I Hurt My Rude Bits, AgainMy commute to work was made excellent the other day when I saw a motorcyclist try to ride on the pavement to avoid a traffic queue, lose control, fall off and land bollock-first on a concrete bollard. He was fine, eventually – but tell us your tales of the old blinding agony to the gentleman's or gentlewoman's area.
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Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 7 Mar 2013, 12:50)
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He was nicknamed 'lover-boy'at the local, a moniker provided through a combonation of awe and jealousy; movie-star good looks, and a constant stream of gorgeous ladies traipsing through his boudoir.
I had stopped going to that particular pub some years previously, but last year bumped into the chap through friends on t'internet. We met up to talk about old times, the interim years and so on.
Fate, irony, hubris, whatever. While he told me his tale, in great detail, of his experience of penile fracture during an athletic bout of sexual congress with a very healthy and energetic young conquest, well, the phrase:
'... and I looked down and saw I was ejaculating blood... can you imagine that? ... ejaculating blood...'
had me equally enthralled and terrified like a particularly exceptional piece of Hitchcock. And then followed up by the ambulance, emergency, doctor explanations of this type of injury being statistically rather low, surgery, rehab, blue pills...
He's back on duty, chemically-assisted. And ever-so-careful.
edit: I decided to leave the mis-spelling of 'combination', it fits better to the theme
(, Thu 7 Mar 2013, 16:11, Reply)
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