Doctor Funny “Macabre Month”

When Your Penis Is a Psychopomp

FYI, a psychopomp is a being that escorts souls to the afterlife

I used to be a regular guy. I loved my family, I paid my taxes — I used my penis to pee and masturbate and procreate. Mostly. That changed when I got appendicitis. One moment I was fine, the next I felt stabbed in the guts. My wife drove me to the hospital while I mewled like a kicked dog.

Once there, I waited long enough in the ER for my appendix to burst. Then I passed out, and woke again as they prepped me for surgery. It occurred to me that, after the gas knocked me out, they’d pull open my hospital gown.

They would see me naked.

I’m a modest person, and roughly 50% of the medical staff were women. I didn’t want them to see me naked. That lack of desire inversely prompted an erection that grew even as they placed the mask over my face, and pumped in the gas. That was the first of many problematic erections to come.

Something went wrong during the surgery — two things, actually. The first thing was that I died. Just like that — a monotone beep and a flat line on the monitor. I guess that happens sometimes. They were able to revive me, but not before the second thing happened.

Due to the stress of the situation, the anesthesiologist had a heart attack. He wasn’t revived. I woke up in a hospital room once they finished my surgery. The doctors gave me a perfunctory “congratulations” at my surgery’s success, and the nurses visited only as often as they were required to.

I thought they messed something up in the fracas because I had an enormous amount of pressure in my penis. I didn’t want to be a bother, what with the anesthesiologist dying, so I kept the issue to myself, and two days later my wife drove me home.

There’s woods near my house with a creek running through it. My first night back from the hospital, I awoke with an irresistible urge to go there. I had a painful erection that jutted in my sweatpants like a tent pole. Wearing only those sweatpants, I left the house and went to the creek in the woods.

After a couple of “vigorous” minutes, the pressure ejected and the erection went away. I burst my stitches though, and had to go back to the hospital to get them fixed.

The second time it happened was one night after dinner. My son told me about a play he was in, and my wife told me a funny printer story from her office. Really riveting stuff.

I enjoyed slow, solitary strolls after dinner. That night I walked the same sidewalk I always walked, but then I found myself downtown. In Chicago. 80 miles from my house. Standing on the sidewalk next to Willis Tower.

The erection I had was harder than a steel-plated diamond. Moreover, I couldn’t move from where I stood. My feet were glued to the spot. I blocked pedestrian traffic, and got called several names I won’t repeat.

A splat came from behind me. A crunch. Like if you took a sponge made of bone — but it still worked like a sponge for some reason — and whipped it on the ground. Warm wetness trickled down the back of my neck and soaked through my shirt. The shrieks were enough to tell me something yucky laid behind me. Against my will I turned around.

And yes, it was a body. I found out later the body was some “urban free climbing” enthusiast who was going to climb down Willis Tower for a YouTube video. They fell from the top, pretty much right away, and exploded on the ground.

I was not a cool customer about it. I screamed and cried like everyone else in the area. And yet, I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t move, that is, until I felt intense pressure on my penis.

I waddle-walked away from the scene — with my back still covered in blood — all the way to Lake Michigan. I walked a short way into the water and after a couple “vigorous” minutes, the pressure ejected. I went soft, and then I went home.

Still covered in blood.

Once I drove on the interstate and got a massive erection and the sudden urge to pull over. So I pulled over, turned my hazards on, and stepped out of my car. I didn’t know why I had the urge to do this, I just did. Calling it an urge seems wrong, though. I had to. Like, strings pulled me along. I sat there on the hood of my car for a long time.

Then it happened.

The highway had three lanes, and a semi moved into the center lane without looking. He must’ve looked last-second, and saw his chosen lane occupied by another vehicle, because he jerked back into the right lane but lost control of his vehicle in the process.

The trailer of the semi struck some cars before it popped past the shoulder and started tumbling around on the grass. Debris flew everywhere — cars slammed into each other and broke apart. It reminded me of a demolition derby, only one where I stood in the center of everything. My car and I were fine. I had an eerie few moments of silence before the fires and the screams.

I felt pressure on my penis. Just a little at first — then a lot. It hurt really bad. No pinching, but like those blood pressure cuffs at the pharmacy, only if it had no upper limit and just kept applying pressure.

I held my groin and collapsed while screaming. Strong hands pulled me to where the injured were congregated. We were taken to the hospital, but since other people were on the verge of dying and I had nothing visually wrong with me — I was left crying at the back of the queue.

I never made it in to see the doctor though. Pulled by forces outside my control, I ambled out of the hospital and walked until I came to a river.

Normally the pressure ejected after a couple minutes. Not this time. It took at least half an hour before I lay exhausted and disgusted with myself on the riverbank.

14 people died in that pile up, by the way.

You see the pattern here? My wife did. After months of leaving the house for long stretches of time — in addition to my hasty excuses for where I’d been — she followed me. She saw me approach an accident, stand around for a while, leave, go to the woods, and relieve the pressure.

She thought I was some kind of psychopath.

My explanations didn’t interest her. She kicked me out that very night and, save one awkward run-in at the grocery store, I haven’t talked to her since.

However, she talked to everyone about it.

People are convinced I’m a sicko or serial killer — the police have noticed all the times I’ve been at places where something bad happened. They have nothing to charge me with, I didn’t cause any of those deaths as far as I know, but they go out of their way to bother me.

I’ve learned to live with it.

I live in a box in the woods now. It’s not so bad. I’ve found an odd kind of peace out here. I know my penis has work to do, and I no longer try to stop it.

He has his life, and I have mine. We’ve worked out a deal. I let him do what he needs to do and he lets me read until the pressure must be released. I’d like to watch shows, but I don’t have a phone to stream them. I don’t have a phone, because I don’t have money. I don’t have money because I don’t have a job.

No one will hire me.

Sure, I’ve wondered why this happened to me. Yes, I wonder what drives him and of course — I’ve wondered if I can stop it.

But as my friend likes to say:

“Answers are like heroin. The more you receive the more you desire until your quest to understand destroys you. Thus, the wise and sober man appreciates mystery.” — My Penis the Psychopomp

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