My dick burns. Well, to be honest, my dick stings. This is the story of how my dick came to be stinging at 9 am on the first Saturday morning of my spring break.

Two days after I broke up with my last girlfriend, I noticed some growths on the base of my penis, based on my ex's bout with genital warts a month and a half earlier, I was pretty sure what the problem was. So I went to the Planned Parenthood in Anaheim (a much nicer one than the nearer one in Newport Beach) on a thursday morning. Going to Planned Parenthood always involves waking up at some un-Godly hour for me because I hate making appointments with them and I like to get things done as early as possible (so my genital health doesn't get in the way of my other exciting activities like sitting quietly and auto-erotic asphyxiation). So for that Thursday I woke up at a quarter-to-five, showered, and drove to Anaheim so I could get there shortly before they opened at six. The doctor told me what I had already figured and gave me a prescription for a cream to take care of the nasty little so-and-sos.

Fast forward to two months later and I'm dating a new girl who I can't have sex with. I can't even dry hump her little frame unless I'm wearing gym shorts and boxers; I certainly don't blame her, but grinding my genitals against fabric gets almost as old as her having her vagina poked at by a blunt circus tent. The cream hadn't done anything for me, so I decided to take another trip to Planned Parenthood because the doctor said that there was another treatment (one that I had foregone initially because, surprise, it sounded painful and I'm a noodle of a person). I got up at 4:30, forgetting that I had woken up later the first time, and I found myself in Anaheim at 5:30, sleeping in my car. As soon as Planned Parenthood opened up I was in the office, which must have made the receptionists comfortable, only to discover that the morning clinician had called in sick. So I skulked back to Irvine, toadcock in pants,...

My dick burns. Well, to be honest, my dick stings. This is the story of how my dick came to be stinging at 9 am on the first Saturday morning of my spring break.

Two days after I broke up with my last girlfriend, I noticed some growths on the base of my penis, based on my ex's bout with genital warts a month and a half earlier, I was pretty sure what the problem was. So I went to the Planned Parenthood in Anaheim (a much nicer one than the nearer one in Newport Beach) on a thursday morning. Going to Planned Parenthood always involves waking up at some un-Godly hour for me because I hate making appointments with them and I like to get things done as early as possible (so my genital health doesn't get in the way of my other exciting activities like sitting quietly and auto-erotic asphyxiation). So for that Thursday I woke up at a quarter-to-five, showered, and drove to Anaheim so I could get there shortly before they opened at six. The doctor told me what I had already figured and gave me a prescription for a cream to take care of the nasty little so-and-sos.

Fast forward to two months later and I'm dating a new girl who I can't have sex with. I can't even dry hump her little frame unless I'm wearing gym shorts and boxers; I certainly don't blame her, but grinding my genitals against fabric gets almost as old as her having her vagina poked at by a blunt circus tent. The cream hadn't done anything for me, so I decided to take another trip to Planned Parenthood because the doctor said that there was another treatment (one that I had foregone initially because, surprise, it sounded painful and I'm a noodle of a person). I got up at 4:30, forgetting that I had woken up later the first time, and I found myself in Anaheim at 5:30, sleeping in my car. As soon as Planned Parenthood opened up I was in the office, which must have made the receptionists comfortable, only to discover that the morning clinician had called in sick. So I skulked back to Irvine, toadcock in pants, and spent the next couple days seething.

This brings us to last night. My roommate is a guy named Vishal, he's a well-groomed spoiled Indian guy with the disposition of a puppy dog, that is, he constantly does stupid shit but he seems to have such good intentions that you can't help but not confront him, just wish he would catch syphilis of the bone marrow and die. He walked into our room sometime after midnight, while I was trying to watch star trek on the computer and catch some sleep before waking up at 5:45, and he asked if it was "cool" if he and his friends do some drinking in the living room. I knew he was having one guy sleep over, so I figured, "what the guff? I'll let 'em have their fun, there's no way this can go wrong." As it turned out, there were five other people over, two of whom were girls that would squeal, in unison, mind you, at fairly regular intervals, and they decided to play Rock Band for the next 4 hours. I hate Rock Band on principle, but when you get the pride of the Sub-continent banging away at Nirvana and Weezer songs, I actually fucking glow. So I'm trying to drown out the sound of them banging away at a fake drum kit and warbling into a fake microphone by gnashing my teeth to the tune of Helter Skelter, all to no avail. I ended up getting about 2 hours of sleep before my alarm went off.

So I wobble out of my room to find two retards heavy-petting on the bathroom floor. I stepped around them and headed to the shower, which I enjoyed while having a sneezing fit that lasted from shortly before I got into the shower up until I left the apartment. It was more than just shitty allergy sneezes, it was painful, shitty allergy sneezes. I went back to my room to put my clothes on and I could hear the two dingbats on the floor right outside my door making out. I don't like to hear other people kiss unless I'm comfortably masturbating in front of my computer so that was a bother. I stepped out of my room again to find them on top of each other under a blanket, I walked into the living room to find three other morons sleeping, one of whom sounded like he had a leaf blower in his sinuses. I found his snoring immensely funny so I traipsed down the stairs and into the day.

I got to Planned Paranthood around when they opened and they took my card and sent me away because the doctor wouldn't be in for another hour. I managed to wander down towards Disneyland and I found a donut shop. It's weird to see families heading into Disneyland at seven in the morning, they're always such moribund fucks that I want to run them over in the crosswalk to save them from their own horrendous lives. Oftentimes the patriarch will be scooting along wearing khaki short-pants and a backpack so they look they're either going for a nature walk or cruising a rest stop. I got back to Planned Parenthood and sat quietly while a number of decent-looking girls came in and went to the window to tell the receptionist they were there for appointments. I always have mixed feelings about the girls I ogle at Planned Parenthood because I figure, on the one hand, that they're sluts but, on the other hand, they might have something. When you add that thought process onto the amount of self-hate I manage to engender thinking those thoughts; you have a tearful little session of mental masturbation on a thinly-padded chair.

I was called into the back and, by and by, I got to see the doctor, who remembered me! I remembered her too after a moment, I think people I meet before seven in the morning get filed in with pathetic dream-sequences, so I'm not inclined to remember them well. Not so this time! She sat me down and we chit-chatted about the angel kisses on my dink and I asked for the other treatment. You see, my genital warts have all the attributes one looks for in an elite Special Olympian: they persevere in the face of adversity, they never give up, and they don't know the meaning of "please die, you're ruining my life!" So the good doctor tells me that it'll sting like a mother, which I had assumed and accepted, and I tell her to get the show on the choad (zzzing!). So she starts dabbing some solution onto my warts and I'm thinking this doesn't sting so bad, and she must have sensed the thought because she immediately piped in saying, "it takes a minute before it starts to sting." Oh, and did it ever start to sting! Not only that, but she found more warts, they were little bitty things that she called "baby warts" and I was hardly in any position to demand that nothing about cock is baby-ish since the entire thing was shriveling up like a dead fetuses pointer finger. I quickly got my grandpa pants back on, hurried out while trying to not alert any of the lookers in the waiting room to the fact that my cock was melting through my body, and got in my car where I promptly screamed and called my girlfriend who didn't answer. I assumed she was asleep... with another man! At any rate, I left her a pained voice-mail that should hopefully elicit a good deal of pity and a greater deal of eventual fellatio. I drove seven blocks down Harbor to the 5 freeway screaming my head off because of the fucking pain at the base of my dick.

And now I'm back in my apartment. My roommate is asleep in his bed, there are still dickheads in my living room, and I'm afraid to take a piss because I think seeing my cock will make me break down in tears.

Big ups to my ex for this wonderful disease.