Home Penial Self-Surgery Procedure

Subject: Home Penial Self-Surgery Procedure
From: gbernath@usa.edu (Gregory Bernath)
Date: Sat, 5 Mar 1994 00:20:20 GMT
Organization: your education tax dollars at work
Lines: 282


I once chopped pieces of foreskin off my penis with a pair of cuticle scissors.

Now that I've got your attention, I'll go back and tell the whole story. Apologies if it gets a little lengthy, but this yarn deserves to be spun well.

BACKGROUND

After I was circumcised as an infant, the wound was not taken care of with sufficient diligence, and it healed incorrectly. Portions of the raw edge of the remaining foreskin bonded to the glans, a little bit above the lower edge of the glans. This left a series of "skin bridges", basically sections of foreskin which can't be retracted, because they are fused to the glans at one end and the shaft at the other. These varied in width from about 1/16" to 1/4", and were attached off and on over about 2/3 of the circumference.

This was never a major problem. It was a long time before I even realized it was abnormal. Everything functioned properly, but there were a few minor problems with it which made me wish I could fix it. Mainly,

1. It was a cosmetic defect -- it didn't look good.

2. It was tough to keep clean under the bridges -- I had to swab it with a Q-tip now and then to knock down smegma buildup.

3. Some of the most sensitive parts of the glans were hidden under relatively insensitive chunks of foreskin, robbing me of the proper stimulation which was mine and every man's birthright.

Over the past few years, I'd been thinking of getting it corrected, but there were problems. Doctors cost money, and I didn't have it, and student insurance sure wasn't gonna cover it. Plus, the thought of some strange doctor chopping at my peepeehead gives me chills.

Now, all a doctor would do it sterilize it, numb it, cut it and bandage it. "Hell, maybe I can do that!", I thought. The problem was how to kill the pain. I experimented with cutting myself (with an x-acto knife), but seeing as it always hurt like hell before I even cut anything, I never went through with it.

Recently, I came back and studied the situation. Again, the problem with the self-surgery approach was dealing with pain. There had to be some way of numbing the area, but how? One winter day, it hit me. If cold can make fingers go numb, then cold can also make a ManTool[tm] go numb. With this in mind, I pioneered a the "home penile self-surgery procedure".

SURGERY KIT

Cuticle scissors (1 pair)
Rubbing alcohol (1 bottle)
Antibiotic ointment (1 tube)
Anti-bacterial soap (1 bottle)
Gauze pads (lots, various sizes)
Ice cubes (iodine added to water for sterility)
Clean Washcloth (freshly laundered with lots'o bleach)
Well-lit work area (the kitchen table)

PROCEDURE

Wipe down work area with alcohol. Clean penis with soap and water, then with alcohol. Wash hands thoroughly. Soak scissors in alcohol.

Holding the ice cube with the washcloth (to prevent your fingers from going numb), apply the ice cube to the target area. Hold for 5 to 10 minutes, until area is numb.

Using the cuticle scissors, sever the skin bridge as closely as possible to its connection with the glans. Then sever the foreskin end of the bridge in such a location as to leave an even edge on the foreskin.

Use gauze pads and direct pressure to stop the bleeding, then apply antibiotic ointment and bandage.

THE OPERATIONS

Though the operations are not painful if done correctly, the healing process is a real pain in the ass. It also takes a certain state of mind to be able to cut your own flesh. I would kind of put myself into robo-man zombie mode for the operations, in that I never dwelled on what I was doing, I just mechanically plodded through all the steps without thinking about how totally gross it was.

Since the ice cube could only numb a small portion of the penis, and since I could only tolerate so much trauma to my dick in one session, it took 6 separate operations, spread out over a two week period, to cut/remove all of the skin bridges.

Operation #1 (Day 1)

The test cut. I chose a small thin skin bridge, about 1/16" across. I held the ice cube on for 5 minutes. The ice caused a peculiar kind of "cold ache", but it wasn't that bad. I gingerly made the cuts, and sliced through with no pain at all. There was some minor bleeding, but because
of the speed at which I worked, I had finished and had the gauze on it before the wound had any chance to bleed significantly. After about 10 minutes the bleeding was stopped and I bandaged it up, no problem at all. Only a tiny little speck of flesh had been removed, rather unimpressive looking.

Operation #2 (Day 3)

Operation #1 turned out so well, I decided to go for big game this time. The target was the mother of all skin bridges, about 1/4" across and very thick and meaty.
Again, I made the preparations and applied ice for 5
minutes.

I made the first cut along the glans, and was surprised at how much I had to bear down on the scissors. This skin was surprisingly tough. I finished that cut, and then turned my attention to the cut on the foreskin side. Wanting to get it done quickly, I decided that two large, powerful snips should do the job. I bore down and made the first cut, and realized with a shock that IT HURT LIKE HELL.

Well, it turns out that due to the thickness of the skin bridge on that end, the cold hadn't penetrated deeply enough, and it hadn't gone numb. So, I was left with a problem. I had a half severed bit of foreskin hanging off me, and no anesthetic. My only recourse was to finish the
cut. I thought, "Shit. This will hurt.". So I lined up the scissors, closed my eyes, and as quickly and powerfully as I could, I made the snip. My prediction was correct; it did hurt (don't you hate when you're right about things like that?). I managed to avoid shouting out, instead opting for a few simple gasps and whimpers.

I resolved to hold the ice on for much longer in future operations.

Being that this was a bigger cut than the first, it bled much more profusely. It took about 20 minutes of direct pressure and a lot of gauze until I could staunch the main flow. Even then it kept oozing blood for a few hours. I spent the rest of the evening with nothing on below the waist, sitting in front of the TV with a few brews (this became standard procedure for all forthcoming operations). Any motion tended to make it break open and bleed again, so I moved around very little. I was functioning (that is, walking) almost normally again by the next day, but it took about 5 days before this one completely stopped oozing blood.

As I gingerly hobbled back into the kitchen for another brew, I spotted IT, the severed hunk-o-foreskin that I had left on the table. It was of fairly good size, about 1/2" by 1/4" and maybe as thick as a piece of bacon. Suddenly, strange thoughts entered my skull, and a raging
mental battle between good and evil ensued.

EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Don't do it!! That's gross!!"
EVIL: "Eat the foreskin."
GOOD: "Stop thinking about it!!"
EVIL: "You know what you must do. Eat it. It is your destiny."
GOOD: "But that's cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So what?"
GOOD: "Cannibalism is shunned for a reason! It spreads diseases!"
EVIL: "Look dipshit. It's your own fucking flesh. Any diseases in there, you already got."
GOOD: "But it's SELF-cannibalism!"
EVIL: "So is chewing on the piece of skin you bit off your fingertip. BFD."
GOOD: "But this is weird, deranged and perverted!"
EVIL: "Exactly"
GOOD: (Hauls its sorry whupped ass away and shuts up)

So, I ate it. Turns out it was very tough and chewy, kind of like biting a little piece of rubber. I chewed for about 5 minutes, but didn't make any progress on breaking it down, so I swallowed it. It had a little bit of blood flavor at first, but after that it had no flavor at all; rather disappointing in that respect. Maybe I should have cooked it.

Operation #3 (Day 10)

A medium sized cut. I held the ice cube on much longer (10 minutes instead of 5), so there was no problem with pain. Not nearly as much bleeding, but still a respectable amount.

A word about erections: they were a bad thing. Any hard-on would tear the wounds open and start them bleeding again. This would be a problem for about 3 or 4 days until the wounds had healed sufficiently. Basically, I had to spend a long, long time without even thinking a nasty thought. Of course, when I was asleep I had no control over the process, which would always result in me waking up with a dick that hurt and bloody bandages. I was really lovin' life at moments like these.

Operation #4 (Day 12)

Another medium sized cut, but with the added bonus of having a small vein (about 1 mm in diameter) running through the skin bridge. Now, the blood supply for the penis mainly runs through blood vessels buried deep inside. When you get down the the small vessels, the
circulatory system becomes more of a spiderweb, with redundant paths going to every point. So I knew it wasn't actually dangerous to cut it, but it was still a kind of psychological obstacle. I expected this one to be a heavy bleeder, and I wasn't disappointed. It took about a full hour of direct pressure to get the severed ends of the vein to close up. Otherwise, not too much of a problem.

Operation #5 (Day 14)

I was planning on more time to let the others heal, but due to changes in the way skin tension was being applied to the remaining bridges (because I'd cut some others away), one small bridge was getting a lot of stress and starting to hurt. So I chopped it quick and easy, no real problems.

Operation #6 (Day 15)

The problem with operation #5 was that it just transferred the stress to the next bridge down the line. So even though I had about 3/4" of flesh left to cut, I resolved to do it all at once in one last cutting frenzy.

Due to the size of the operation, it took a while to complete (maybe 1 minute total), which gave the blood a chance to flow. I had to stop a few times and wipe away blood so I could see what I was doing. Strangely, this didn't bother me at all. It seemed perfectly normal that I
should be wiping up copious amounts of blood flowing from my bleeding pecker which I had sliced open myself. Actually, it seemed kind of cool at the time, which led me to speculate at the time that I had gone insane, which I also thought was pretty cool.

Anyway, except for the excess blood which had dripped on to the chair, it went quite well. The only thing that really grossed me out was when I noticed I had blood all over my hands. If any psychoanalysts want to analyze that tidbit for me, feel free, though I really don't care.

The wounds are now completely healed, and the results are good. Mainly:

1. There are no scars to speak of, just a few bumps on the glans. This is because I didn't trim the flesh quite close enough in a few spots. They kind of resembling little warts. I thought about going back and trimming them off, but I kind of like 'em now. After all, it's not everyone
who has the privilege of appearing to have warts, with actually being diseased.

2. Without the skin tension holding things back, total dick length has increased by 1/4". (Of course I've measured the length of my dick. Like you haven't?)

3. It's a great topic for dinnertime conversation. Women generally seem to find it quite interesting. Men generally turn kind of pale.

With my newfound surgical skills, I've been contemplating a few more self-surgical procedures. You know, mole removal, wart removal, nose jobs, the whole vista of cosmetic surgery. I'll need some help for that mole on my back, which means training an assistant. Ah,
the future looks interesting indeed ...
--
Greg Bernath gbernath@usa.edu

A spot of the old ultra-violence...

From: misc061@csc.somewhere.ac.nz
Subject: A spot of the old ultra-violence...
Date: 16 Sep 94 23:14:17 +1200
Lines: 114

A spot of the old ultra-violence
--------------------------------

Last weekend I lost and maimed a friend--but that's OK, because I learnt a moronic beer trick in the process. It's the kind of thing that you see oily twentysomething boys doing in cheap night clubs while they work on their nascent beer-guts. Lots of fun.

What you do is this: grasp your stubbie (Australasian for 12oz beer bottle) firmly by the middle, wait until your friend is deeply in the midst of a pick-up speech (this is an important point of etiquette), listen for some particularly witty line (that is, wait until the pompous git squeezes out something that obviously needs deflation), and smack the top of his stubbie, hard, with the bottom of yours. This should be done with a minimum of arm movement and a blank lookon the face; ideally the woman shouldn't notice. Your victim's beer will "cum" vigorously all over his delicate proceedings. Repeat often during larger promotions.

The best way to save face when this happens to you is to jam the bottle firmly in your mouth, suck hard, and hope your eyes stay in your head. This is especially effective if you can keep a straight face while sinking vast quantities of warm, foamy beer, but does tend to come unstuck a little if you blow chunks all over the person you're trying to pick up.

John, the friend I mentioned at the beginning, taught me this in a bar. It was near the end of the night... we (John, me and a few friends) had been drinking for eight hours. Our faces were red and glistening with sweat, we were talking too loud and had somehow formed the idea that we were the funniest people on the planet. We had been smacking each others beers incessantly, so our shirt fronts, and the surrounding floor, were soaked. The bouncers had started to edge closer, trying to pick the delicate point at which we would be costing them more than they were making out of us--or maybe they just wanted to pound seven shades of shit out of us. One of them looked pretty excited; had a hard-on, even.

Being a keen spotter, and veteran cause, of the sort of bad craziness that involves large quantities of alcohol and huge bouncers, I went to negotiate peace with the doormen. As I'm a spotty little gimp, my usual negotiation technique involves lying on my back and pissing
myself like a crippled dog. However, eight hours of drinking will bestow a little courage on even the lowliest little shit, and so I begged time for another round. Regrettably.

By this stage of the evening we had given up all pretensions to normal drinking etiquette (no pointing, no showing of teeth, no use of consonants... that sort of pratty crap) and had started to lunge and flail wildly whenever we saw an unprotected bottle. John barely got his last beer off the bar before I hit it. He was expecting this, though, and immediately stuffed the stubbie in his mouth. Fair rammed it home, he did. Which was unfortunate, because the top had busted
off.

His eyes went wide as the glass slit through his top and bottom lip, and sank into his tongue. He fell to his knees, trying to hold the bottle still, but the foaming beer forced its way into his wind-pipe and he coughed explosively, spraying us with a fine mist of blood. He dropped the bottle and clamped his hands to his mouth, letting out a loud, low wail. The whole bar went silent. Even the arsehole bouncers were staring white faced at the mess. He was bleeding rivers. In about fifteen seconds his hands had been covered in slick red gloves, and the front of his shirt, once a cheerful shade of larger, had turned a violent crimson. He just knelt there, staring at me with enormous yellow eyes, making pathetic mewling noises and letting out small coughs whenever blood ran down the back of his throat. Blood was dripping off his elbows.

Two of us picked him up and hauled him out the door, pulled him into the back seat of his car and drove to Accident and Emergency. On the way there he went into deep shock. The bits of his face that weren't dark red were white. His fingernails were showing dark blue through
the coagulating blood, he was shivering uncontrollably. By the time we got to the hospital he couldn't walk, so we carried him inside.

Saturday night in A&E is one of New Zealand's national institutions; drinking and fighting is one of our national sports. When you walk through the doors of a hospital's emergency department in the weekend you're greeted by the smell of freshly processed alcohol; the cloying funk of acetone and vomit. The lobby is generally crammed with groaning rednecks and blue, spew-choked corpses. Still, John received attention fairly promptly, probably because of his cute injury.

The attending doctor soon worked out that he wasn't in a life threatening condition, but was concerned about giving him anaesthetic because he was so pissed. She did give him a few injections, but he still started whimpering and shaking when she began to stitch him up.
She started mumbling a few platitudes to encourage him to stay still, but hadn't got far when, Quite abruptly, he stopped shivering and his eyes lost their focus. He burped. A weird, hollow, relaxed burp. The doctor went all quiet and stared at John, her nostrils flaring slightly with fear. Suddenly John's entire lower body convulsed, unloading a couple of litres of warm beer and clotted blood down the young doctor's front. She jumped backwards, swearing, and leaving the
needle dangling from the suture in John's lip.

A few litres later, John heaved himself upright, blowing vomit out his nose to clear his airway. He gawped at me accusingly before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted, rolling sideways off the gurney. His head hit the ground with a sickening squeak, the sound of skull plates sliding against each other, and his arm folded under his body unnaturally. Rather than stunning him, this seemed to bring him out of his faint. He rolled his head around to look at me
and vomited again. His cuts had reopened; the sutures had torn out. After a few rough breaths he fixed me with his best "fuck off and die" stare, and started to spit black blood and ill-formed words: "I'll 'ill 'ou, 'ou 'uck. 'Ou 'ick 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck..."

I left.

--Will (w.hoyle@csc.somewhere.ac.nz)

Hospital

From: st.ool@diku.dk
Subject: hospital
Summary: mommy, I've started throwing up the sedatives.
Keywords: long, boring to some
Date: Thu, 5 Dec 91 12:04:01 GMT
Lines: 122

I've always been very fond of hospitals. Not only have I seen most of my family die there in nice, sterile surroundings, deprived of any pride or human similarity they may have had, but the sheer joy of all the sorrow and despair makes my own life a seem little bit lighter. Where other people can do with the odd I'm-a-cripple-but-very-happy-and-believe-in-God stories that mainstream media is cluttered with, I myself find it hard to get that lovely oh-god-thats-horrible-thrill just by reading about it, so once in a while I put the rescue 911 tapes back in the shelf, zip my pants and go for some genuine excitement.

In the beginning it was enough for me to peek through half open doors, seeing the screaming people fight the syringes, gastroscopes and whatever else the medical staff cured them with. I distinctly remember an old man sitting up in his bed, sorrounded by whitecoats hoarsly yelling out 'No, get lost, you're not taking my (spit) vocal chords (hrk) no get away from me, noo' whilst spitting and coughing up blood. After this precious outburst he looked down, blood running from his open mouth, and started to sob. They let him cry for about 3 min. (inwardly smirking, I'm sure) before they started on the second part of the routine, saying 'Ah, we got a little excited there, didn't we' 'Oh, it's all right, let it all out' and 'I think you should apologise to the
nurses, you know they're just doing their job to help you.'.

'Yes' the geriatric sobbed 'I'm sorry'.

'You want to be well again, don't you' the nice doctor went on. A barely audible 'yes' escaped the mans mouth along with some more brownish blood 'There just doesn't seem to be any hope..'

'Now now!' a nurse interupted him 'A little sting and the next thing you'll know, you'll have a nice new throat mike lying beside your bed, instead of that nasty tumor'.

'Noooo' the man from marlboro country began, but was tenderly given some morfin, after which he fell back, and concentrated on soiling the pillow with his blood.

That night my apartment resounded with cheers and horrays, as I played out the scene with tomatosauce in my mouth and flour in my hair, wanking till my balls ached so much I couldn't do much other than lean back giggeling, oblivious to anything but my joy.

But mere peeking couldn't satisfy me in the long run, and I felt that I somehow had to take part in the action to get a longer lasting sense of well being.

I started by stealing the sick peoples clothes, preferably the elderlys, as they had less control of their bowels and urination. Normally, would put on a white coat, enter the room and look sternly over the rim of my glasses. The geriatric would then normally respond with a 'Is anything the matter, doctor?', sometimes almost incomprehensive as their voices shivered violently, and several of them stuttered during this dreadful question.

'It's cancer..' I'd say, and wait for the sobs and flatus expulsion that normally followed this statement. If they could, and some could, control their bowels I'd follow it up with a 'WE'VE GOT TO OPERATE!', this dead sure to make them piss in their pants, and scream out in agony. Next step was then to scold them for being childish, removing their clothes and bring them back home where I would put them on my naked body and let the piss and caca caress my body.

But the sight of their shivering naked bodies, was sometimes just too much and I had to fall to my knees, and lick them vigourisly in the crotch or round their rectal opening. I was good at this, and did it to a lot. One of the geriatrics even recognised me on the street one day, and told me how happy she was that I had scared her by telling her about the extraordinarily painful pancreas operation that soon would transform her life into an inferno of dread and unbeliveable pain. Apparently the real doctors message about her not having cancer but only a harmless infection, had lifted her from the deepest level of sadness to a heaven of bliss, in which she was alive and could do all the things she'd ever wanted to do. She even asked me to come to her home and lick her genitals once more, but I thanked no, telling her that I was a one-dog man now, and wouldn't cheat on Pumpkin. Fate would it that I met her 2 years later.

I was as usual creeping round the corridors of the titcancer department on the lookout for a glimpse of female flesh. Nothing is more pure, more sincere than a fat, heavily madeup bitch crying as if whipped, clutching one of her fat tits, whimpering 'NOOOooo, I don't want to...Isn't there any other way?'.

There never is.

Today had provided me with the sight of an overweight 50 something cleaning lady, who wouldn't stop sobbing and screaming about her tits. For Gods sake! Was she going to use them for cleaning? No! What the fuck was she complaining about then? She could maybe even squeeze some funny cleaning fluids out the tit while she still had it. And I have never heard of any cleaning companies that sack people because they've lost a tit or two. But such people always have to exaggerate. Anyway, the doctor had just escorted the gasping bitch to his office and was now busy trying to call up her daughter, apparently the only one they could think of when it came to finding a person who'd pick her up in this state. 'Good', I thought, 'That will show this daughter what's in store for her' and slid into the operating theatre. Then, just as I was busily licking the acrylic plate on which her cauliflower like thingy had rested, my old flame entered only wearing ninja turtle slippers.

'Oh doctor, my doctor' She exclaimed 'Cannot thou tell me who hast put these stones in my left breast'. She raised her arms toward the cieling as if expecting applause. She was most surely completely senile and couldn't recognize me. How she had found the right department was a mystery to me, but well, these old bitches sort of start to home when they have been hospitalized a certain number of times. She turned, then bent over and spread her buttocks as far as she could, giving me a clear view of her still functional sphincter.

'Look. I'm constipated' she said looking at me from between her varicosed legs.

On the brink of sticking my finger up her naughty hole, I remembered the reason for her visit and told her to stand up, which she did with a cheeky smile on her face.

She was a real mammography pearl, around 70 and with large bumpy breasts. 'Please place your left breast on this acrylic plate' I ordered her, and she did so. A beauty. It looked mostly like a big yellow testicle, only a bit more hairy. I started to lower the other acrylic plate that would soon hold the breast oh so tight and ready for the best X ray tumor shot ever taken. But then just as her breast was beginning to look like a big red lumpy thing, the apparatus decided to get stuck.

'AAAHR, your squeezing my tit!' She yelled in pain.

'Look!' I told her taking off my glasses 'It's necessary that your breast is as flat as possible when I take the picture, otherwise the tumor will look blurred and veritalum coelum et assum, crux in gorgustico!'.

'Yes, doctor' she sobbed, obviously impressed and awed by my proffesionalism. 'Uhhg' she whimpered when I managed to get the plate an inch further. 'Well, mrs. Anderson' I remarked slightly annoyed 'As all of you who survived the war knows: It has to do baddy to do goody!'.

Hearing this her face lit up and she said 'Yes, that's right! I wish some of them beatniks would understand that and get a life'. I nodded to her in acknowledgement, and tried to get the plate further down, but to no avail. 'Aw stuck' I muttered. 'Let's take the picture now' she begged. 'In just a minute mrs. Anderson' I said and put one of my feet on the uppermost plate. As I trod down on it, she let out a horribly prolonged scream, and a milky stream shot out her festering nipple and soiled my trousers just below the zipper.

'Now look what you have done!' I yelled 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, CUNT?'. 'Wraaaeeeeee' she started and tried to get away from me, but her tit was stuck, and there was no escape. I grabbed her around the neck and staring balefully at her I whispered 'Now people will think that I've been wanking'. I tried to brush it off, but only succeeded in smearing it out further. 'That's a big milky spot on my honour' I told her.

'But doctor' she began 'I never meant to...'.

'BITCH!' 'YOU BITCH YOU BITCH YOU BITCH!' I bellowed, hammering her in the face 'YOU FUCKING STUPID DIRTY CUNT! LOUSY BITCH STOOL SHIT FUCK CUNT KRRRRHRRRAAAGH'. Foam flying from my mouth, I leaned back and then smashed my forehead down on her nose. A last scream left her. Her legs collapsed under her, and I left her hanging unconciously in her tit, blood trickling out the nipple.

Would she ever feel the same shame as I?

-Steven