High Velocity PSA

March 1

"Squeeze my finger."

I squeezed.

"Again, but without moving your penis."

I squeezed again.

"Don't move your legs or your bum. Use the muscle to squeeze, as if you're holding in poop."

I used the muscle.

"Better. Again, Ethan."

I did it again.

"Good; your penis didn't move that time. You have to practice that squeeze. Ten sets of ten, five seconds each, minimum twice a day." She pulled her finger out of my rectum. It made a slight popping sound.

I was actually surprised the physical therapist had been as able to see my penis move. She was seated behind me, my pants down, knees and elbows on the table, her finger up my ass. It wasn't the position that should have hidden it. Rather, it was the humiliation that I figured had made my dick retreat as far as anatomically possible. I guess there was enough hanging out for her to judge whether I was using the right muscle.

"You can get off the table and pull your pants up." She gave me a paper towel, threw her glove into the waste pail, sat at her desk, and motioned for me to take the chair opposite her.

"A man has two muscles to control his urine. One is also used to control defecation; the other is in the prostate. You're losing that one." She leafed through some notes. "When's your operation?"

"Three weeks."

"You don't have much time to practice. If you don't want to be incontinent, take it seriously. After surgery you'll have a catheter for a few days. It can take a few months to a couple of years till you have normal urinary control. Even then, you're more likely to dribble and leak, because your urinary control will be deeper in the body. There's always some liquid left between the muscle and the tip of your penis." She pointed at a diagram on her desk. "This is where the potential leaks come from."

I nodded. I had done some research beforehand, so nothing she was telling me was much of a surprise.

"Did Doctor Capra talk to you about sex?"

"Briefly."

"Okay, we'll review it. For the first few weeks, you won't be in the mood. But there's more involved. The operation cuts very close to the nerves that direct blood into your penis for an erection. Chances are good that these nerves will become irritated, and you won't be able to get a hard-on for quite some time. Could be a few months, could be a couple of years. Sometimes it's never. You'll still be able to have the sensation of an orgasm, but it will be dry. Some people say it's painful. Do you have a satisfying sex life now?"

"Umm, it's okay."

"Do you have any trouble getting it up? Your blood pressure medicine can cause difficulty."

"Sometimes."

"You didn't have an erection while my finger was in you but that doesn't mean anything. This session isn't erotic; it's humiliating for most people."

I smiled at that. The therapist knew her stuff.

"Any questions?"

"Well, are there any signs that indicate a problem?"

"In terms of the incontinence, if after a few months you don't feel you're getting control back, come see me again. Do the exercises I've assigned you. Avoid caffeine and alcohol. For the hard-ons, if there's nothing after a few months, ask your doctor for a prescription for those little blue pills."

"I heard they're very expensive."

She opened a drawer, consulted a paper, and turned back to me.

"Most private insurance won't cover it. I've heard that the generic versions are not as good as the original, but that could be psychological. Do not under any circumstances buy them online. If you aren't making progress after a while, I can set you up with a sex therapist."

She glanced at her watch, stood up and extended her hand. "The aftermath of prostate removal is difficult, but the aftermath of ignoring a cancerous prostate is much worse. Good luck Mr. Abbot, and if you have any further questions, call my receptionist and we'll meet again."

As I walked back to my car, I pondered the humiliation. Was I right to feel that way? The physical therapist is a professional. Doctor Capra sends all his patients to her before prostate surgery. She's doubtless seen hundreds of dicks, stuck her finger in hundreds of asses. No different for her than holding someone's arm as they re-learn to walk. She's simply teaching me how to pee, something I know, but apparently a skill I'm going to lose.

Hell, my wife Barbara is a nurse. She's seen hundreds of dicks throughout her career, but has only mentioned something twice. The first time was when a patient faced her during his shower, and asked her to wash the front of his body; she refused. Another time, she told me all the nurses were amazed by an old man with dementia, whose penis practically reached his knees. Everybody looked, she said, but nobody touched, took a picture, or did anything inappropriate. These incidents didn't bother me in the least; I trust Barbara implicitly.

I looked at the red Mustang parked near my Subaru. The fat tires, the broad white lines running up the hood all said "power." The sage green color of my car said "stability." In three weeks I was going to lose the ability to fuck, maybe forever. I could use some power, but at this point I should be happy if I could keep my life running on four cylinders, never mind a turbo-charged six. It was a six that screwed things up for me: a PSA score that had gone from four to six-point-three in a short time. High velocity PSA meant higher likelihood of prostate cancer. Unlike a car, velocity was a bad thing.

***

September 1

"Did you just get up?" Barbara asked as she sat down across from me at the kitchen table.

"This is my second coffee. I got out of bed a couple of hours ago." Barbara worked the evening shift, and liked to unwind for a few hours before going to sleep. The upshot was that I was usually sawing logs before she came to bed. I wasn't an early riser, but never could sleep till eleven or eleven-thirty like she did.

I enjoyed her when she got up in the morning. The decades didn't diminish the beauty of her face, of her body. Her breasts were highlighted by the red nightgown hanging over them. It showed nothing, but hinted at everything. It got a rise out of me emotionally, but five months after my operation, still nothing physically. Anyway, Barbara was rarely in the mood to fool around when she got up.

"Should you be having a second? You're supposed to avoid caffeine."

"I know. It irritates the bladder and weakens control. I'm supposed to avoid coffee, tea, and chocolate. No alcohol either."

"So...?"

"No coffee, booze or sex. What's the point of living?"

"Is that all there is to life: coffee, booze and sex?"

"It was a rhetorical question."

She reached across the table and took my hand. "I don't like when you joke like that. It scares me."

"I enjoy my coffee. I have a bit of chocolate every day. I love when you take my hand. I love looking at you. Maybe we should start having nightcaps again, and life will be complete." I kissed Barbara's hand and stood, not sure whether my last words were said sarcastically.

"I love looking at you, too." She took a sip of her coffee. "A few of us are going out to eat after work. A miserable patient was discharged, and we're celebrating. Don't wait up for me."

"Going out to eat at eleven-thirty at night?" This wasn't the first time she had an after-work get-together. It still seemed weird to me. Not suspicious, just weird.

"I don't understand how they eat a big meal so late. I have a small salad," she said.

The toaster dinged. I brought her a plate, peanut butter, jam and a knife, then headed to my office near the door to the garage. I was a consultant, and work had fallen off considerably since my surgery. I was trying to kick myself back into gear, but was having trouble working up the necessary enthusiasm. We were okay financially, especially with Barbara's salary, but I would have liked to be better than 'okay.'

Three hours later she stood at my door, lunch box in hand, dressed in her scrubs. I rose, gave her a goodbye peck on the lips, and returned to my proposal on how to add value to the Hudson Portfolio, a particularly miserable investment. The client had bought it just after I had my operation. Knowing I was indisposed, Smithson didn't ask my advice. When he called me to complain about it three months ago, he made it clear that I was responsible by not being available to stop him. I listened to the garage door close, and walked over to the liquor cabinet.

I didn't wait up, but heard the garage door open at a little after one. A couple of hours later Barbara took her nightly bath, then crawled into bed, putting a pillow over her head to drown out any potential snoring. I was half asleep, and rather than rouse myself I drifted off, our backs to each other.

***

September 2

"You slept in today." I put Barbara's coffee on the table in front of her, shoving the newspaper back.

"Why didn't you wake me? I wanted to take a shower and do my hair. Now I don't have time before I leave."

I brought her the toast, and remained standing. "You didn't tell me to; I don't like to guess. Besides which, you came to bed really late."

She pulled the newspaper towards her. Looking absently at some story, she said "We could have kissed, hugged... maybe more."

I got my coffee from the machine, adding Splenda and milk before I sat down. "More, as in fuck?"

Still reading, she nodded. "I'd like that."

"I would too. Can't."

"Still nothing?" She reached under the table between my legs, pushed my robe aside, and squeezed. All she felt was the incontinence pad stuck to the inside my briefs. At least it was the light one, 'for occasional mild leaks.' "Is there anything you can do? Do you want to try Viagra or Cialis again?"

"They're too expensive. Doctor Capra says there has to be something there for the pills to work with. They can't resuscitate a dead prick."

"It's not dead, it will come back."

I turned on my best Monty Python voice. "It's not dead, it's only resting."

She slipped her hand under my briefs. "It only looks like it's resting because you nailed it to your groin."

"Don't even joke about that. The thought's too painful."

She squeezed me again, then withdrew her hand. She tried to be subtle as she wiped it on a napkin before taking another bite of toast. I was grateful she didn't say 'yuck' to my leaky dick. It was a clearer demonstration of her love than any words.

"Is there anything you can do to get hard?"

"There is something: a penis pump."

"A what?"

I pulled out my smartphone, navigated to the page, and showed it to her. "It's a hard plastic tube I stick my cock in. A little pump at the other end creates a vacuum which pulls at my dick, expanding it. Blood is drawn in, and it gets hard."

She stared at the phone. "Are you going to stick that plastic tube in me?"

"No. Once I'm erect I pull a special elastic off the tube onto the bottom of my dick. It stops the blood from leaving, keeping me hard."

She handed me back the phone. "That really sounds painful. I like you in me, but I can wait till you can do it without torturing yourself."

"The thing is my dick needs to breath. It needs oxygen, which comes from the blood of an erection. If I go too long without any hard-ons, I lose the ability to have one. Hopefully, I'm not too late."

"Is the pump safe?"

"This model says FDA approved. I'm going to assume it's okay."

"For ninety dollars I hope it works."

"Yeah. There are more expensive models, with electric pumps. I don't want a machine sucking on my dick, so I think this one is good."

***

September 12

It took the promised ten days for the package to arrive. I was pleased it came in an ordinary Amazon box. I didn't want to broadcast my purchase to anyone, not even to a mailman I'd never see again in my life. Barbara was asleep, so I opened it in my office, read the instructions and watched the DVD. The pump was clearly old technology, and the video looked as if it had been poorly copied from a VHS original. The live action segment of how to use it managed to be depressing rather than erotic, despite what it was showing: someone pumping up a hard-on and sticking it in a pussy.

I wanted my first erection in months to be an erotic experience. I turned to a porn site that hopefully wouldn't give my computer a digital disease. I selected a video of Nikki, an ordinary housewife getting a special Japanese massage. I bayoneted the pump head to the top of the tube, inserted the rubber gasket into the base, smeared lubricant on it and around the tip of my penis. I carefully positioned the unit on my groin, and pumped.

The video said to pump, deflate, pump some more, deflate again, then pump even more. In about ten minutes I had an erection worthy of the name. I kept an eye on it, occasionally pumping as Nikki lost her clothes, as the masseur stroked her massive breasts, as he reached between her thighs.

The video was about forty minutes long, and the pump instructions advised against keeping a vacuum erection longer than thirty minutes. I pressed the release valve, and my erect prick shrank to its normal flaccid condition. In the past when I watched Nikki my right hand increased my enjoyment, but that wasn't possible with the plastic tube.

It was time for Barbara to wake up. I was up when she came home last night, but asleep when she came to bed. Now I wanted to spend some time simply being with her. I got undressed, walked into the bedroom, slipped under the covers and started to scratch her back. I thought of Nikki, and knew this session wouldn't have a similar conclusion. Barbara loved having her back scratched, and I loved Barbara. Satisfying her was the closest I could come to my own sexual release, so I was content with pleasuring her back, occasionally reaching to fondle her breasts and bum, squeezing my padded groin into her backside.

My arm was getting sore, my mind was relaxed when Barbara finally rose for her morning ablutions. I met her in the kitchen with her coffee and toast. The Amazon box was still on the table.

"Did you buy more books to decorate your shelves?" It was a running joke between us; there was a time when I bought more books than I could possibly read, while she took hers from the library. I collected books. She read them and gave them back; that's more in line with what your supposed to do with fiction.

"The pump." I took another coffee pod, stuck it in the machine, waiting for her comprehension and my second cup. I got the cup.

"The penis pump," I said. Her eyes remained perplexed. "I showed it to you a couple of weeks ago. You said it sounds painful, but agreed that I should order it."

"Okay, I remember now. When are you going to test if the erection is worth the pain?" She started work on her second slice of toast.

"I tried it already."

"What!" She jumped from her seat, spilling some coffee. "Who did you do it with? I'll kill you!"

I started to laugh, and Barbara looked confused. "Me."

"What do you mean?" She calmed down as I got a rag to wipe the table.

"I gave myself a hard-on with the pump while watching porn and thinking of you."

The anger turned to coyness. "You think of me while watching porn?"

"You want me to make you another coffee, my darling porn star?"

"No, I have enough left. Remember when I had Guy as a patient? The owner of Guy's Gentlemen's Club?"

"He offered you a job as a stripper."

"You were a real asshole then, you know, telling me to take it."

"I was really proud that he asked you. I knew there was less than a zero chance you would accept; you're not an exhibitionist. So I egged you on. In a corner of my mind I like the idea of showing off my gorgeous wife."

Barbara chewed her toast. "You know what else happens at clubs like that."

I sat down with my coffee. "Yeah, I wouldn't have been too excited about that part of the job."

She pulled the lapels of her robe further apart, exposing cleavage. "So you don't really want me to be a porn star?"

I reached under the table for her thigh. "Back then I could take care of your needs, so I couldn't accept anyone else doing it. Now that I can't, maybe you should take Guy up on his offer." I tried to keep from smiling at my joke.

"I'm pretty sure he's dead by now."

I slid my hand higher. "Someone else must have taken over the business. You're still hot, thirty years later. You could get the job."

"You got that pump, so you can damn well take care of my needs yourself."

"We'll give it a shot. If you come home early enough tonight I'll pump my dick, then I'll pump you."

"A few of us are going out to eat at Francesco's after work. Claire has quit, rather than put up with the stress at the hospital. Tonight's her retirement party. We'll do the pump tomorrow; it's my day off."

"Oh."

***

September 12

Barbara turned left as she got off the elevator on the ground floor.

"Wrong way, Barb."

"Huh?" She turned to Mike.

"You're not going to the hospital parking lot. You're coming to my place. Remember?" Claire, Marie, Lisa and Michelle stood next to him. "We're ordering delivery from Francesco's, so we won't be forced out when they close." He grinned and held out his arms. "Come to papa."

Mike was not old enough to be Barbara's father. If anything, it was the reverse. Barbara walked over; he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. "Good girl. Let's go have some fun." His condo was a couple of hundred yards from the hospital's main entrance.

Mike had a large one-bedroom unit on the third floor. It was modestly decorated, one level above basic Ikea. There were framed photographs on the wall, including a few of Mike in a Speedo, holding huge barbells above his head and smiling.

While waiting for the food, he gave everybody a single shot of Jack Daniels, cautioning that if they drank too much, they'd have to sleep over. "Except for you Lisa, since you live close by." He gave her a double.

"You've been working here for twenty years, Claire. What's the most memorable thing for you?"

"The most memorable? Like that I can't get out of my mind?"

Lisa nodded.

"We had that teenager with a traumatic brain injury when his bicycle was hit by a truck. Then right in front of me he fell face first from his wheelchair, without putting his hands out to break his fall. Blood was everywhere." Claire wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

"I remember," Michelle said. "He was transferred to Emergency and died a couple of days later. What was he, fifteen? Sixteen?"

"That was fun, Claire. Now tell us your most memorable good thing," Barbara said.

"Yes, something that will improve the mood at your party, not make us morose."

Claire scrunched her face in concentration, then smiled coyly. "Remember that old man with dementia?"

"We've had lots of old demented men."

Claire blushed. "The one with the long you-know-what, who was hung like a horse."

"You mean with a long penis?" Mike rubbed his hands together. "That must have been before my time. I like the way this conversation is going. What was his name?"

"Something Russian sounding, ending with a ...sky. Vedovsky, maybe?"

"Ivan Smilansky," Barbara said. "He was my patient, and was very entertaining. He had erections at the strangest times. Who knows what went on in that demented mind of his?"

"Did you ever, you know, touch it?"

Barbara blushed. "Just the regular, when cleaning, or getting him dressed."

"Did he get hard when you did that?"

"Lisa, enough. I'm not discussing Smilansky's penis any more." The doorbell rang. "That must be Francesco's delivery. It's a sign to change the subject."

The total charge was one hundred ten dollars, including tip. Rather than spend the rest of the party calculating whose food cost what, Mike collected twenty-two dollars from each of them. He gave everyone a beer except Lisa, who demanded another Jack Daniels.