Orgasm after diabetes?

This is my true-life account of my ordeals, healthwise, over the past two years; and how I started to get rehabilitated. Hope you can bear with me, and that you can like the story.

It may well have been a case of double death for me: I not only had diabetic ketoacidosis, but was severely dehydrated as well. Doesn’t seem like almost two years ago already that the clinic rushed me to the hospital the day before New Year’s Eve, and I spent the next three nights just being pumped with liquids.

I was peeing practically non-stop; the female attendants were changing me and my bedsheets about thirty times a day. Through my four-day hospital stay, I was too mentally out of sorts to know whether I actually enjoyed this whole new experience of so many female orderlies sanitizing my bottom and my privates.

The aftermath of which, upon my dismissal, was finding my living space downstairs in my parents’ house totally invaded—really by my devoted sister (the only family member with the energy to drive up daily to visit me during some record snowfall days)…..she had rearranged scads of laundry items, had washed all of my bedsheets, and brought before Mom and Dad a dozen or so briefs with multiple superimposed piss-stains lingering.

Well, they confronted me about these latest developments in my plumbing, Dad gave some lectures about incontinence and about ending up in a nursing home, and I was face to face with the denial I was putting my body through—all the sweetened tea and diet sodas, all the hundreds of times I was several yards away from the john when my bladder sent the signal to my brain. It was about six weeks worth of in-home physical therapy before I began feeling like I was all there (periodic dizzy spells notwithstanding).

There followed several long months at my parents’ house (where I’d lived the last half decade), doing little except watching a lot of movies….totally passive activities. And throughout all this time and beyond, my penis was merely just that: a pee-nis. It existed for no other purpose than constantly flushing out my system from all the water I had to drink daily.

I could scarcely think any erotic thoughts. I had no source of sex kicks whatsoever—with myself or someone else.

All my encounters with partners and playmates had been totally discreet and hush-hush, in the years I resided in the downstairs apartment….I could never come out to any of my family; they were all rigidly religious. I tapped extra reserves of brain power to arrange my meetings, most preferably when my sister spent the whole day driving our folks to their many medical appointments some 75 or 100 miles away. I always kept a special pile of washed blankets and bedsheets to spread out over the floor or chairs to catch all of our “evidence”. And keep the disinfectant handy. Every few blue moons, I could even catch a ride to his place.

But not at present; I never even got hard during my sleep, and automatic emissions during the night were long, long out of my capability.

A good ten months had passed before I felt the old urge to surf the net for any porn. I came upon an unfamiliar site devoted to “micro-penises.” Then I watched a few old familiar videos before plunging head first into a brand new mania: reading fan fiction of famous animated characters (of the animal sort) all engaging in homosexual acts….especially stories involving the Road Rovers and the Swat Kats. I began to re-read several stories and eventually could feel an increasing hotness down in my urethra. Finally I checked inside my britches and saw I could at least get a good “chubby,” if not a full erection. It kind of worried me….I quite certifiably had erectile dysfunction.

When I brought it up in my next visit with my physician, she highly advised against my patronizing the ED pill industry, simply because of all my health issues up to this point, but especially due to my hypertension and risk of a heart attack. I asked if merely experiencing an orgasm would be safe, and she affirmed it.

After several days (less than two weeks after I moved into my own apartment), and having all the time in the world, I went into the bathroom, stripped down and, sufficiently aroused, manipulated my penis. I pulled and rubbed it every which way I did in the past, slowly coming to the conclusion that I’d lost a good amount of sensation in my glans. I did the same a day or two later, only this time giving it some verbal encouragement. I achieved about two thirds of a genuine woody, and I pointed to it and said, “Not a micropenis.” But I was still afraid of having an orgasm.

Last day of January. Several more days later. Huge blizzard, all cooped up indoors. I thought it the perfect excuse for another session. All day I had my underclothes and favorite old jogging suit on, and I first carried out some necessary work on the crapper before, pants still down, I pumped and stroked. It then occurred to me to summon forth all the standard foreplay methods from my partner-sex days. I did quite a bit of light scrotum stroking, before going up to my sides and nipples.

Nice sensations commenced. I traveled with them. I did an extended regime of alternately touching and not touching, the inactive moments spent doing more muttered encouragement, being in general a cheering section for my penis. Slowly I began feeling pleasure spreading from its shaft to its tip. Sexual excitement then came to full tilt. It took forever (about 45 minutes), and then I entered that familiar hallway of inevitability, but not without some trepidation. My fears proved founded upon experiencing, along with my pelvic muscles contracting, a great pain—and GOD, did it hurt like hell!

My cock continued throbbing for some twenty seconds, but still no fluid. Then the ejaculate began trickling along with the still-painful contractions. Upon looking down at the three tissue papers, I found my sperm was a strange shade of yellow: rather disturbing. Nevertheless my work was accomplished. I sat interminably where I was, on the john seat, in a leaden state of lethargy, not moving till I felt like it. My hard-on finally down and mopped up, I pulled up my drawers: the both of us proud.

It was like being reunited with my oldest and dearest friend. I walked very slowly out of the bathroom and over to the sofa as gently as my muscles allowed, the only lighting being the bedroom’s hallway, and laid there on my back and making every effort to savor the relaxation. An hour later I went to bed. I slept like a baby that night.

About ten days later, I felt I had the guts to try another ejaculation. It was the same thing: lots of exploring in my newly found “g”-spots, lots of mumbled verbal encouragement. This time, no muscle pain, but an intense and satisfying orgasm followed by several minutes waiting for the detumesence stage, pants back up, and another slow walk to the sofa. Followed by another night of fantastically restful slumber.

A few weeks later I even looked in my briefs and found I had to unstick my dick from a little caked-over pre-cum, which I almost never produced. I’d been thinking some hot and horny thoughts about a half hour before, don’t think I ever touched myself.

There were a few other, shorter episodes of rubbing my genitals, only never ending in ejaculation. But I came away not feeling unsatiated and unhappy, just glad to leave with some good feelings.

With these breakthroughs, I finally learned a very important fact: All sex does not need to end in orgasm.

And I checked extensively through all my old self-help books, and they repeatedly verify not only this point, but the statement that it is possible to climax with a flaccid penis.

A couple more sessions and, very aware none of these were full-fledged erections, I measured myself. I found I’d lost a full inch. Damn. It’s down to a chubby, all right.

I’ve climaxed, let me think, about five or six more times since then. A couple were predictably hurried orgasms when not too many minutes had passed. One element all these ejaculations have in common is that I now get a real intense feeling up and down my urethra; maybe a burning sensation? I still don’t know. The most recent experience I’ve had was a relatively happy one where I was taking my time, touching, not touching, touching, not touching; and a simply incredible explosion, charging through every remaining inch of my cock, for a terrific twenty or so seconds.

It will mean a great overhaul in my future approaches to sex. I’ll most likely need a partner who is seasoned and who shares my own concept of taking it slow; definitely no more of these dominant males (whom I swore off of long ago) who go at whatever tempo their hips choose to take. I’d possibly have to settle for one who, if he climaxes way before I do, will lie there in his afterglow while I eventually cum onto his chest…..or, perhaps, just savor the pleasure of a prolonged chubby. I’d need a partner who’s heavily into touching, to a very detailed extent. Quite likely, one who’ll settle for a more complex and involved kind of foreplay. And, of course, one who’ll sometimes settle for simple intimacy with no orgasm. One little trick I’ll miss doing: having my partner or myself ask my penis a question, usually one regarding a bang or a BJ….one that required a “yes” or “no” answer. When the answer was affirmative, I could have my pelvic muscles make my penis nod up and down. (If negative, I’d simply shake my hips.)

I assess myself physically and wonder if anyone would even want to see me naked. The surgical scar going right down my belly didn’t hold me back too much during the previous decade….I still had some fun with some people (mainly ones with other scars). But the reddish/brownish/purplish haze forming on my stomach from those daily insulin injections (on top of a right-side hernia)….would I still look hot to someone?

Will I be able to get my chubby inside a hole? I don’t look forward to being a bottom all the time.

So, I repeat to all you guys out there: Keep those muscles flexed. As often as you can. ‘Cause it hurts like hell when you don’t.