It was always the source of great pride for me.

Ahhh what a handsome and healthy penis I have, I often thought to myself. It’s the kind of penis that makes you sorry for all the people with the problem penii.

Like the penis of poor Harvey Perry.

I remember the day I saw it. We were about 14-years old and urinating side-by-side when I got a gander. The thing was mangled and flayed at the head like a tube of Italian sausage whose meat was bursting out of one end of the torn placenta.

It was a revolting sight to be sure. And when I saw it I realized for the first time that not everyone has a normal, functioning penis. That some people have defective or sickly penises and that normal functioning penises are really a privilege, or a gift – a great, sexy gift from a great and sexy God – and speaking of God, I thought looking down on Harvey’s unfortunate unfurling sausage tube, “There but for the grace of He go we.”

When I first saw the thing on my penis I didn’t know what the Hell it was. I figured it was an allergic reaction or something and would go away in a couple of days. I tried Neosporin, and peroxide. I even tried praying. (One finds a God quickly when one’s got a thing on his thang). But after all my efforts failed, I knew it was time to seek professional help. And I knew it was time also – oh sweet Hell on Earth – that I was going to have to tell W. about the thing on my penis.

“Honey-dear baby cakes,” I said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Two days later, when her guffawing finally subsided, W. urged me to make an appointment with Dr. Gordon.

“So what is the problem we are calling about today Mr. Decker?” said JoAnne the pretty receptionist who works for Doctor Gordon.

“Well, I’ve got like, a thing. It’s like a rash-like thing. I’ve got like a rash-like thing on my person.”

I tried to be vague about the location of the thing. I didn’t think it was necessary to reveal all the sordid details of my Private’s life to the receptionist. But like an old pro, she sensed the weakness in me and went for the jugular.

“And on what part of your person would the thing be Mr. Decker?”

On the day of the Doctor’s appointment I was waiting in that room with the bed-like apparatus with the sanitary paper on it. In walked a young and pretty nurse with darkly brown hair and eyes to take my temperature and blood pressure, and ask the standard pre-consultation questions such as, “Are you allergic to any medication Mr. Decker?” and “Do you have a history of heart disease?” and the whole time I was thinking, Please, please, please don’t ask the bad question Miss Pretty Nurse, I’m begging you please, ple…

“And what are we here to see Doctor Gordon about?” said she.

Sigh.

So it’s come to this. I’ve managed to make it through 4 decades without ever having to say those 7 frightful words and now I’ve had to say it four times this month. Three times to attractive, young females and the fourth to Dr. Gordon, who finally entered the room with the bed-like apparatus with the sanitary paper on it and asked me what the problem was.

“I’ve got a thing on my penis,” I said, wondering if ever will come the day when I won’t have to say those 7 words anymore.

“Well let’s have a look shall we?” he said, uttering 7 unseemly words of his own and if you look up the word “Humiliation” in the dictionary you will see a picture of a man, possibly me, standing with his trousers down in front of another man who is sitting on a stool and examining a thing on the first man’s penis with a little cone-shaped light on a stick.

“It’s a fungus,” he said and wrote out a prescription.

"Fungus infections are caused by a group of organisms that normally live on the skin,” says the Department of Health.

It’s the phrase “live on the skin,” that I find disquieting. I just don’t appreciate things living on my body. Especially microscopic things. Especially numerous microscopic things like entire colonies of fungi; like it’s Christmas time in Whoville down there and all the tiny Who-fungi are carving up my roast beast with their tiny Who-fungi knives.

Epilogue: The Pharmacy from Hell.

I went to pick up my prescription today. It’s a cream called Ketoconazole. A young, Latino pharma-babe takes my prescription. Naturally, there is some sort of problem with the paperwork and she has to call over an older, 50ish, silvery blonde, pharma-mama for assistance. Together they scrutinize the prescription while squeezing their eyebrows and whispering terrible things about me to each other. I race home and apply the medication to the affected area as I cackle with glee. "Die evil, tiny Whoville-fungi, die die!" A few days later, they did.

EJD
04/06/05