Disclaimer – the following entry is rated NC-17. Not that the others aren’t racy, but this one sets a new standard. If you find something that offends you, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I hesitate to tell this story, because it became a legend in Kyoto. I’d meet people on the train who’d say “Oh! You’re that octopus guy!” I’m not even making that up. I had been trying to contain it the best I could, but I figured it was hopeless when I ran into a friend who’d heard the story… while he was vacationing in Singapore. What the hell?! Anyway, I’ve given up on containment, and since this can also potentially embarrass the hell out of my ex-girlfriend (that bitch. Sorry, reflex), I’ve decided to share with you all.
One day last winter, my ex-girlfriend and I were fooling around, and she agreed to give me a blow-job (note the verb usage: “agreed”, not “offered.” That bitch). She said that she’d thought up a new technique, so she used this opportunity to try it out. She’d named it The Octopus. No, I will not tell you what “The Octopus” is; use your imaginations.
I was enjoying said Octopus, when she stopped suddenly and exclaimed “Oh no! It ripped.” I thought surely, she was talking about her lip, so I said, “What, your lip?” She responded, “No. You.” I looked down, and sure enough, there was blood. I suppose I should have freaked out, but strangely enough I was rather calm. I actually kind of wanted her to finish. The comic genius from Loveline, Adam Carolla, used to say that during sex, your body goes into a kind of Superman mode, where you become impervious to pain until well after the deed is done. I think I went into that mode. I stayed calmed her down, because she was freaking out at this point. I took a shower and we went to bed, with me pondering the events in my life that would lead me to lying in bed with a ripped dick thanks to a maneuver called The Octopus.
The next day when we tried to get amorous, it hurt. A lot. As men, we may try to shrug off injuries. “Oh, this broken foot? Nothing at all!” But this is one area I really didn’t want to mess around with. So we both decided I should go to a doctor, stat. Apparently in Japan, doctors only specialize in a specific part of the body. So, I had to find the Penis Doctor. Luckily we did, and on one of the two days said Penis Doctor was in.
The ex and I went to the hospital, and after navigating some hallways we found ourselves in the Penis Clinic (I don’t think it was actually called that, but that’s what it was for). They gave her an information form to fill out, and I had to pee in a cup. If you ever find yourself in a Japanese hospital, you WILL be peeing in a cup. It doesn’t matter why you’re there, the peeing in the cup is non-debateable. I don’t know why. I took a quick survey of the other patients in the waiting room. Mostly middle-aged and older men. Heh, you don’t have to think too hard about why they’re here. There was another young couple, and I wondered what kind of sea animal-named maneuver had sent him here. The Sea Horse? The Jellyfish? The Manta Ray? I decided I didn’t want to know. There was also a high school girl. By herself. Yes, just a high school girl, all by herself, there to see the penis doctor. I decided I didn’t want to know about that either.
My ex (that bitch) started filling out the info sheet. Except she did so rather audibly, and in Japanese.
Her: When did this happen? During sexual intercourse. But it was a blow-job, are blow-jobs sexual intercourse?
Me: Not according to Bill Clinton.
Her: But, there’s no blow-job option. OK, sexual intercourse then.
Me: Uh, honey, can you keep your voice down a bit?
Her: What happened? It ripped. Was cut. Or should I say tore? It kind of tore too, didn’t it?
Meanwhile, I looked behind to see an old guy staring at us, his face completely frozen in horror. I don’t even want to begin to imagine the nightmares he had that night.
After a long wait, we were called in to see Mr. Penis Doctor, Ph.D, a young-looking Japanese guy who actually spoke English. There was a young female Japanese nurse in the room as well. Mr. Penis Doctor took a look at the info sheet, then said to me, “Ah. So I see your penis was cut during sexual intercourse.”
“A blow-job, actually.” My ex corrected him. He turned and gave her a look similar to the horrified old guy in the waiting room, then said “I see.” He turned back to me, “OK, I know this is embarrassing, but can you lay down and drop your pants?”
So I did. The doctor put on a pair of clean white gloves, and the nurse had yet to do anything but watch. The doctor then started examining my dick, but did so by grabbing it in random places and asking, “Does it hurt here?” Hey doc, how about I just tell you where it’s cut, and you stop grabbing my dick, OK? I bet you this guy was a master at Dodgedick back in his day. So he finally got to the cut (tear?), took a two second look at it, slapped some ointment on, and said I’ll be fine. I was a little uneasy about this assessment to say the least. He seemed more interested in the examination than the actual injury.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” I asked. “I mean, the geography down there is forever changed.”
He assured me it would be fine, just use the ointment and don’t have sex for two weeks. My face must have been pretty expressive, because he then said, “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, please ganbatte.” “Ganbatte” is the Japanese word used for anything ranging from “Good luck” to “Do your best” to “Hang in there.” Meanwhile, the nurse STILL hadn’t done anything. I’m certain her only job was to stand there and watch, so she could tell all the other nurses about it later.
That was it. I, of course, ignored the no-sex clause, but eventually the cut healed and the pain went away. And no, I will not tell you what The Octopus is, so don’t bother asking.
The geography remains forever changed.