Friday, August 26, 2016

Some Velvet Morning





The world of sadomasochism became too weird for me. I had to ask to be unstrapped, then limped away with the only remaining pride I could muster after the many ordeals that I had been through. 

Speaking of, I had the strangest of experiences a few mornings ago. It was, as far as I know, unrelated to sadomasochism, unless that dark joy was occurring in some subconscious nocturnal capacity. 

Here is what happened: I woke up naked as is my custom and needing to use the bathroom where I found fresh blood on the front of my left leg. I looked, but I couldn't find the source. My hands were dry and there was no visible wound. I was the only creature in the bed at the time. I ruled out misadventure, for the moment. I used the bathroom then cleaned the blood off of my leg. That's when I saw the damage. There was a patch of skin seemingly missing from my scrotum and a reservoir of blood there on the surface. I gingerly treated it with the gentlest of nurse hands. It wasn't too severe, but it was a complete mystery, that somehow in my sleep I was able to damage myself in this way and not be aware of it. I looked at my fingernails to see if maybe I had scratched myself into injury. The nails were trimmed and showed no signs of having been used in this vicious attack. In addition to there being no weapon, neither was I able to establish motive.

I make a lot of jokes on this blog, but this is all true. I woke up with a bleeding ballsack and no idea how it possibly could have happened. Of the many odd experiences in my life this was a significant one. The mind needs to understand how a thing like this could happen. You know... an ounce of prevention and all of that, something about the cure. 


It turns out the scrotum bleeds quite a lot once the surface of the skin has been breached. I have long noticed and pondered the network of arteries and veins found there, believing them to be a map to some hidden pirate treasure, though I have been careless in preserving it until the time was right, and some distances might not remain to scale. 

I had to cut and shave away hair to try to get a bandage on it, which only exacerbated the bleeding, as the skin there stretches and necessarily must to be shaved properly, and also for the bandage to adhere to something other than hair. 

It didn't look right to just shave that one spot, so now the entire oblong spherical regions had to be sheared. That looked even more ridiculous, to have bald balls but also the tuft of reasonably normal kinked pubic hair above them surrounding the other part. The column, if you will. So, everything had to go. Before I knew it I was deeply committed to an entire pre-op process of cleaning and preparing the area for surgery. This mishap was becoming a kind of unexpected fun. In my very early morning pre-coffee haze I documented the entire process with the art of photography and through the use of bathroom mirrors. 

This is when things started to get weird. After I was done removing the hair that only seemed to confuse the purpose of the region, making it seem more chaotic and unpredictable than it actually is, the wound that had been bleeding was no longer there, or it had healed in a tremendous way. Like, Hollywood fast. I'm not kidding. There was a spot there, but it already seemed to have healed, when only fifteen minutes before it was bleeding enough to leave fresh bloody residue on my leg. There were emergency room considerations being made. Not having an explanation has kept me out of the emergency room in the past, but bleeding balls are something that need attending to, expository or not. 

The explanation that started to form was that the blood on my leg had come from elsewhere and had only left some residue on one of my balls, the left one. Having no pubic hair made that fact become more clear, but only added to the mystery.  I looked everywhere. I mean, everywhere, and could not find any spot on my body that might have left that much blood. I diagnosed varicoceles, though if you stare at those veins looking for that then they might appear as such to the layman. I knew the power of the mind when it comes to this sort of examination. There was still an area where blood might have emerged from on my nut, but it made no sense that it had bled so much and then healed so quickly. It was like the miraculous nut of Christ. I wanted to take it to the Vatican to have it confirmed as a miracle. 

I was going to put some sort of bandage on it, but it didn't require that any longer. Most people are like me I suppose and would like to believe that their testes have supernatural recuperative powers, so I started to pull at it, to verify. That was all that was needed to confirm I had definitely found the correct spot. The wound - tugging on it greatly angered my circulatory system. It was as if a cauterized artery had re-opened during a battlefield amputation. A fresh spring of blood red river emerged. I could have counted off my heart rate if I would have had a watch on me and been willing to let the pulses run for 60 seconds. 

If there is ever any question concerning the relationship between the heart and the testes then I encourage you to replicate this experiment. They are connected in the directest of ways, such that only an open wound can demonstrate. The nervous system was in there working also, because my mind was sending me a biblical flood of messages.

Those messages sounded like this: Oh Jesus, fuck, fuck!!!

I patted at it with a series of toilet paper and wet wipes, trying to cap the wellhead, slowing the flow to a near halt. Clearly, this temperamental Venus-like wound was in no mood to be tested. I surmised that the injury might be menstrual in nature. I kicked myself for not having a virgin to throw into a volcano, to appease the gods of bleeding balls. I wrapped the region in bandage and tape, briefly considered a tourniquet, but then put on a pair of shorts that I said one last goodbye to and went back to bed.

When I awoke a second time the only real issue was removing the post-op dressing. Well that, and the horror one feels at taking off the bandages after a self-performed operation of this kind. I was terrified that maybe none of my business would remain, that somehow in my efforts to fix the thing I had accidentally removed it, or replaced it with some cadaver's Frankencock. Who knows. My life has taken a turn for the weird.

Rest easy, ball fans, all was as it should be, or as close to "as things should be" that somehow still involve me. I would have posted a picture to accompany this post, but my better instincts told me that would be too demonstrative, also there is patient confidentiality to consider.








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