Yesterday, I went to take a leak, and well, not much happened. Hmmm, says I. That’s not good at all. A very short time later I had to pee again, and as you can imagine, all I managed to do was the barest of trickles. I was also starting to get rather uncomfortable, not the “Man, I have got to take a leak!” uncomfortable, but the kind that comes when you’ve got a lot of gas, but are unable to fart for some reason. Only the pressure was lower, and in the front.
Okay, I’ve had a similar problem once before, and it was caused by TPS (Tight Pants Syndrome), so I spent the rest of the evening with my pants undone, figuring that if it was TPS again, it’d fix the problem. It wasn’t, and it didn’t. By the time I tried to go to bed, I was wishing I had a catheter, so I could jam it up there and just let it all drain out.
This morning I, naturally, go to the doc and say, “Doc, I can’t pee.” He pokes around my sides asking if I have any tender spots around my kidneys, which I don’t for the most part. I then mention that prostate problems run in the family, my dad’s had a bunch of infections in his and my eldest brother (who’s in his early 50s) had to have his removed last year due to cancer. I can see the alarm bells ringing in my doctor’s head at this point.
Out comes the KY and the rubber glove. I’ve had a rectal exam before, but they weren’t checking the ol’ prostate when they did it, so I only had some idea of how it felt. Having something shoved up my ass is not really my idea of a good time, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do.
“Try to relax,” the doc said. Of course, my asshole decided to clench tight as soon as he said that. I now know why I’ve never been abducted by aliens. Were they to attempt to shove a satellite dish up my ass, I would promptly leap up off the table, find the nearest large blunt object, like the Moon, for example, and proceed to shove that up their ass.
Christ! Was it ever uncomfortable! The worst part was, while he was poking around in there, it felt like I was going to have stuff spurting out of every orifice, so I have to do this delicate balance of carefully clamping everything down, without tightening the bunghole up too much (since that would hurt like hell).
Now, I’m not one of those guys who has “issues” about seeing the doctor or telling him/her about problems that I might be having. I get sick and I need to see the doc, I go. Got a pain in my nuts? I’ll tell the doc about it without the slightest bit of embarassment, after all, I’m there to get better. Had I not been trying to do the clampdown boogie, I would have made a joke (“Gee, doc, are you supposed to have both your hands on my shoulders when you do that?”), but I knew if I started laughing, I’d lose control and there’d be a helluva mess to clean up.
Then the doc said those words which no man wants to hear: “Gosh, your prostate is really high up.” :eek: :eek: :eek:
At last he found it. I used to have a homophobic cow-orker who swore that the object of anal sex for gay males was to have your partner’s dick hit your prostate. None of the gay guys I know have ever mentioned anything about that, and I have to say, based on my experience, having something poke at your prostate really ain’t all that fun. If I’d have had a scalpel on me, I’d have cut my own prostate out at that moment because it was one of those “that feels seriously wrong” moments.
“It does feel kind of mushy,” he said. Have you ever seen The Maltese Falcon with Bogey? You know that scene where he gets that guy in a headlock and the guy won’t tell him anything, so Bogey tells the person with him to reach into Bogey’s coat and get out the ballpeen hammer so Bogey can begin whacking the guy on the forehead with it until he tells Bogey what he want’s to know? You remember how that guy freaked out and started screaming, “I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”? That’s about where I was when the doc was poking the gland.
“Okay, I need you to milk your penis so I can get a sample of prostate fluid.” the doc says, pulling his finger out of my ass. I have to say that “milk” and “penis” are not terms I normally associate with one another, and it turned out that my “manteat” (as it were) was dry, so I had to try and give a urine sample. That didn’t work, either, but I was able to squeeze out some goo and scrape it on to the side of specimen cup. Doc thought it was kind of funny when he saw the results.
He cuts me a script for cipro and tells me to be back in 2 weeks or else (All I could think was, “I can’t go two weeks without pissing! If this shit don’t open me up in a couple of days, I’m gonna shove a bendy straw up there!”). I fill the script, take a pill and a couple of hours later, aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! 
Not a good horse piss, mind you, but certainly better than what I’d been doing before that. I settle back on the couch figuring that the worst is over and soon I’ll be able to write my name in the snow again. Nope.
I just tried for about the fourth time in an hour to piss and nothing came out. It’s getting really hard for me to focus on anything other than, “I have to pee, goddamn it!” Sitting’s uncomfortable, standing’s uncomfortable, jumping up and down’s uncomfortable, everything’s uncomfortable! I want to start smashing things, screaming, anything to open that thing up get the piss out of me! I swear, if I can’t piss by tomorrow morning, I’m taking a coathanger and roto-rootering myself!
