Making sense of my adventures with women, one disaster at a time.

Butt Karma

Only a few people know about this. It happened a little over a year ago, and there are still times when I fear it will return.

          The online dating world was going well. So well that I almost felt like I was cheating. Hooking up with attractive women wasn’t supposed to be this easy. Seriously. I’d send cheap messages to about forty hot girls a week, and of those forty, about seven would get back to me. And of those seven, I’d get a date with three. Rampaging through the databases for a little over a year, I’d been on countless dates—some good, some bad. The good ones usually led to sex on the second or third date. The bad ones lasted an hour. I call them “bad” for a handful of reasons: the girl didn’t look like her pictures; she was way too nervous, socially awkward or overly excited. Or her thighs had an extra five inches of diameter that was magically missing in all her pictures.

           Sherry, a tall brunette, had evolved into a fuck buddy. After striking out at bars, I’d text her. Half the time she’d invite me over; the other half she ignored me. “Bring condoms!” was always her last text. I’d take a fifteen-dollar cab ride to her place, we’d screw like werewolves, and the next morning she’d drop me off at my car. Our post fuck-buddy car rides always consisted of me playing the part of too-tired-to-function guy. Because she was a dunce, there was nothing to talk about. She was thirty-seven years old and taught pole dancing classes to foolish women and novice strippers. How I was able to sustain a conversation on our initial online date still perplexes me.

            While Sherry’s body had aged well, her face was always caked in make-up, and it seemed her forehead and cheeks were constantly peeling from a sunburn. It wasn’t a deal-breaker, however, and the sex was fun (even though sometimes it felt like I was fucking a Star Wars character). She even tossed my salad from time to time.

            One night, things got wild. We were both hammered and in animal-sex mode, and per my request, she went tongue crazy on my asshole. We fucked for so long that I had to stop because my leg muscles started cramping.

            I went sex-free for the next week and a half. Then it happened. I went to take a leak just before fifth period in the teachers’ bathroom, and my world went red. Razor blades. The urine would comfortably pass through my urethra, but the moment I released it, I felt a sharp jolt of pain electrocute my tip. I agonized as urine splattered recklessly into the urinal, but it wasn’t as fierce as the first titanic thunderbolt. Okay, nothing to be worried about. It’s just one time; it might’ve been a mini kidney stone that passed, I thought. I’d passed a stone and could take the pain. I was a man.  

            It happened again that night. Fuck. Then it happened at dawn during my morning pee. Fuck! While I was at school a couple hours later, I had to take a dump, which I was dreading because every poop brings with it a brief dribble of urine. The cranberry juice I’d bought the night before wasn’t doing shit. The Hattori Hanzo shrapnel persisted. Something was wrong. I had to see a doctor. I made an emergency doctor’s appointment.  

            I’d been planning a Vegas trip with Axe and McBride for the upcoming weekend, but I was beginning to have second thoughts. The trip was still two days away, but Vegas meant buckets of beer, which translated to infinite pee runs. Vegas also brought a strong possibility of sex, which meant ejaculation. Would it burn to bust a nut? I was afraid to find out. There was no way I could handle Vegas under the current state of my pee-hole liquid situation. But before flaking, I’d see what the doctor had to say.            

Emergency visits to the doctor always generate gruesome thoughts. Some of mine:


-The Seinfeld scene when Kramer passes a kidney stone in a public bathroom and screams so loud that the tightrope walker loses concentration and falls.


-The scene from The Green Mile.


-Mom: “Your father’s depressed.”

 Me: “Why?”

 Mom: “He has to pass a kidney stone sometime this week.”


(Nine years ago)

-My friend Locke: “Dude, a buddy of mine fucked a stripper without a condom. The next day he was pissing out razor blades–fool had gonorrhea.”


“I got warts on my dick, and it burns when I pee! Don’t you wanna grow to be just like me!?” -Eminem


            How did this happen to me? There was no way it could be gonorrhea or kidney stones. I always wore condoms and drank more water than the medicine ball chick at the gym. And Sherry was the only chick I’d fucked in the last month! Why did it take ten days after my last screw to start burning? My mind raced as I imagined myself urinating.

            “So you’ve had some pain urinating?” asked the doctor, a short Korean man with pink cheeks and a soft voice.

            “Yep,” I said, swinging my legs nervously from the paper table-bed.

            “Okay, when did you start experiencing pain?”

            “Yesterday around lunchtime.” Then I added, “I’ve been seeing a girl occasionally, but I always wear a condom, and it’s been a week and a half since we last had sex.”

            “Mm-hmm. Does she have any STDs?”

            I assumed he took me for a complete numbnuts. Why would I bang a chick who was carrying shit? “Uh…no, not that I know of.”

            He scribbled some shit down and squinted his forehead. After he checked my lower abdomen for pain, he grabbed the clipboard, asked some more questions about my medical history—which was flawless—and handed me a cup for a urine sample. Fuck. I made the depressing walk to the bathroom around the corner and prepared my body for anguish.

            Piss sprayed everywhere—in the toilet, on the floor, on my hand, in the cup. Since I was cringing in agony, I could hardly focus on catching it. There should be special Big-Gulp-sized cups made for guys like me, so we can direct our attention on happy thoughts to ease the pain instead of having to multitask. When my mortifying attempt at urine basketball finally came to an end, I did my best to wipe up the mess I’d made. Then I sealed the cup and rinsed it off along with my hands. I felt sorry for anyone who had to touch that thing.

            Doctor Kim was thankfully wearing gloves when I handed him the cup. If he wasn’t wearing gloves, I’m not sure I’d have the balls to tell him that I’d peed all over it, which would’ve made me feel worse than the time I shat my pants in second grade and blamed the shit stench on a fat kid named Mortimer (When I got home I threw my soiled underwear in the closet. I looked at that closet guiltily for over a month until my mom finally found the crusty thing and told me not to run from my problems.).

            I waited alone, relieved that it’d be at least another five to six hours until my next pee. Twenty minutes later, Dr. Kim returned. “Okay, there was a little blood in there.” He closed the door. “Dave, do you mind if I take a look downstairs?” I knew it!


            There really isn’t a non-gay approach to dropping one’s pants in front of another man. I didn’t know whether to start undressing immediately or wait for his signal. He set his clipboard down and looked at my crotch. I took it as a cue and began unbuckling.

            My beaten dick limped out into the public air and flopped to the left as if to take a nap. Dr. Kim grabbed it immediately and began sucking. Just kidding. He sat on a short stool to examine it, and then using his gloved finger opened up my pee hole to look inside. Considering he didn’t have a flashlight out, I don’t know what he expected to see. Then in an abrupt motion, he got up and said sternly, “Pull your pants up.”

            He left me alone for another fifteen minutes. I waited on the paper and analyzed a human muscle chart, which made me wish my calves were huger.

            Doctor Kim returned, shut the door, and began speaking almost hurriedly. “Okay, it’s either Urethritis or a Bladder Infection. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics, and it should get better in a week.” So much for Vegas.

            “Cool.” I didn’t know what else to say.

            “The nurse is going to come in to give you a shot and then you’re free to go. Do you have any questions for me?”

            “Should I drink a lot of cranberry juice? Because so far it hasn’t done much.”

            “Um. Yeah, that or water. Cranberry juice won’t eliminate the pain if that’s what you’re asking, but it does help with urine flow.”

            “Cool,” I repeated stupidly.

            The nurse, a gawky blonde woman with veiny arms, walked in a couple minutes later and told me she needed to give me a shot on the butt. I removed my belt to make things easier. Then I bent over the paper bed, and she pulled down my pants just enough to expose two inches of crack. What followed was the longest, most painful shot in human history. I couldn’t help but let out a moan.

            “Yeah, it’s a tough one,” she said. “I’ll be right back with your prescription papers.” I ignored her because I was too busy pacing around the room like I’d just been butt raped like Marcellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction. It took me ten minutes to walk off the pain. Maybe I was being a pussy, but whatever that shot was would make NFL Linebackers whimper.

            After picking up my prescription, I limped to my car and pondered my sexual history. How the hell did I contract a urinary tract infection? Did the spermicidal stuff from the condom get trapped in my pee hole? Was there food on my hand during a jerk-off session? I was baffled. And on top of everything, I realized I couldn’t masturbate for at least a week. I texted Axe to let him know of my pending flakage: “Can’t make Vegas. Got a fucking UTI . On antibiotics for a week.”

            We texted back and forth as Axe called me a pussy and tried to convince me it was okay to drink alcohol while on antibiotics, and that “the human body has a way of expunging bad shit; you’ll be fine.” When he realized I was staying put, he added, “Have fun staying home watching Matthew McConaughey flicks, fag.” Screw Vegas—I needed to pee in peace.

            I told a few more friends about my miserable situation, and without even blinking, they all said the same thing: “Dude, what do you expect? When a chick licks your asshole and then sucks your dick, she’s transferring shit particles down your pipe. It was only a matter of time.” Everything suddenly became clear.

            To clarify things, I looked up “rimjobs” on wikipedia. There actually was a page! The technical term for it was “Anal-oral sex,” Right there, in the third sentence of “Health Risks” was the following sentence: “Applying the mouth to the genitals immediately after applying it to the anus can inadvertently introduce the bacterium Escherichia coli (“E. coli”) into the urethra, leading to a urinary tract infection.” I guess this was my punishment for making all those girls eat my ass.  


            Axe went to Vegas without me, and to rub it in, he and McBride sent me several pictures of them sitting poolside with hot milfs, with the caption “And they like to lick butt.” Meanwhile, I stayed home and watched Fool’s Gold. The antibiotics cleaned things up and within a week I was peeing normally, but after realizing the probable cause of my UTI, I decided to end my rimjob fetish. For a few days.  


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