Something is Wrong Doc

There are a few in our village who think our doctor is a complete quack, I'm not one of them. His name is Michael Halliday. Yeah, that's right, Doc Halliday. He isn't the best, in my opinion he is far from the worse. His great saving grace is he knows it, but I think he is a good GP. That's the term here in the U.K., a G.P. A general practitioner, Jack of all medical trades, master of none. Where Doc scores is that he knows who he is and he knows his limitations.

After I uttered the above words to him, something is wrong, Doc. I knew what his final words on this consultation were going to be. I was spot on the mark; I'll get a letter off to the consultant at Hereford Hospital, he said. It wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. I can't get a stiffy, I don't want to make other appointments, and I don't want to explain to young nubile receptionists. I had a major trouser department malfunction. I was also convinced my knackers were getting smaller. OK, said Doc, I'll get some blood taken just in case it's something obvious.

When I told my wife I was going to see a specialist, she came across as quite bolshy about the idea. Actually, she was bolshy about me going down to our surgery about it in the first place. "I don't know what you're worrying about. It's not like you get to use it anymore."

That did it. She had cut me off about a year ago. She claimed she was going through the change. She was very happy for me to eat her muff for an hour at a time, but if I asked for anything in return, I was the biggest unfeeling bastard in the world. She was chatting online with a bunch of nutjob extreme feminists. She tried to get me to read a paper by some rabid hardin about men accepting voluntary castration after their wives had gone past their childbearing years, so they were free to explore their own growth as free women. Their men should be content to eat pussy and sacrifice their own needs.

I ended up telling her to sort her own hairy axe wound out, and I would sort my own needs. To be honest, my imagination furnished my minds eye with a far more attractive mate than the more recent horrific sight of my missus in curlers, a mud pack, and a candle-wick dressing gown. Then, about four or five weeks ago, disaster struck. I found a film clip of a 30 to 40-something MILF on Pornhub. She was dressed as a dominatrix in scarlet corset, stockings and suspenders, looking at me flexing a riding crop. Ok, I'm a perv, and so are a lot of men, judging by the hits she had. The disaster was that I couldn't get my knob hard enough to wank. I haven't had a hard on since.

Four days later, I called Doc for an appointment. "It's quite urgent".

"I see, Mr. Naylor. Could you come buy right now?"

A week after that, after he got the bloods back my doctor was lecturing me on the misuse of hormone treatment for gender reassignment. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was very happy to be a man, with the recent erection problems being the only cloud on that particular horizon.

You have a build-up of anaphrodisiacs in your blood. Typically, leuprorelin and depot medroxyprogesterone acetate (DMPA)

Could you be inadvertently taking your wife's HRT prescription, he asked? The look of shock that obviously registered in my eyes was immediately misinterpreted by Doc Halliday. Doc was very wrong; the fucking bitch was attempting to chemically castrate me. I have worked my bollocks off, obviously not enough for her, to provide her with just about every want and whim she desires. Now the fucking cow wants to deprive me of any sexual relief at all. She wants her house, her car, and her clothes. And fuck the idiot supplying her with those little luxuries. Or rather don't fuck him! The bone-idle bitch has never lifted a finger while she has been married to me.

The bitch wasn't at home when I got in. It took me about two minutes to find it. It was in an eye dropper bottle next to my milk. I have proper cows milk on my cereal in the morning and in my fully caffeinated coffee. She has this almond milk shite. I tipped the clear alleged eye drops in a little Tupperware cup I use for milk when I go fishing and topped up to the same level with tap water. That was done to keep her in the dark while the coppers investigated her and her barmy group of friends. I started to recover almost immediately.

I made an appointment to see my solicitor, a friend from way back called Dunston. I'm a builder, Dunston assured me I'd get nearly everything in a divorce. It was my house before I met the bitch; the building business still belonged to my old man on paper. My old man, God bless him, is still alive and kicking at the age of 72, chasing my mom around the bedroom in their villa in Spain.

My mom, who is a bit younger than dad, still lets him catch her; she says, just before he is too knackered to screw her little arse off. Just a bit of explanation here: my mom isn't my birth mom. My poor old birthmother died giving birth to me. The woman who I call mom and who calls me son is as black as coal. My old man caught her for the first time and put a bun in her oven two years after I was born. That, dear reader, is why my younger brother Ioan is almost as black as my mom. Not only is my mom black as coal, she is Welsh. Welsh as a daffodil on St. David's Day. That's also the reason my brother is called Ioan. Pronounced Yohan.

Ioan is my go-to computer man. I went to him, or rather, he came to me. Ioan provided the Bitch's computer. Rather than mess about, he sent everything on it to the cloud, put some tracking shit on it, and then downloaded everything to an identical laptop. Everything she did on her's appeared on my laptop. Even her secret email account, including the ones from the guy with a 9-inch dick and the fucking insane bitch who was doling out the cock-shrinking chemicals and eye droppers.

Doc Halliday went ballistic. He called the old bill, and we had to almost tie him down so that plod had time to close in on the head bitch and then follow up on all the other wives who were busily engaged in attempting to neuter their husbands. I was lucky, we all were; six months later, I was back to the same body mass as before; my man boobs had all but disappeared, and my custard chucker was chucking custard five feet in the air again. I think I need to go looking for a little curvy welsh black girl.

The guy with the alleged 9-inch dick turned up just before the coppers busted the ring. Now I ain't got 9 inches. I'm pretty proud of what God gave me, but it ain't 9 inches. It is, however, a fucking sight bigger than this idiots. His balls are bigger than mine! That may be due to the swelling, though. I planted my work boots into them a couple of times.