CN: Shark week, blood, packing
Long story short, I forgot I was on shark week and managed to get blood all over my packer. So, cut to me washing the blood off my dick in the sink, which is a pretty surreal situation to be in.
I don’t normally wear a packer. But this particular morning, I found myself crying in the shower for various dysphoria-related reasons and I realised that I probably needed to if I was going to leave the house.
Blood is hell to get out of anything, let alone a five-inch silicone phallus. You don’t really realise this until you’re there, soaking the damn thing in hot soapy water for what feels like an eternity. It’s just one of those things. Did I think, when I woke up that morning, that I’d end up cleaning my own blood off a prosthetic cock? No, no I did not.
And as I stood there, my penis shlap-shlapping in and out of the bubbly, lavender-scented water, I suddenly realised that this is one of those fucked-up incidents that happen in the lives of trans people that just don’t get mentioned.
Like going for a piss in a cubicle, dropping your dick and watching it bounce away.
I can laugh about it now, but at the time, it was fucking terrible. I’d had one too many things with bubbles in, and, as if in slow motion, as I dropped my keks, my dick tumbled out and made a bid for freedom under the door.
I had an issue. My dick had recently been on the floor of nightclub toilets, which, if you’re not familiar with nightclubs or toilets, are pretty rank. So, I didn’t exactly want it snuggling up in my nethers. Meanwhile, I could hardly stroll out of the cubicle, into the gents and give my John Thomas a good old scrub.
I’ve heard of packers escaping at the most inopportune times- at work, in the neighbours’ front garden, in the swimming pool. There’s no manual for this shit.
Once my dick was looking shipshape and shiny again, I towelled it off and dusted it with talcum powder.
Fast-forward to two hours later, and…
“Why is there copious amounts of what I can only presume is cocaine in your sink?”
“Cocaine? Cocaine? Why would you think cocaine? It’s talcum powder. Not cocaine, not anthrax, not chalk dust- talcum powder.”
Note that I didn’t actually say why there was talc in my sink, but thankfully my boyfriend didn’t press me. He knows, in vague terms, about my dick that lives in a drawer, but he hasn’t ever, well- seen it.
But that’s a challenge for another day. I have enough going on as it is…