Skip to content

Jock itch: my cock itch

Ok, so according to the family doctor it was never a fungal infection (which a jock itch is), but really eczema. Nobody knows what that is. Whatever. I’m not a doctor. It itches and it affects my cock, so I am just going to refer to it as my cock itch.

I hate doctors. Really. I can’t stand them. Or, at least: I fear them. Which is probably the same. Anyway, doctors are truly useless. Why would I want some jerk-off to finger my privates, glancing only ever so slightly and proclaiming ever-so-authoritatively what it is that is affecting my nether regions? I forgot even when I went to the doctor. It was in one of those positive bouts where I suddenly thought it’d be a good idea to seek treatment for a number of ailments that I was growing accustomed to. None of these ailments were remedied by following the doctor’s advice; here I am, years later, still suffering the same stupid symptoms. Fuck you, dear doctor! (She’s a lady and, no, I would not like to fuck her, especially with my sex organs all itchy and sore. Neither would she; she’s actually seen my sex organs. 😯 )

My toenails (another story, which will be much better with pictures) have deteriorated and my “eczema” has only continued to conquer fresh, virgin territory. Yeah, ok, maybe not completely “virgin”, but not far off either. I have gotten laid precisely once in the past nine years and (apart from my general awkwardness) the sensitivity, shame and soreness at the time led to an experience so horribly traumatizing that I have been seriously wishing for my cock itch not to go away. It won’t.

I’ve actually been worried for a bit that I might have infected that girl with some kind of fungal goo. Should I have told her? I worried, but the doctor had told me only months before that it was just eczema. I had even been given prescriptions for some ridiculously ineffective and unpleasant hormonal creams (another rant altogether). Then, my shame somewhat subsided when I learned that my girl had been getting it on with anyone confident enough to treat her unfriendly while I was “dating” her and that she did have to seek treatment for an actual STD just before and after we dated. The cunt! And that bitch had me worried for her health! Fuck you, bitch! Yeah, I guess I’ll have to call you bitch; I can hardly refer to you as my “then girlfriend” because I have only been allowed to call you that for like 10 minutes, bitch! How did these other guys call you then? Surely, you must have been their bitch. (Just be glad I don’t post your full name in this post; I’m good with Google. Bad with privacy too.)

Ok, this rant to hide my feelings of sexual inadequacy has gone on long enough. If you want to hear more juicy details about my sex life, you’re out of luck, because, unless you count masturbating wildly in front of a mirror, I don’t have one. (No wonder.) The only thing that is satisfying about my sex-life is the size of my dick, which is pretty meaningless because where am I going to stick it? Surely not in miss STD again; she broke up with me precisely because of my broken sexual performance. Otherwise, my doggish stupidity would have kept me all dedicated to appreciating the scraps of love she threw me in exchange for my desperate advances. The cunt!

No, wait: the rant hasn’t gone on quite long enough. That sex-experience might have been horrible either way, but I’m sure the only-just-barely-recovered skin that would increasingly hurt with every minute of intercourse didn’t add up positive to the already negative, frightful mood. What do you expect with a soul craving for affection, after surrendering my trust only to be continuously discarded as some kind of nuisance, a distraction to the fast life you were living? And where had the tenderness and playfulness gone? And how could either of these occur without some bloody time and peace? Yeah, yeah, sure. I was taking too much time already. Maybe that’s why you had to announce to your friends in fucking public that we were going to have sex for the first time. What the fuck?! And they say men are insensitive! You’re surprised I take it public now? Cunt. No, the whole debacle can not wholly be attributed to me. Surely you knew no mercy, although you could consider your toleration of my mechanic, cramped up and down movements a form of tenderness too. It was fucking horrible. I was completely paralyzed by fear. Fuck it. There’s no way to be politically correct about this. I’ve been fucking humiliated. Humiliated, fucking! I hope you have some aggressive testosterone-ridden rhino doing you now, someone who accidentally stumbles upon this blog and attacks me and—Ooo, that would be such a relief. Come and kill me, wankers!

The benefits …

There are upsides to penile itch, although it’s not the penis but the scrotum where these benefits are best felt: scratching. You should never scratch when you suffer from eczema. They say. Sure! Why won’t I just enjoy all the drawbacks and none of the benefits, eh? Scratching is great. Scratching is divine. Scratching is the glimmering gift of God to the scabby mammal. Fuck them! And hooray for scratching!

I have to admit that I’ve gotten better at it too. I can usually scratch quite thoroughly without actually worsening the injury. This is especially satisfying when there’s a soft layer of whitey “pseudo-skin” on the loose. You can really put your nail into that stuff. Then, with practiced and applied, steady pulls, you can gather quite a bit of tissue that’s not doing anything useful anyway.

Another kind of satisfying exercise is playing with the soft crusts. Sometimes, if you haven’t scratched too hard—scratching too hard will lead to real (bloody) crusts—you will get these kind of crusts that are really more like hardened skin fragments. Really great to tackle, these are. The pleasure of peeling these off cleanly, without serious harm, can only be compared to getting a nice, stubborn crust of snot out of your nose without enthusiastically causing a nose bleed. These crusts are especially good when you have to be truly, really extra, super careful because you’re quite sure that if you’re going to pull it a little bit more in this direction—oooe, don’t scratch that bit there!—you know you’re going to cause one hell of a bleeder. It’s like digging your nose, but so much more satisfying. Hell, any excuse to play with your dingly-dang is satisfying.

There’s all kinds of crusts too. Every variation in between basically just a dry shard of skin and a very tough, nasty patch of dry blood in one of the seems of the ball sack. Sometimes I find myself trying really hard to remove a bump that’s really just a big white scar. ‘Wonder how that got there.

… to being dysfunctional

I made up all kinds of whack-job theories about my cock itch. They all revolve around personal development and blockages and fears and all that. The truth is: I like it this way. My cock itches. I’m twenty-six year old, so my cock would be itching either way. At least now I don’t have to contemplate the impossible, the unfathomable: having to actually please a woman. The very idea! It’s frightening as hell, and becomes scarier every day of every year. This year it’ll be ten years since my first and last pleasurable sexual experience. That’s a long time, and a lot of scary.

But who am I, complaining? I’ve been celibate for years, celebrating the great special power that this would give me on an purely energetic level. My cock only started itching after I had gradually given up the idea that masturbation and sex would cost me my vitality and life force. If only catholic priests would be stricken by the same irony, life for choir boys would be much more pleasant. (Yes, I actually thought that abstinence would make me a better stronger person.)

I’m a bad loser and I don’t like to take the blame for my own awkward stupidity. It’s not easy to miss how, by complaining about the lack of empathy of an eighteen year old girl, I try to drive the attention away from my own pathetic self: “Don’t look at me! I’m scared! Don’t touch me! You’re a woman! Look at me, please! Don’t! No! Do!”

Thank you, my cock, my friend. Thanks to you and your condition, The Scary People can’t touch me. You saved me from the witches’ clasp.

Lame excuses (times 2)

Posting this blog post made me concerned with the privacy of the girl who allegedly humiliated me a couple of years ago. It shouldn’t. From my ramblings above it must become absolutely clear that I’m an inexperienced, frustrated, frightened kid who has barely grown beyond the emotional maturity of a toddler. A toddler with an ego that’s so big and sensitive that you need a map and a team of European diplomats to avoid collisions. The only thing you prove if you choose to dislike said girl after reading this is that you’re even more pathetic than I am. Seek help. Or, instead of flaming her, flame me. I like being flogged. It’s what I’ve always been avoiding, scared as I amwas of you and your cute, little opinion. But not anymore. Time has come for practice. Bring it on!

If you still don’t understand, let me simplify: “Pushy, needy guy with emotional issues doesn’t want to hear ‘no’ and thinks it so romantic to open up and give everything anyway. He is then disappointed when things don’t go his way. Sooo sad. Also, his dick hurts, but not so much as his ego.” If this reflects badly on anyone but myself, I do apologize, because, although I sure as hell do mean it, it certainly isn’t justified. Now, fuck off and let me play with myself!


    1 Comment ( Add comment / trackback )

    1. (permalink)
      Comment by Rowan Rodrik
      On December 22, 2012 at 16:09

      It still itches. Fuck this shit.

    Post a comment

    (required)
    (required)

    Your email is never published nor shared.

    (optional)
    Allowed HTML: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>