The night I decided nature needed a little assistance

In my thirties, I was living in a luxury penthouse overlooking the city. Business was going well, life was interesting, and I apparently had enough spare confidence to start improving things that didn’t need improving.

An old friend, Rod Smith, owned an adult shop called Barbarella’s—the business that later became part of AdultShop.com. We did a bit of barter trading, and through one of those exchanges I acquired a device intended for what was politely described as “personal enhancement”.

A penis pump, to save us all dancing around it.

I’d watched a few of the films Barbarella’s stocked and noticed that the leading men were rather generously equipped. John Holmes, for example, seemed to have received considerably more than the standard allocation.

I had no particular cause for complaint myself. Nevertheless, curiosity and vanity make an unfortunate partnership.

What, I wondered, might a little improvement achieve?

The instructions called for about fifteen minutes a day. This struck me as a rather tedious commitment. Then I had what I considered an excellent idea: why not use it while I slept?

Several hours instead of fifteen minutes. Think of the time saved.

It was the sort of reasoning that sounds efficient until you have to explain it to a doctor.

An unexpected development

That night, I fitted the apparatus, created the vacuum and went to sleep.

I had followed the setup instructions. I had simply chosen to disregard the rather important part about how long to leave it on.

I woke in considerable pain.

Switching on the bedside lamp, I discovered that the device had become more inclusive than intended. Both testicles had been drawn into the cylinder as well.

This was not the enhancement I had in mind.

I tried the release valve, but by then everything was swollen and tightly wedged. Whatever relief the valve should have provided, it wasn’t freeing me.

The fire brigade occurred to me.

Unfortunately, so did the prospect of explaining the situation to them. I could already imagine becoming a story told at the station long after everyone had forgotten my name.

I tried a cold shower. No success.

Then I went to the freezer for ice, wrapped it in a tea towel and returned to bed. The penthouse still overlooked the city, but my ambitions had become considerably more modest.

I just wanted everything back where it belonged.

After about an hour, the swelling had subsided enough for me to work myself free. It was a slow and deeply unwelcome exercise in patience.

Eventually, I escaped.

There had certainly been an increase in size. The accompanying colour, however, was not reassuring.

Pride was still making the decisions

I was frightened that I had done permanent damage.

Yet even then, embarrassment managed to compete with common sense. I took painkillers, went back to bed and hoped things would settle down.

The following morning, I was still swollen, discoloured and sore. Rather than face a doctor, I waited.

That was another foolish decision. Severe genital pain and swelling deserve urgent medical attention, however awkward the explanation might feel.

In my case, everything appeared to return to normal after about a week. I was fortunate. That outcome says nothing in favour of my judgement.

I had taken something intended for brief use, decided I knew better than the instructions, and then allowed embarrassment to interfere with seeking help.

Quite an achievement for one night.

Afterwards, I became much more appreciative of the equipment I had arrived with. It had served me perfectly well before I began comparing it with the casting requirements of an adult film.

John Holmes could keep his distinction.

I was happy to recover mine.

And if there was a lasting improvement, it was this: I finally understood that not every opportunity for growth needs to be pursued.