It was during tickle time with, my wife Lia, as I toe tossed my underwear, that I found Mr. Happy resembling the gaff I used to pull a bass or bluefish into a boat I once owned. My member was always a strong soldier who stood at attention in its cute helmet. Now it resembled a periscope.
“Yikes, Lia,” I said as I tried to bend it back. “I can’t believe this, I’ve got Peyronies’ Disease.”.
“What are you talking about?” My wife asked, as she propped herself up to get a closer look. She was impressed that I knew what it was and unfazed by its condition. Several years earlier, Monica Lewinsky revealed to the world that Bill Clinton shared this plight.
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What I’ve since found out, is that the condition was named in 1743 after Sir Francois Peyronie. The disease is a connective tissue disorder that involves the growth of fibrous plaques in the soft tissue of the penis. It creates the elbow pipe effect that belongs under the sink not in the boudoir.
During the 1200’s the suspected cause for the unnamed curvature was incest. After marrying his niece, the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius reportedly urinated into his own face due to his contoured penis. Another theory was that the condition was a reaction to the “annoying resistance” during intercourse with a “bored acquiescence.”
I thought about our journey together. When it first started to respond salaciously to various stimuli, humiliating me at school, then at work-protruding under my trousers like a steel tube that a feral cat couldn’t climb. Had it forgotten how long it took to get our timing in sync?
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“Have you had trauma in that area?”
April 2020, I had a consultation with a urologist named Dr. Gee about my condition. The pandemic had thrown the world its viral curve ball and I was at Beth Israel Hospital, walking a gauntlet of covid detection stations and illness. The protective shell of vaccinations was still ten months away as were reasonable decisions. I had abandoned logic and safety; my penis was in trouble.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“We don’t know why it happens,” the doctor said. “Sometimes people report their erection gets broken. You’d probably remember something like that, so I really doubt that’s what happened.”
This doctor was solidly built, with an olive complexion, a black wooly mop of hair, tortoise rim glasses, and a self-assured smile. I’m turned seventy this year, and the doctors I see now look to me like they’re thirteen years old. Dr. Gees was one of the more mature ones. I pegged him for nineteen or twenty.
After a brief examination he told me, “It seems like Peyronies disease.” I knew it.
“Has your penis shrunk at all?”
Dr. Gees waited for an answer as I considered whether my penis had shrunk. But I had no response. Would I even know if it had gotten smaller? Prior to this, my erections varied in hardness and size, a barometer measuring my level of excitement, physical and emotional state.
“Surely you’ve measured it?”
The question brought me back to the playgrounds of my youth.
“Um, I took a picture.” I told him. It was in fact my first selfie. “I have it on my phone. Nobody told me to measure it.” Catholics are taught to ignore such things.
The truth was that I’d never even considered measuring my penis. Certainly, there were times I critiqued its size. One time comes to mind. After working out at the gym, I was in the locker room and saw the penis of a young bantam weight fighter. Call it curiosity, I view private parts when the opportunity arises.
The bantamweight’s thing was uncircumcised and long. I didn’t need a ruler to know it was bigger than mine. I’m six feet and one inch tall and weigh in at one eighty-five pounds. This boxer was no more than five four and maybe one hundred and fifteen pounds.
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After the crooked discovery that fateful afternoon, I reconsidered Freud’s theory of penis envy; I found myself lamenting the penis of my youth and not anyone else’s. It was the one I knew best and was most attached to. When I woke up in the morning, it would proudly greet me like a Viking’s oar. I wanted it back.
My wife Lia says she never suffered from penis envy. Why would she? I am certain that Lia felt she had access to them whenever she desired.
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Doctor Gees explained that he intended to inject the shaft of my penis with a solution that would give me an erection. What is wrong with me that I don’t just get up and leave? Is he even a doctor? How do I know if this really was a hospital and not the elaborate set of a charlatan medicine man? The infamous Dr. Brinkley made millions during the depression sewing goat testicles into men’s chests. Sigmund Freud, when he was in his sixties had one of his testicles removed by a surgeon named Eugen Steinach to revive his youthfulness. Was I subjecting myself to the up to date ‘fountain of youth’ con?
“You’ll feel a little pinch and I’ll be back in about 10 minutes. If the erection doesn’t go down in an hour or longer go to any drug store and get Sudafed, that will relax it.”
I nodded and thought of other places to go in lieu of a pharmacy.
“It will only take a second.”
Should we have a safe word? I wondered.
I took the shot like a man, assuming being stabbed in the trumpet was a manly act, and was soon sitting alone, incapable of looking at my miscreant spout.
“You seem to be at 45%,” he said as he walked back into the room.
The doc continued. “You definitely have Peyronies Disease. There are times it does go away without doing anything. But I’d recommend treating it. Here are the options; Surgery, we cut open the shaft and remove the plaque and in a few months you’re as good as new.”
“Your condition is not severe,” the doc said. “We are addressing it early, so you should be fine. You could also choose injections of Xiaflex. You’d get five, over the course of a month. That would gradually break up the plaque. Also, you’ll need to bend it several times a day.”
“Bend it?”
“The last is ‘Shockwave.’ It’s an electronic probe that shatters the plaque and increases the blood flow.”
Finally, an option that sounded tolerable. Plus, a jolt would satisfy my temptation to just smack the thing straight.
“Medicare doesn’t cover the “Shockwave”, it’s $2,500, if you pay in advance or $600 each time, we recommend you get 5 treatments. Remember, bending it is very important.”
It was like trying to decide whether to put money into an old car when you know you can’t afford a new one. “What do you recommend?”
“If you can afford it. I’d recommend the Shock Wave. It’s the least invasive and most effective.”
I was tempted to ask Dr. Gees to call my wife and emphasize to her it was essential that she do everything to assist in my recovery, advocate for a team effort, get her assistance with that bending business. The opportunities cloaked in this crisis began to expose themselves. This could be right up there with eating nothing but ice cream after having my tonsils taken out. I was giving myself a chubby, thinking about the possibilities. Was it working already?
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It has now been years since I’ve seen Dr. Gees and finished the shocking experience, my member is no longer the straight scratch proof pipe, and more a shalaylee.
I learned envy is indicative of isolation and a barren response to frustrated desire; it curdles sweet passion into sour resentment. My penis standing alone regardless of its posture is not as interesting as when it’s part of the orchestra that connects Lia and me. A repertoire that includes whispering absurd proposals to have sex in random places, looking at one another, humming inaudibly, talking, getting shy, soft kisses that flutter our necks and ears, and scratching those spots that we can’t reach on our own. All the things that get our desire to wax and wane, like bobbing in the ocean together anticipating that bigger wave.
The real irony is the humiliation surrounding Peyronies has made me recognize what Lia knew all along, we are a team. Without that, well, my penis is just another dick. It’s not the shape that makes it unique it’s our love for one another, that makes everything special.
Sometimes, a detour isn’t such a bad thing.