With my girlfriend out of town, I figured this would be a perfect time to slice open my penis. I planned to use scissors to snip the skin from the opening of my urethra downward, splitting my circumcised dick lengthwise like a gourmet hotdog. In medical circles, this is called a meatotomy. In my world, it's called the Golden Path to Pleasure.

Naked and armed with instructions from rec.arts.bodyart, I fondled my freshly shaven genitals as I entered my empty bath tub and arranged my surgical tools atop my toilet, within easy reach.

Step one was to apply topical anesthetic to the opening of my urethra, but I had nothing handy and the instructions said it was optional, so I skipped it.

Step two was to snap rubber bands around the base of my dick to minimize blood flow.

Step three was to jam one plier of a hemostat that I bought at Radio Shack into my pee hole. This made me bellow in pain so loudly that I scared off my dog Princess, who was watching from the doorway.

I slowly tightened the clamp of the hemostat, compressing the outer wall of my urethra. The instructions said to wait for forty-five minutes before continuing, so I left the hemostat hanging from the end of my dick and cooked some dinner. In honor of the evening, I ate hotdogs split lengthwise and slathered with ketchup and mayonnaise.

Afterwards, I removed the hemostat to reveal that I'd crushed one side of my now-widened urethra, making the skin paper-thin and nearly translucent. Perfect.

Now I prepared to use my sewing scissors to snip the hole open down the length of my cock. I figured it was best to make as few cuts as possible and get it over with, so I thrust the point of the scissors into my penis as far as it would go, and squeezed the blades together.

Snip.

The searing pain was even worse than the time my girlfriend used a mallet to pound an unlubricated ribbed anal plug she called "the railroad spike" up my ass.

But I knew the agony would be worth it as I watched a veritable fire-hose torrent of blood spray from the shredded end of my cock. Once it healed, I knew my pee hole would be so large that someone would be able to insert his dick into mine.

What I didn't count on was passing out.

When I woke up, lying in a pool of penile blood, Princess was in the tub on top of me. She lapped her scabrous tongue into the long gash of my incision. She still hadn't recovered from her doggy strep infection, and her saliva was mixed with pink-green mucous.

"Get off me, dog!"

I kicked her. Unfortunately, I struck her in the bladder, causing her to release a concentrated yellow stream of piss, which landed where her tongue had just been. Man, I wish I'd gotten her UTI looked at as well.

With Princess out of the way, I hauled myself across the blood-greasy tub to reach the electrical cauterizing pen, which I'd stashed atop the toilet tank.

But the stupid dog picked that moment to return and jump up on me like she wanted to be petted. She knocked the cauterizing pen off the toilet tank and into the bowl. I fished it out and wiped it under my armpit to clean off its gooey coating of yesterday's corn shit. I activated it, but it only made one spark and died; the toilet water had shorted it out.

There was only one thing left to do. Too weak to walk, I dragged myself into the bedroom, smearing blood across the carpet.

As I felt atop my bed for my smoldering cigarette, Princess clamped her canines around my shaft. I yelled and punched at her as her hot tongue licked the inside of my exposed urethra—and despite myself, the painful sensation made me start to harden.

"No!"

I batted at her again. If I got an erection, I would bleed to death for sure.

I jabbed my cigarette's red-hot cherry into Princess's nostril. She jerked away, her teeth ripping long grooves out my dick's epidermis.

My cock was already burning in agony, but I had no choice: I stabbed the cigarette up my hole. It sizzled in the juices as the hot ashes cauterized the wound.

* * *

It still got infected.

Within days, my dick swelled to the size of a golf ball. It looked like a blackened, week-old tomato. Red, raw, and suppurating, the halves of my glans continued to separate—across the top now—as the charred tissue died and fell off. I would have cleaned it, but it was Yom Kippur and against my faith to bathe.

When I pissed, the mutilated end created a showerhead effect, so I either had to sit down to pee or piss through the center of a toilet paper roll.

When not peeing or masturbating, I inserted a five-gauge silver pin called a Prince Albert into my pee hole to keep the scarring from sealing it shut.

Then my girlfriend Rosalie returned from her trip. Imagine my surprise when she pulled down my pants and started to grin like a kid at a candy shop.

"Oh honey, you did that for me?"

She examined my equipment, which hung there like some exhibit at the Mütter Museum for medical oddities. When she extracted the Prince Albert, bloody cheesy discharge dripped out.

"I was worried how you'd react," I said.

Rosalie stabbed her pinky down the throat of my torn piss hole. The bifurcated glans flopped apart like the forked end of a snake's tongue.

"Oh, don't be silly, honey," she said. "Any girl will tell you that two heads are better than one."

*copyright 2004, Matthew Warner . Printed with permission by the author.