The Stupid Prick
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Sometimes doctor doesn't know best.
_____________________________________________________________________
It was my first time in India, I was 21 and I had culture shock. The furthest I’d travelled until that point was Spain and now I found myself in Mumbai after eighteen hours of travel via Dubai. When I had walked through the airport automatic doors, when I left the air conditioned room and stepped out into the bright Mumbai sunshine my life changed forever. But that’s not what this story is about.
I had never felt heat like it. Unbearably hot. The airport car park was not like any other I had seen; it was a mass of 1950’s style black and yellow taxis, the owners of which buzzed around the tourists like insane bumble bees intent on stinging all with their overpriced fares, before scurrying away in disgust from the travellers who did not fall for their scam. I cannot remember if we overpaid or not, quite frankly at that time I would not have cared. I was tired, sweaty and I stunk (although not as bad as the Mumbai air). All I craved was a cold shower followed by a cold beer drunk in an air conditioned bar away from the taxi drivers.
I had other things on my mind too. I had a more pressing issue which demanded my attention. The whole journey over to India I had been plagued with an itchy burning sensation in my penis. Frequent inspection provided evidence of seepage forming in pools in the hole of my cock. I knew I wasn’t well. I had spent the entire eighteen hours squeezing my cock when I thought no one was looking; it was the only thing which relieved the irritation; that and pissing. I did not know exactly what was wrong with me but I knew my penis had never felt this way before, and the irritation, pain and paranoia only grew worse with time.
We took a taxi to a guest house on Marine Drive in the centre of Mumbai. My time spent in that car, the thirty minutes or so we danced through Mumbai traffic horrified my senses. The air smelled like a mixture of rotting flesh and wet cement, the incessant beeping of car horns rattled my ears (in India people drive with their ears not their eyes) and the persistent and obvious evidence of mass poverty was on every street, at every traffic light and in the eyes of the beggar children who tapped at our window asking for money; their shoeless feet swollen and their ragged clothes hanging from their tiny, malnourished bodies; some as young as eight carrying babies no older than two. They deliberately stood at traffic lights, where cars are forced to stop, and they hunt for white skin; there is no salesman on the planet more persistent than a Mumbai street child. They will be at your side for as long as it takes for you to give them money; occasionally irritating, always heart-breaking.
My fellow traveller and I checked into our room, took long (cold) showers and lay on our respective beds. He was anxious to explore, I was resigned to never leaving that room again. I was scared. I turned on the television and flicked through the channels searching for the English language and the comfort it would bring. I found English language Indian news. The live pictures being broadcasted on the news channel were of motorway, a mob had gathered, the cars had stopped and one man lay lifeless on the ground. The news reader began to read. She explained that the dead man on the ground had just robbed a bank in Delhi and in the ensuing car chase had caused an accident on the motorway. This, in turn, caused the traffic to build up which, in turn, had enraged the midday commuters who proceeded to beat the bank robber to death. This is what road rage looks like in a city with upwards of 22 million people and inadequate roads. The police spokesman who was interviewed on completion of the story said something like ‘serves him right’. This story was not the comfort I was looking for.
My travelling companion left the room, he wanted to venture out; I stayed in the room and forced myself to sleep. When I awoke it was dark, four hours had passed and he had not returned. I began to panic, I started to genuinely believe that I might never leave that room; locked in a concrete sweat-box alone with an insane news channel and a burning crotch. Hell had come to earth and I was the only person in it. Just as the tightness in my chest was becoming panic inducing he burst through the door with a spring in his step. “I’ve got us a driver, his name is Raju, he’s picking us up in an hour.” “Will he take me to a doctor?” I asked hopefully.
One hour later we were in Raju’s taxi, we sat stationary outside of our guest house. Raju asked us what we wanted to do. “I need to go to a doctor, a good doctor, a penis doctor,” I said pointing at my inflamed crotch. “No problem, my friend, I know one, good Jain doctor, not far from here but first I will take you for some food, your friend is hungry.” Raju was looking at my companion for approval, which he got. I was frustrated but I felt obliged to have some normalcy on our first night before we entered the world of vomiting fire cocks. Raju took us to a restaurant with an open front. He sat us down and helped us order rice and curry from the menu. We bought Raju’s dinner plus a take away for his wife and children. The plates came with no cutlery, we both sat patiently while Raju used his hand to eat. After thirty seconds he looked up, upon realising why we weren’t eating he told us to use our hands. We did. The food tasted good, the rice was thick and easy to pick up with the rhoti bread all of which washed down just nicely when soaked in the spicy curry sauce. Half way through the meal I asked Raju where the toilet was. He spoke in Hindi to the uninterested restaurant proprietor before leading me outside to the front of the restaurant where he took out his penis and began to piss into the street (in front of a busy open front restaurant). When in India, I thought, and did the same. Pissing soothed the pain in my urethra and being watched by a mass of eating Indians took nothing away from the pleasure that I was feeling. After that we paid for the food and left.
My companion demanded that we buy three large beers before we headed to the clinic; one for each of us. We sat outside the shop and drank half the beer. By this time my mind was becoming as irritated as my poor cock. “We need to go,” I said, “I really need to get this sorted out before we head to Goa.” My companion unenthusiastically agreed. As we drove down Marine Drive, Raju, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding the large beer, began to cry. I was in the back but I could hear the whimpers. His head was facing down and the car began to swerve left towards the concrete barrier between the road and the beach. “RAJU,” I shouted, the noise jerked him into action and he straightened the car. “Thank you so much,” he said through the tears, “thank you for buying my family food and inviting me to drink with you.” Then it hit me; Raju was drunk. Raju was pissed and emotional. I was in a car from the 50’s on my way to the clap clinic in Mumbai traffic with a drunken taxi driver spilling is heart, and some of his beer, onto the floor. I was terrified but to be honest a little excited. As we zigzagged through traffic along the coast line past red and white lights I began to feel more comfortable; it was probably the alcohol but also an awakening for me.
We arrived at the clinic in one piece, just, and I was comforted to find myself in a clean, modern building. Raju took me into the office of the doctor and explained in Hindi why we were there. The doctor nodded before sending Raju away rather abruptly (my first encounter of the Indian caste system). The Jain doctor spoke perfect English with little accent. He took me into a small room with a bed and asked me to take down my pants. I told him my symptoms and he examined my penis. He squeezed the liquid residue from deep down my shaft and out of my cock before taking a prolonged look at my bell end. “I would imagine you have Chlamydia or gonorrhoea,” he said rather casually. “I will give you some antibiotics and it will be clear in a week.” I felt wonderfully reassured. “But it also seems that you have a severe case of genital warts.” He pointed to a series of white pink bumps that circled the bottom of the end of my penis. I was in utter shock, I couldn’t remember them not being there, I must have caught it a long time ago, I thought. I began to sweat profusely. The whole experience was becoming too much to bare. He told me he would give me a solution that was to be applied twice a day and that solution would burn the warts away.
Fifteen minutes later we were almost back at the guest house. I was dejected, Raju was drunk and my companion, jet-lagged, was falling asleep in the car. We pulled up at the guest house, arranged to meet Raju the next day, and went to our room. I took the antibiotics and applied the brownish solution. It burned; it burned worse than the infection was burning and it was agony. Two days, a sixteen hour train ride and four excruciating applications of the solution later we were in beautiful Goa. The symptoms of the infection had subsided but the warts remained. I was plagued with uncertainty though. I was sure that they had always been there in which case they could not be warts.
We rented a bamboo beach hut on stunning Palolem beach one hundred and fifty feet from the sea. We bought some hashish from a restaurant, rolled some joints, sat on our balcony and listened to the sounds of the Goan night. The next morning I awoke and checked the state of my cock. The liquid was beginning to burn the skin down quite deeply. I decided to check the internet.
They were fucking sebaceous glands, fucking naturally occurring glands, 20% of men have them. My cock still shows the scars of that prick’s stupidity.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Sometimes doctor doesn't know best.
_____________________________________________________________________
It was my first time in India, I was 21 and I had culture shock. The furthest I’d travelled until that point was Spain and now I found myself in Mumbai after eighteen hours of travel via Dubai. When I had walked through the airport automatic doors, when I left the air conditioned room and stepped out into the bright Mumbai sunshine my life changed forever. But that’s not what this story is about.
I had never felt heat like it. Unbearably hot. The airport car park was not like any other I had seen; it was a mass of 1950’s style black and yellow taxis, the owners of which buzzed around the tourists like insane bumble bees intent on stinging all with their overpriced fares, before scurrying away in disgust from the travellers who did not fall for their scam. I cannot remember if we overpaid or not, quite frankly at that time I would not have cared. I was tired, sweaty and I stunk (although not as bad as the Mumbai air). All I craved was a cold shower followed by a cold beer drunk in an air conditioned bar away from the taxi drivers.
I had other things on my mind too. I had a more pressing issue which demanded my attention. The whole journey over to India I had been plagued with an itchy burning sensation in my penis. Frequent inspection provided evidence of seepage forming in pools in the hole of my cock. I knew I wasn’t well. I had spent the entire eighteen hours squeezing my cock when I thought no one was looking; it was the only thing which relieved the irritation; that and pissing. I did not know exactly what was wrong with me but I knew my penis had never felt this way before, and the irritation, pain and paranoia only grew worse with time.
We took a taxi to a guest house on Marine Drive in the centre of Mumbai. My time spent in that car, the thirty minutes or so we danced through Mumbai traffic horrified my senses. The air smelled like a mixture of rotting flesh and wet cement, the incessant beeping of car horns rattled my ears (in India people drive with their ears not their eyes) and the persistent and obvious evidence of mass poverty was on every street, at every traffic light and in the eyes of the beggar children who tapped at our window asking for money; their shoeless feet swollen and their ragged clothes hanging from their tiny, malnourished bodies; some as young as eight carrying babies no older than two. They deliberately stood at traffic lights, where cars are forced to stop, and they hunt for white skin; there is no salesman on the planet more persistent than a Mumbai street child. They will be at your side for as long as it takes for you to give them money; occasionally irritating, always heart-breaking.
My fellow traveller and I checked into our room, took long (cold) showers and lay on our respective beds. He was anxious to explore, I was resigned to never leaving that room again. I was scared. I turned on the television and flicked through the channels searching for the English language and the comfort it would bring. I found English language Indian news. The live pictures being broadcasted on the news channel were of motorway, a mob had gathered, the cars had stopped and one man lay lifeless on the ground. The news reader began to read. She explained that the dead man on the ground had just robbed a bank in Delhi and in the ensuing car chase had caused an accident on the motorway. This, in turn, caused the traffic to build up which, in turn, had enraged the midday commuters who proceeded to beat the bank robber to death. This is what road rage looks like in a city with upwards of 22 million people and inadequate roads. The police spokesman who was interviewed on completion of the story said something like ‘serves him right’. This story was not the comfort I was looking for.
My travelling companion left the room, he wanted to venture out; I stayed in the room and forced myself to sleep. When I awoke it was dark, four hours had passed and he had not returned. I began to panic, I started to genuinely believe that I might never leave that room; locked in a concrete sweat-box alone with an insane news channel and a burning crotch. Hell had come to earth and I was the only person in it. Just as the tightness in my chest was becoming panic inducing he burst through the door with a spring in his step. “I’ve got us a driver, his name is Raju, he’s picking us up in an hour.” “Will he take me to a doctor?” I asked hopefully.
One hour later we were in Raju’s taxi, we sat stationary outside of our guest house. Raju asked us what we wanted to do. “I need to go to a doctor, a good doctor, a penis doctor,” I said pointing at my inflamed crotch. “No problem, my friend, I know one, good Jain doctor, not far from here but first I will take you for some food, your friend is hungry.” Raju was looking at my companion for approval, which he got. I was frustrated but I felt obliged to have some normalcy on our first night before we entered the world of vomiting fire cocks. Raju took us to a restaurant with an open front. He sat us down and helped us order rice and curry from the menu. We bought Raju’s dinner plus a take away for his wife and children. The plates came with no cutlery, we both sat patiently while Raju used his hand to eat. After thirty seconds he looked up, upon realising why we weren’t eating he told us to use our hands. We did. The food tasted good, the rice was thick and easy to pick up with the rhoti bread all of which washed down just nicely when soaked in the spicy curry sauce. Half way through the meal I asked Raju where the toilet was. He spoke in Hindi to the uninterested restaurant proprietor before leading me outside to the front of the restaurant where he took out his penis and began to piss into the street (in front of a busy open front restaurant). When in India, I thought, and did the same. Pissing soothed the pain in my urethra and being watched by a mass of eating Indians took nothing away from the pleasure that I was feeling. After that we paid for the food and left.
My companion demanded that we buy three large beers before we headed to the clinic; one for each of us. We sat outside the shop and drank half the beer. By this time my mind was becoming as irritated as my poor cock. “We need to go,” I said, “I really need to get this sorted out before we head to Goa.” My companion unenthusiastically agreed. As we drove down Marine Drive, Raju, one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding the large beer, began to cry. I was in the back but I could hear the whimpers. His head was facing down and the car began to swerve left towards the concrete barrier between the road and the beach. “RAJU,” I shouted, the noise jerked him into action and he straightened the car. “Thank you so much,” he said through the tears, “thank you for buying my family food and inviting me to drink with you.” Then it hit me; Raju was drunk. Raju was pissed and emotional. I was in a car from the 50’s on my way to the clap clinic in Mumbai traffic with a drunken taxi driver spilling is heart, and some of his beer, onto the floor. I was terrified but to be honest a little excited. As we zigzagged through traffic along the coast line past red and white lights I began to feel more comfortable; it was probably the alcohol but also an awakening for me.
We arrived at the clinic in one piece, just, and I was comforted to find myself in a clean, modern building. Raju took me into the office of the doctor and explained in Hindi why we were there. The doctor nodded before sending Raju away rather abruptly (my first encounter of the Indian caste system). The Jain doctor spoke perfect English with little accent. He took me into a small room with a bed and asked me to take down my pants. I told him my symptoms and he examined my penis. He squeezed the liquid residue from deep down my shaft and out of my cock before taking a prolonged look at my bell end. “I would imagine you have Chlamydia or gonorrhoea,” he said rather casually. “I will give you some antibiotics and it will be clear in a week.” I felt wonderfully reassured. “But it also seems that you have a severe case of genital warts.” He pointed to a series of white pink bumps that circled the bottom of the end of my penis. I was in utter shock, I couldn’t remember them not being there, I must have caught it a long time ago, I thought. I began to sweat profusely. The whole experience was becoming too much to bare. He told me he would give me a solution that was to be applied twice a day and that solution would burn the warts away.
Fifteen minutes later we were almost back at the guest house. I was dejected, Raju was drunk and my companion, jet-lagged, was falling asleep in the car. We pulled up at the guest house, arranged to meet Raju the next day, and went to our room. I took the antibiotics and applied the brownish solution. It burned; it burned worse than the infection was burning and it was agony. Two days, a sixteen hour train ride and four excruciating applications of the solution later we were in beautiful Goa. The symptoms of the infection had subsided but the warts remained. I was plagued with uncertainty though. I was sure that they had always been there in which case they could not be warts.
We rented a bamboo beach hut on stunning Palolem beach one hundred and fifty feet from the sea. We bought some hashish from a restaurant, rolled some joints, sat on our balcony and listened to the sounds of the Goan night. The next morning I awoke and checked the state of my cock. The liquid was beginning to burn the skin down quite deeply. I decided to check the internet.
They were fucking sebaceous glands, fucking naturally occurring glands, 20% of men have them. My cock still shows the scars of that prick’s stupidity.
About the Author
Originally from South Shields, Lee Carrick is a thirtysomething adopted Scot. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
