The Chastity Tube BluesSubmitted by: duck_nelson@yahoo.comDear Mr. Altarboy, The following is a true story. I wrote it up to add to your web site because it's entertaining, and it may have some educational value as well. It is a story of misfortune, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, unforgettable, yet hysterical even to me, the victim. I was aware these events bordered on the surreal as they unfolded so I rolled with the flow. I'm sure there is a moral in here somewhere, I just hope it's something more than the obvious. Please enjoy. (This is NOT fiction!) I have been fascinated with chastity belts and devices for well over two decades. I own a CB-2000 which I have played with, and a Remi's Tube which I have not yet gotten to fit properly. All things considered however, I am much more enamored with the design of the Lori's Chastity Tube. But (to make a long story shorter), the need to be pierced in order to secure the device has been a sticking point in this household. Ultimately, I suspect The Lori Tube approach is going to be the right one for me, but as yet I have never actually worn one. Now I need to tell you something else about myself. I am a guitar player. I play the blues. I sometimes use a slide to play the blues. If you are not familiar, the original slides were glass tubes cut from the neck of a beer or wine bottle. They are worn on the musician's finger to play "bottleneck" style guitar. The slide or bottleneck is run up and down the neck of the guitar adjacent to the strings. This action establishes the pitch(s) heard when the strings are picked or fingered. Today slides are manufactured from metal, glass and acrylic or very hard plastic. The other night I noticed how similar one of my slides, a clear extremely dense plastic one, was in size and shape to a Lori's Tube. It was about 2 1/2 inches long with an internal diameter of exactly one inch. I think the cylindrical wall was 3/16 inch thick, and made of the toughest, hardest, most unbreakable plastic I've ever seen. You can probably tell where I'm going with this. Being curious what a Lori's Tube might be like to wear, I stuck the slide/tube on my weenie. It took a little finagling, but it went on without fanfare. Then Mr. Weenie began to grow. His head came out the other end. I soon discovered that I could not get the tube off! The head end was too big and everything was much too tight. I decided to leave it alone for a while, figuring that I would calm down, all would go flaccid and it should be easy to pull off then. But after an hour or so of non-erotic work on the PC, I noticed that things started to hurt down there. I took a look and found that even more than the head was now swollen and sticking out the far end. It looked like a big fat mushroom with two ripples, one at the bottom of the head, and another just before the shaft disappeared into the tube. Things were even more stuck than before. I tried everything; cold water, a shower, a nap, dinner, squeezing (very painful), aspirin, urinating and waiting. After about twelve hours I realized the head end, which was mostly a dark shade of purple at this point, was cold and getting colder. It was also sore and getting sorer. And continuing to swell. At 1:00am I decided the situation was too far out of control. I got dressed, went down to the street, and hailed a cab (I was in Manhattan). I had the taxi take me to the emergency room of a large nearby hospital. The gals doing triage had a field day with me! They could hardly contain their giggles. I have no complaint with their efficiency, but as I "presented", they could not keep a straight face to save their lives. After getting my info they sent me back to the waiting room. Expecting that I would be doing some waiting while at the hospital, I had brought some work with me. As I waited I was engrossed in a Mensa published intelligence test that I had been meaning to work on for weeks. It wasn't long however before I realized that a thin parade of, mostly female, hospital workers were passing through the waiting area specifically to do things like pick up a magazine, toss some trash, or ask for the time. Each of these worker bees managed to also take a slow rubber-necking like gander in my direction. Maybe I'm just paranoid, but sometimes even paranoids get caught with a plastic tube stuck on their penis. Eventually I am led into a treatment room. The medical assistant tells me Dr. So'n-so will be along shortly. I should disrobe, put on a skimpy little smock, and wait. So I wait. Finally arrives the doctor. Of course! It had to be! The doctor is a gorgeous blonde, a drop-dead knockout beauty, about thirty, endless legs, major stacked, and eating a bag of chips! I guess I didn't need to worry about making an impression on her. At this point I'm tempted to go off on some fantasy tangent, like tell you that she asked: "Who's got the key?" But I'll keep it real. She played around with my purple, tormented, and grossly swollen weenie for a few minutes, squeezing and poking, etc. Mind you I was in anguish. While it was happening this was not at all an erotic experience. Then she announced the need for a urologist "before we go to surgery". As she moved toward the door, she muttered "maybe we can salvage some of it". A second later she stuck her head back inside the doorway and winked at me. Whew! But my relief didn't last long. Ten minutes later she's back and I'm introduced to a surgeon and a urologist. They proceed to debate the relative merits of a vertical incision versus a horizontal severing and re-attachment! Right there in front of me! As this surgical discussion ensues, a photographer arrives. He and his assistant, an attractive oriental woman who looked too young to vote, proceeded to "document the self-inflicted penile pathology" for some unspecified "teaching" purpose. This poor girl, the photographer's assistant, seemed more embarrassed by the situation than I was. And the photographer orchestrated some views in which it appeared to me that he risked including the girl's face. Otherwise they seemed to know what they were doing. After the publicity shoot the first doctor returns, she was exercising a large pair of stainless steel scissors in her right hand. These looked like my nightmare image of a castration tool, but it turned out they were metal shears which were not going to be used because there was no way to get a blade into the tube. Next, yet another doctor arrives carrying more tools. He had a metal ring cutter. An electric saw that looked like a bone cutter. And a diamond cutting tool. When the metal ring cutter didn't even make a scratch we all began to wonder about my assumption that this pipe was plastic. So the diamond cutter was tried. Success! The diamond cutter cracked the tube enough that the metal shears could be used to further break away what was now clearly once a very solid GLASS tube. I don't know exactly how they accomplished this -- it was much too violent and potentially catastrophic for me to watch directly. Also, by this time, I was loaded with Demerol as many previous attempts (like trying to squeeze the blood out) were quite painful. I had also received about a dozen injections of a local anesthetic. Glass was flying everywhere, followed by great relief as Mr. Weenie was at long last liberated. The scene may sound like frenetic chaos, and in a way it was, but I was genuinely impressed at the professionalism, sympathy and dedication to my well-being that was demonstrated by everyone I encountered that night. Yeah, I knew I was a spectacle, and surely the butt of many wisecracks, some not even out of earshot, but the doctors and hospital staff did what really mattered expertly. And I'm not an easy guy to please.
Duck Nelson
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