Several weeks after ripping the roll neck jumper on my john thomas
due to an enthusiastic bout of rumpy pumpy, I ended up in hospital getting a few stitches in the old chap, and being told to abstain for any fun activies for the next 4 weeks.

I can handle that, I thought. Well after 2 weeks, I couldn't handle it. Fuck it, I thought, I'll be gentle, and crack one out, what's the worst that can happen.

All went according to plan, it didn't fall off which was a bonus, and wasn't painful (the stitches having dissolved thankfully, though the industrial strenght painkillers might have helped here). In a dozy, post-wank, state, I lay there blisfully dozing off, when I felt a warm sensation inside my kex. The docs stern warning started coming back to me, and feeling apprehensive, I stuck my hand down there. It came back covered in blood. Covered. Fucking loads of it.

I was still feeling faint, but no longer from a bout of one armed exercise. I was feeling faint because I thought I'd just wanked my cock clean off my body. Looking on the bright (red) side, there was no pain. On the down side, there was no cock either.

Well there was, but the little trooper had decided to to the honourable thing, and retreat as far from danger, and my hands, as it could. Balls.

After panicking for a half hour, things began to sort themselves out, and a quick shower revealed the tiniest of cuts, where a stitch hadn't quite finished doing it's stuff, and which I'd ripped open. No longer sensing danger, my trouser snake felt confident in making a re-appearance, much to my delight.

Abstaining for the next two weeks wasn't nearly as difficult.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 12:18, Reply)