Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Poison Ivy (DIETY)

I have a few bug bites that I've been scratching lately.  When things itch, I have a bad habit of just scratching them off, until they bleed, and then I'm happy... enough.  It's simultaneously satisfying and masochistic.  I cannot stand something that itches.  It prompted me to post a Facebook status of "I'd rather bleed than itch".  Subsequent conversation reminded me of my worst poison ivy story.  Enjoy.

...about the summer before I got my driver's license.  It's easy to remember, because I distinctly remember taking a driving lesson in a pair of loose sweatpants.  It was the summer of sweatpants/sweatshorts/mesh.  It was the summer of poison ivy on my penis.

It started on a warm, humid afternoon that I spent most of the day helping Granny garden.  Throughout the day, I sporadically ran inside to pee, since that's what humans do.  I'm a regular hand washer, but my hand-washing program concentrates mostly on a post-peeing regiment.  I probably peed 4-5 times throughout the day, but who really keeps track.

Later that day, I may, or may not, have played with it a little.  It's happened too many times in my life to try and think back to that specific day and weigh rather or not it happened.  Anyway, the rest of the day was uneventful.

In the middle of the night, I woke up with a strange burning/itchy sensation down there, specifically along the ridge of the head.  Best idea I had?  Cup cold water in my hand and dip it in.  I definitely had visions of dipping it in other fluids, as well as covering it in anti-itch cream.  I figured a shower in the morning would fix everything, and I managed to go back to sleep.

The next morning, Granny pointed out a rash on the side of my face.  A rash on my face?  What could that be.  I ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  I immediately put everything together, and I almost started crying.
♪ BUM...Bum...bummmmmm...... 

The best description I've came up with over the years to describe the end of my penis is... a portabello mushroom.  That's what it turned into as it started to swell, a reaction to the poison ivy and maybe even all the stuff I put on it to try and cure it.
Why didn't I wear gloves?

It seemed like months of awkward appointments at the public health center (confirming rather or not I was circumcised via hand motions/drawings in the air by an old Filipino woman), shots in my ass, cremes, baths with all kinds of salts/additives, calamine, no workin' it, and fearing it may never return to the size of an average penis... that I'd never be able to use it again.  Hell, maybe all that swelling helped make it bigger...

I have this really vivid memory of taking a bath and looking down at my poor, blushing, portabello mushroom inflatable-toy as it bounced in the water.  It was so sad, yet extremely entertaining to me now.

So... yeah.... no gloves, no love...

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