The Post-Orgasm Piss

Here’s a manly complaint with which any women reading this might not be familiar. The post-orgasm piss.

Sometimes during sex, my bladder informs me that it needs relief, particularly if wine has been consumed beforehand and during. The pressure in my bladder leaves me with a conundrum:

• Choice 1: I take a quick break, leaving my partner a bit confused and lonely, and leg it to the toilet. I can wee with an erection, which as far as I can tell is pretty rare and it took practice.
• Choice 2: I hurry up and cum so I can nip to the toilet immediately afterwards.

I hate this choice. I really hate it. Choice 1, breaking off from sex for the sake of a pee, is not desirable in any way because it means I have to stop having sex, and sometimes on my return to the bed my partner isn’t as horny as she had been. But more importantly it’s pretty inconsiderate. Choice 2 is even worse, because a hurried orgasm is nowhere near as satisfying as a natural one.

But these issues aren’t the primary problems. The main problem is that if a guy urinates after he ejaculates, it often stings. Like a bastard. The end of your dick goes all red and you constantly feel like there’s more piss left in you, but there isn’t, but your body is still telling you to urinate. It’s a bit like when you’re so sick you’re just retching, because there’s nothing left to give.

The toilet in my bathroom is right behind the sink – it’s a small bathroom – so when I feel this sensation I tend to just sit on the toilet and rest my sweating forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink, waiting for the uncomfortable feeling to recede. Sometimes it can take, like, 20 minutes, and my partner is usually very concerned that I’m in the bathroom regretting what I’ve just done and maniacally scrubbing my body in a pathological attempt to ‘cleanse’ myself. The problem is, I can’t really tell her why I’m in there, because the symptoms of this sensation always make it sound like I have an STD. I don’t, and this pain is a pretty common one. (If you’re a woman and you’ve never heard about it before, now you know why.)

Jumping in the shower immediately after sex helps, especially if you can hold off taking a piss for as long as possible. But apart from that, I really don’t know how to beat the post-orgasm piss. Up until now, I just tend to grit my teeth and sweat it out.*

Any guys reading this: do you have any tips how to beat this pain?

*I’m making it sound much worse than it actually is. To be honest it just stings a bit, makes you feel like you need a piss even after you’ve just had one, and makes you feel a bit weak.

Gay

Love. Love as in “I love your hair like that”. “Shut up mate, I love KFC”. “Yeah, love it, mate.”

With a background in linguistics, I know it's stupid to pretend I can have any control over English. Like Dr Samuel Johnson wrote, trying to fix English is as foolish as trying to lash the winds. Even words with such inherent power as 'love' can become corrupt and changed over time. But that doesn't mean I can't be pissed off by it.

Gay. Gay as in “ah mate, your phone is gay”. When you spill coffee “ AH, GAY!” I use the word 'love' about a thousand times a day without even thinking about it; am I guilty of the same crime with the word 'gay'?

The word 'gay' has started to offend me; not because of any homosexual connotation, but because people band the word around with, excuse me, gay abandon. Riding home today, some little punk wearing mascara told me my bike was 'gay'. Not being one to back away from confrontation, I squeezed the brakes, turned the bike round and hammered the pedals in the direction of the traffic lights from which the “insult” had issued. I actually didn't consider it an insult; I was just curious. Why was my bike 'gay'? It was simply a collection of welded aluminium and steel; is aluminium and steel welding gay? Was my bike attracted to other bikes of the same gender? If it was, how did this stranger know that, without prolonged and intimate conversation with my bike? My bike never came out to me; was my bike scared of what I might think of it? Had I put too much masculine pressure on it as a young bike? Did my bike have a crush on me? Was my bike male or female? I had no answers, but this punk seemed to have them, because he knew my bike was gay, so I tried to ask him about it.

I swung the gay bike around and asked him directly why my bike was 'gay'. Unfortunately, my curiosity had come across as aggression and he wouldn't tell me why he'd said my bike was gay. In fact, he couldn't answer me because by the time i'd turned my bike around he had disappeared, presumably to hide behind his mum, presumably to call her 'gay' when she was just out of earshot because that's how he obtains his power fix.

This is all very flippant and i'm trying to make a serious point. The truth is, and while i'm very aware that we can't freeze language and that it's organic and ever changing, by throwing around words like 'love' and 'gay', we trivialise them. By overusing them, we erode their significance. Eventually, the words will become absurd.

Illness

Being me isn't easy. It's really, really hard. Oh who the fuck am I trying to kid, my life is so easy I wouldn't know a dilemma if I was balls-deep in one. The closest i've ever come to trauma is when my dog died, and I was a thousand miles away getting head on a ski lift when that happened. (It was cold.)

But last night, after being torn apart like fresh bread at a martial arts class, I started to feel ill. Today at work I was so green and sweaty and shaky that my awesome boss, and he really is awesome but more on him at a later date, sent me home and gave me tomorrow off.

I'm actually going to cut this post short because a conversation on FailBook has reminded me of the actual thing I was going to blog about, and I have no idea where I was going with this one. Sorry.

Pain & Krav Maga

I like pain, it reminds you you're alive. I like krav maga, it's fast, efficient, brutal and devastating. (I'll explain what krav maga is at a later date.) I'm training to be an instructor; this means an 11 mile run, a 13 mile bike ride and an ass kicking every day. But during tonight's class I paired off with a kickboxer with whom I hadn't trained before. Now I can't walk.

I was too polite when it came to sparring, and I let him state the rules. He said “no headshots, not takedowns”. I said “cool”, and regretted it immediately. My high right kicks are spot on and my takedowns are the best in the class. As soon as you drop a shoulder to me i'll be behind you with my fingers in your eyes, and you'll be staring blurrily up wondering what the fuck happened. I was in a kebab shop at 2 am recently, sober, and an idiot picked a fight with my best friend. He raised his fist to punch, but even before he'd finished recoiling his arm I had tied him in a knot and his friends were laughing at him.

But not tonight.

Tonight, that asshole kickboxer took shot after shot at the insides of my legs, each jarring kick perfectly placed, until I felt like I was standing on jelly stilts and the very effort of simply being in agony was more than I could bear. It was like trying to fight an army marksmen with a catapult from 500 yards and with my hands tied behind my back.

It was full-contact sparring, and all I wanted to do was give him a shin kick to the side of the head followed by a right hook, but I had to settle for shitty body shots instead because i'd given him the advantage (or more accurately, given myself the disadvantage). He was bigger than me and I like it that way because big guys are slow and full of confidence, and they can never keep up with my speed, but after the 7000th kick on the inside of my knee I hit the deck and couldn't get up, and when I did it was only long enough to dump my bruised, sweaty ass in a chair and feel embarrassed.

Next time, we play by my rules.

And that's all I have to say about that.

The first of many. Maybe.

A little about me and why i'm here.

I'm John Yossarian. The sharper guys and girls amongst you will probably already know that's not my real name. When people ask me about my name, I tell them it's Assyrian, because I'm an asshole like that.

I have orgasms and write about them for a living, because I'm not talented enough to be a proper writer and because I like orgasms. I live a double life (hence the pseudonym), my family doesn't know what I do for a living and a get a perverse thrill out of keeping it that way. Whenever they ask me about my job, I tell them I sell alternative health products, which is sort of true I guess. (I sell sex toys.)

I expect this blog will only be read by a handful of people who already know me in one way or another; generally speaking if you're reading this then I already consider you a friend. Thanks to three or four of you in particular. It's ironic that you are one of my closest friends online, and we haven't even met. (Ironic in an Alanis Morrissette sort of way, not really ironic.) But I guess that's pretty common these days. It's neither good nor bad, and if you're ever in Southampton drop me a line and I'll crack a bottle. Just watch your step when you get into my flat; the last thing you want is to slip on a patch of ID Millenium, go flying and land sphincter-first onto any of the suspicious objects I have lying around.

Maybe that's not the last thing you want.

But mainly it's for me. I kept a diary when I was a kid and I get goosebumps every time I cast my eyes across over the wrinkled pages and read the amazingly inconsistent handwriting. It's a strange thing; to be able to watch yourself develop and flourish, and hopefully this ridiculous blog might do similar things for me when i'm finally the richest, most successful man in the galaxy and I'm able to read back with my ancient eyes this garbled nonsense. I'm sure i'll cringe if I actually ever do read this back; I imagine all i'll be able to see is the steaming, putrid arrogance emanating from every godforsaken word. If that's true, so be it. Because what is past, is prologue.