I love, love, love this piece. Brad wrote it yesterday. At the end of a long day of work and papercuts and traffic, I returned home to a naked man waiting for me with kisses and love, whiskey on ice....and this. The honesty and bravery and delicious naughty truthfulness of this memoir absolutely makes my heart ache -- in a good way.
"The Eros of Cancer"
by the one and only, Mr. B.A.K.
It wasn’t too long after his surgery that he was able to use his cock again. It was painful, at first, and he closed his eyes, tightly, when the thin juice of his balls flowed out of him in spasmodic dribbles. After the initial novelty of the post-prostate experience, he began to settle into the disconcerting change in his orgasmic feelings. Instead of blasting quantities of thick, white, jism into space, his dick just leaked clear and sticky stuff while he ground his hips in rhythm to a deeply gripping, muscular, series of contractions.
It was, as he was told, more female-like. Over time, as the clarity of the memory of his pre-surgery orgasmic sensations waned, he began to enjoy the depth of his transformation.One thing, in particular, was exciting. He found that by rapidly rubbing his frenulum, he could trigger an orgasm in the most covert manner. He quickly learned that he could secretly cum, under the table at meetings, or on the plane, or in the back seat of cars. Other than a moment of silence, and a flush of the skin on his face, there were no outward indications of what was going on in his pants. It was delightful, having this option.
After all, the volume of his ejaculate was not so much that it would soak through the fabric of what he was wearing. But, the intensity of his orgasm was tremendously satisfying. He quickly became addicted to the feeling and the depraved excitement of it all. He was a newly-born pervert, and it was such a gratifying feeling to have beaten death and be left with the means to experience such naughty joy. He squirted into his pants at work, behind his desk. He did it in bathrooms and bars. He imagined that his sensual situation was akin to that of a woman with a dildo implanted in her pussy, vibrating constantly.
Unfortunately, as time progressed and the sensitivity of the nerves impacted by surgery regained a level of homeostasis, the frenulum became less sensitive, returning to where it had been before the cancer. He needed more stimulation and the urgency disappeared. It was a grand time, however, that post-surgery insanity. And it taught him a valuable lesson: when life gives your lemons the inability to make juice, make the most of the rinds. After all, there’s reason their shavings are called “zest.”