advice of my surgeon (you can see that approaching your sixth decade of existence you have a vast array of medical consultants), I've recently started taking a very potent B complex, with about 60,000% of the daily recommended allotment of B12 and riboflavin and cocoa puffs and whatever else is in there.
So he tells me to lay off the B and drink lots of water and see how it feels after a couple of days.
Duh!
So I start drinking lots of water. I mean lots. I mean Lake Superior. A bottle an hour while I'm awake (which of course is most of the time since I get up to go potty 16 times during the night).
Of course, I start to have to relieve myself almost every hour on the hour. And we're talking race horse volume here.
It feels a bit better. But not quite right.
(Stay with me here, we're geting to the sex soon.)
So I call him after a couple of days and he says maybe it's a prostate problem, this apparently not occurring to him previously, he's going to write me a prescription for Flomax. This will increase the stream even more (it's already splashing all over the bathroom and out in to other rooms of the house; I can't use public facilities any more for fear of blinding some poor shnook) and hopefully "do the trick" (to quote the medical terminology he used).
So I take the Flomax and, lo and behold, there is indeed some relief. So much relief, in fact, that August racing towards September as it is, my wife and I decide that we might miss our monthly sexual encounter, so it's time to give it a try.
Here's where I'll try to be mindful of Mr. Sklansky's anti-pornography warning. At the moment of, um, satisfaction, there is indeed satisfaction, but nothing comes out. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Dry as, you should excuse the expression, a bone. Zero.
This is somewhat puzzling.
This is a new experience.
THIS IS WORRISOME AS HELL.
Another call, of course, to the doctor. I explain to him what had happened. Searching for the right words, I can't find them, and simply say I experienced an orgasm but no ejaculation whatsoever.
He says, "You did have ejaculation."
I says, "I didn't. It's been a while, granted, my bad back and all, but I've had ejaculation for 37 years and I know what it looks like."
He says, "You had what's called a reverse ejaculation."
I says, "You mean it came out my ass?"
He says, "No, it's the Flomax, it caused it to go into your bladder, (yecch, I think, but have the good sense not to utter). Didn't you notice your next urine was cloudy?"
I says, "No, I didn't," neglecting to tell him that I was so nervous during my next urine that I had to sit down, afraid that A) I was developing a coronary embolism, since I could feel my heart hitting the wall 200 times a minute six feet away and adrenaline was coming out of my nostrils; B) nothing would come out when I peed either; and C) I was shaking so badly I would miss the toilet if I stood up. Sitting down, you don't get too good a view of the viscosity of the fluid and I was so happy that there was some fluid of any kind, and it didn't feel like a Bunsen burner, that I flushed without thinking to check for cumulus or nimbus content.
He says, "Now, if it lessens the pleasure. . ."
I interrupts him saying, "It's not a problem, let's not worry about it," neglecting to tell him that I'm happy to find out Mr. Happy isn't going to fall off or require amputation, that's pleasure enough for me, thank you very much.
Why don't doctors tell you these things in advance? You would think that it might have occurred to him to mention the fact that, oh, by the way Andy, you might notice that during your next sexual encounter, the stuff just possibly, just conceivably, might end up in your FRIGGING BLADDER.
What will happen next time? Well, if you're interested I'll let you know on September 30; I'm going to wait on our September encounter as long as I can (is there a September 31?).
I'll let others elaborate.
So about 10 days ago I'm standing at my lucky urinal at Commerce and I detect a slight discomfort while relieving myself. Well, slight discomfort isn't exactly correct. It was more like scorching, searing, scalding, thermonuclear lava flow. That urinal wasn't so lucky after all.
Now at my age, which is pushing 50, you have what feels like a crematorium inside Mr. Happy, you call the doctor pronto . He tells me to come right over, which of course I do. They run a unrinalysis and everything comes up negative. Great.
The doctor inquires as to whether there have been any changes in my habits or diet or anything else. The only thing I can think of is that, at the advice of my surgeon (you can see that approaching your sixth decade of existence you have a vast array of medical consultants), I've recently started taking a very potent B complex, with about 60,000% of the daily recommended allotment of B12 and riboflavin and cocoa puffs and whatever else is in there.
So he tells me to lay off the B and drink lots of water and see how it feels after a couple of days.
Duh!
So I start drinking lots of water. I mean lots. I mean Lake Superior. A bottle an hour while I'm awake (which of course is most of the time since I get up to go potty 16 times during the night).
Of course, I start to have to relieve myself almost every hour on the hour. And we're talking race horse volume here.
It feels a bit better. But not quite right.
(Stay with me here, we're geting to the sex soon.)
So I call him after a couple of days and he says maybe it's a prostate problem, this apparently not occurring to him previously, he's going to write me a prescription for Flomax. This will increase the stream even more (it's already splashing all over the bathroom and out in to other rooms of the house; I can't use public facilities any more for fear of blinding some poor shnook) and hopefully "do the trick" (to quote the medical terminology he used).
So I take the Flomax and, lo and behold, there is indeed some relief. So much relief, in fact, that August racing towards September as it is, my wife and I decide that we might miss our monthly sexual encounter, so it's time to give it a try.
Here's where I'll try to be mindful of Mr. Sklansky's anti-pornography warning. At the moment of, um, satisfaction, there is indeed satisfaction, but nothing comes out. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Dry as, you should excuse the expression, a bone. Zero.
This is somewhat puzzling.
This is a new experience.
THIS IS WORRISOME AS HELL.
Another call, of course, to the doctor. I explain to him what had happened. Searching for the right words, I can't find them, and simply say I experienced an orgasm but no ejaculation whatsoever.
He says, "You did have ejaculation."
I says, "I didn't. It's been a while, granted, my bad back and all, but I've had ejaculation for 37 years and I know what it looks like."
He says, "You had what's called a reverse ejaculation."
I says, "You mean it came out my ass?"
He says, "No, it's the Flomax, it caused it to go into your bladder, (yecch, I think, but have the good sense not to utter). Didn't you notice your next urine was cloudy?"
I says, "No, I didn't," neglecting to tell him that I was so nervous during my next urine that I had to sit down, afraid that A) I was developing a coronary embolism, since I could feel my heart hitting the wall 200 times a minute six feet away and adrenaline was coming out of my nostrils; B) nothing would come out when I peed either; and C) I was shaking so badly I would miss the toilet if I stood up. Sitting down, you don't get too good a view of the viscosity of the fluid and I was so happy that there was some fluid of any kind, and it didn't feel like a Bunsen burner, that I flushed without thinking to check for cumulus or nimbus content.
He says, "Now, if it lessens the pleasure. . ."
I interrupts him saying, "It's not a problem, let's not worry about it," neglecting to tell him that I'm happy to find out Mr. Happy isn't going to fall off or require amputation, that's pleasure enough for me, thank you very much.
Why don't doctors tell you these things in advance? You would think that it might have occurred to him to mention the fact that, oh, by the way Andy, you might notice that during your next sexual encounter, the stuff just possibly, just conceivably, might end up in your FRIGGING BLADDER.
What will happen next time? Well, if you're interested I'll let you know on September 30; I'm going to wait on our September encounter as long as I can (is there a September 31?).
I'll let others elaborate.