What's in a Dry Old Fuck? Ch. 03

Continuing the adventures of an ageing but horny, skirt chasing businessman. Best to read Parts 1 and 2 first, to appreciate the terrible character you will read about.

This is a reissue of a tale I published a few years ago under a different name.

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WHAT'S IN A DRY OLD FUCK?

Chapter Three: Fuck George...a minor operation...male childbirth

"Fuck George" I thought. "Fuck him to death and beyond. If he's still alive, which I doubt."

I was coming round after the operation on my prostate. Eyes half open, I realised I was speaking out loud. All I could think of was old George and what he had said forty years before - words that had troubled me subconsciously ever since, off and on. Mostly off, but now, here in my hospital bed, I wondered whether George's predictions might finally be about to come true.

George was retired, but each afternoon of the working week, he came into the insurance company offices where I worked as a twenty year old. He had internal and external post duties. He also had a strange idea about losing interest in sex; it went like this: "You're always talking and thinking about sex at your age" he had said one day to us young studs, as we played cards in the men's rest room and talked endlessly about IT. "But one day, you'll wake up, and you won't want it anymore."

You might have thought the laughter would bring the whole three storey city centre building down. Waking up and not wanting sex was unthinkable to young men of our age and with what we imagined was our indestructible virility. George, the sixty-odd year old post delivery aid insisted: "You won't believe it now, of course. But when you get to my age, it'll just go away quietly, it'll fade away, and one morning you'll wake up, and you won't want it anymore."

More loud laughter. "It happened to me. I know what it's like. And it won't matter when it happens to you; you won't think about it, you won't even worry about it anymore, because you won't get the same urges. See what I mean? You won't worry, because you won't want it. You'll see."

George the impossibly inarticulate left the room to get on with his post and when the raucous mirth and whooping had died down, the last word on the subject was mine: "I'll tell you this much: to wake up without a stiff dick is a joke. The very day I wake up and don't want it any more, I think I'll probably top myself." In those days, we were always thinking that tomorrow would be better. We survived youth and much more, before we even imagined the reverse could be true.

I realise that after anesthetic, people can be inclined to say daft things. But now, lying here in my hospital bed, feeling groggy and sore, and with a most unpleasant kind of aching along what seemed like the whole length of my penis and all the way up into my belly, all I could do was talk quietly and absurdly about George and his damned ancient prophesy. And wonder if suicide time would soon be here.

The surgeon had, of course, warned me about some possible ensuing effects of this fairly new laser intervention, before persuading me to let him to zap merrily away an 'uncertain percentage' of my prostate. The good news was this: an operation which was allegedly almost pain-free, not a single drop of blood, only one night in hospital afterwards, a quick recovery, a strong flow of piss thereafter.

The potential bad news: if you can still get it up afterwards, you're likely to ejaculate wholly or partially into your bladder. That may be off-putting for some men, he explained, to my total consternation.

If I can still get it up! If I can still get it up! Frankly, I won't give a damn where I ejaculate. In my bladder, in my kidneys, out through my mouth, anywhere, as long as I can get it up. Just allow me that, please. I have to be able to cheat old George's predictions, grant me at least that.

Well, here I was, staring up at the hospital ward ceiling, having established that I was still on this mortal coil, wondering whether I would still be able to get it up. Not right now, but later, when I'd recovered. A full month without sexual activity, the surgeon had instructed. But then, what the hell, I reflected. I still can look good in a business suit. What will anybody know about stuff going on (or not going on) under my pants? I only have Helen to consider. And Helen, well, she's Helen.

I looked away from the ceiling towards the window, became aware at last that Helen was in the room, and wondered right then about whether darling Helen would even be interested in my getting it up again. Her libido hadn't shown any real signs of improving in recent months, even though her stunning body had always managed to excite me sufficiently to be able to plunder her carnal treasures without having to embark upon guilty visions of imaginary partners.

Then again, there were moments when Helen sometimes wanted it badly. She had her brief personal needs - they just weren't precisely the same as mine, nor as frequent.

I closed my eyes again; I didn't feel like discussing with Helen how I felt right at that moment of my life, and how our already sporadic sex life might or might not evolve henceforth. Right now, thanks to aspirin or similar, the pain was just about supportable and I was drowsy. I looked over at Helen, smiled as though I recognised her, and drifted off into half-anesthetic sleep.

The next day, the extraction of the tube that had been left inside my dick and up into my bladder after the laser intervention, was probably the most painful event of my long life, and at the end I felt I really knew what giving birth meant. Until it started, with two pretty young nurses sitting on each side of my hospital bed, I had no idea just how much it was going to hurt.

As the prettier of the nurses took off the sticking plaster which had been holding the tube at the point of entry into my cock-eye, and began to tug on the tube (did they draw lots, I wondered?) she hardly gave me time to take in her words: "This may be a bit painful, but it'll be quickly over." Seeing my face contort in pure agony, the other nurse, surely a childbirth specialist, cried out, "Breathe quickly, in and out, pant, pant!"

So I panted and prayed. Try to imagine, if you will, that someone rips out both your testicles, your penis and the major part of your guts in about fifteen seconds flat. That's how it felt.

Then it was over; I was tubeless again, and looking at my poor shrunken, pubic hairless dick, almost lost between my thighs and leaking blood. It seemed very sorry for itself and certainly very doubtful about its future. The whole episode prompted me to reflect on the condition of my sexagenarian body.

Fuck, I thought. I don't have a fat belly like so many other middle-aged men; my skin's pretty tight after all. Okay, I admitted to myself: I no longer have those solid, rippling, sportsman's muscles of yesteryear. I wasn't the young woman's idea of a dream lover any more, but I was okay. Finally, I thought, what they see's what they get. And I'll settle for what I can get after this. That's profound philosophy, I reflected, as I reached for a glass of water to wash down the painkillers offered to me by one of the nurses.

Chapter 4 follows soon...