My penis and I have had a good relationship for 30 years. We have a mutually beneficial existence. He understands the fine balance between looking impressive and getting too fired up when I'm with a woman. And I make sure he's safely out of the way should some four year-old with a bat start swinging wildly in his proximity. And because of this, we've grown fond of each other. So it was with distinct dismay that I noticed he was wounded. And like any rational college-educated man, I knew one thing was perfectly clear.

My dick was going to fall off.

Step one, after steadying myself and ensuring I wouldn't pass out and/or vomit, was to inspect. This was done not like a 14 year-old giving her first hand job, but like a skilled and delicate jeweler studying a well-chiseled diamond. Luckily, I'm devoid of all STDs having been thoroughly tested and running with the "safety first" ideology. So anything I found would most likely be caused externally. Something had invaded - breached the deeping wall.

Step two was to tell the girlfriend. I had to be careful, as she has a vested interest in the health and inner workings of my junk.

She laughed. There was a hint of concern, but it was mostly laughter. And, if I listened closely, I would have detected a smidgen of disgust. She suggested that, perhaps, I had a urinary tract infection. I scoffed at the suggestion, explaining that only girls that swim in polluted waters or give anal get urinary tract infections. She didn't find this funny, but said that, while rare, men can get UTIs. And so, I went to the drugstore to pick out a urinary tract infection testing kit.

The aisle, whose shelves were littered with the tell-tale pink and purple packaging of the feminine products division of various giant health products companies, screamed "you don't belong here." The thing is, this wasn't a late-night attempt at becoming the world's greatest boyfriend while my girlfriend is back home, doubled-over with cramps. This excursion was for me. I was buying and I was using. Having never purchased a testing kit before, I had no idea which one to buy. They didn't come in "extra-strength" or "ribbed for her pleasure." I grabbed the one that came in the largest box, and made a dash for the check-out counter. God forbid anyone caught me buying this.

Waiting in line, it dawned on me that, were this not an emergency, I would have purchased this from Drugstore.com. No wondering looks from the cashiers. No questions from the people in line. I hadn't been this nervous since I bought my first box of condoms. Not making eye-contact and buying a pack of gum to either signify that:

1. I was completely comfortable with buying this. So comfortable that I could throw an extra purchase on top without a care in the world.
2. Not only did I have a stinky urethra, but my breath was pretty bad as well.
3. I care so fully about my UTI stricken girlfriend that, in her time of need, I felt the joy and happiness a stick of gum could bring her would demonstrate that, despite the pain, there is something worth living for.

I made it in and out of the drugstore without incident. The woman behind the counter seemed more concerned with the images of her child she'd had silk-screened onto her fingernails, that my UTI testing kit didn't even create a spark of recognition. Once out the door, and with bag in hand, I was a few blocks away from determining my fate.

I'd like to cut in for a second and point out that my girlfriend is nowhere to be seen at this point. I'm going through utter hell, and she's at home most likely watching Gossip Girl reruns and painting her toe-nails. What's more, my pleading with her to go and buy the test kit for me, or at least accompany me on the trip, was met with more laughter and a "I think this is an important rite of passage you need to make on you own."

Once home, I realized the box came with two kits. How many UTIs do women get? A quantity of more than one in the box made me rethink all the potentially dirty vaginas I'd encountered in my life. There were a lot more out there than I'd realized, and, as they say, this was one realization that I couldn't put back into the toothpaste tube.

Now, for those of you who are unaware, testing for a UTI requires peeing on a strip. If a certain color shows up in a box, you need to go to the doctor and get antibiotics. If another color shows up, you still need to go to the doctor and ask him why the fuck there's blood coming out of your penis. I realize that most girls pee sitting down. (Unless you're freakishly talented) Also, I realize that this is a product created, mostly, for women. And so the instructions had diagrams and in them, the woman is sitting and peeing on the strip. Having had my masculinity served to me chopped and fried in a skillet all morning, I made the executive decision that this testing kit was getting the warm golden glow from a man too proud to sit. I had stellar aim back in the day when my brother and I used to "cross the streams" so I was sure I could pull this maneuver off.

Of course, I didn't consider a little side-effect known as "back splash". More to the point that holding a piece of cardboard three inches away from my stream of urine would result in my hand getting it's own small golden shower. (Oddly without any blood in it) Sufficiently coating the test strip and my hand, I placed the unit on my sink and waited. I imagined this was what promiscuous teenage girls went through while they waited their results following the Junior Prom.

Negative. I didn't have a urinary tract infection. The good news was that, should I ever feel as if I do, I have another testing kit at home to try it again. The bad news was that I'd have to call my doctor. A broken finger, a cough that won't go away, chest pains ... those don't require doctor visits. Blood coming out in and around the vicinity of your crotch - you call the ambulance.

My girlfriend, with freshly painted toe-nails, accompanied me to the doctor's office. (She wouldn't let me call the ambulance) The doctor was kind enough to fit me in. As I sat in the waiting room, tapping my foot while my girlfriend thumbed through a copy of Prevention, I found another dilemma.

To chub or not to chub.

Like it or not, this doctor (who was a dude) was going to see my pecker. And I didn't want him to think I wasn't delivering the goods. But at the same time, if I showed up with a piece from a Lincoln Log set in my pants, he might get creeped out. What if I could do a "half-mast" type of thing. One where I'm not exactly heading into battle, but one that won't require tweezers to find the golden idol. The nurse called my name, and I clenched up. Mr. Winky was headed into his cave and I'd have to deal with him later.

I explained my situation to the doctor, who, by the way, DIDN'T look at my genitalia. He asked if this happened often. I told him no. In fact, as I recall, I've never bleed from my wanker before. He performed a series of tests and wanted to make sure my kidneys were okay. He then asked if I'd had any recent trauma to the area.

"What, like blue balls?" I asked him.
"No, like have you been hit in the crotch with a baseball." He responded, unamused.

And like a rave of reflection, the previous night's escapades came flooding back. There was the bar. There was the waitress with the big tits. (Oh shit, shouldn't pop a rod while this doctor is standing five inches away from me... get the waitress out of your head.) There were shots, and a few beers. Then I left the bar... Ah yes... I distinctly remember Colin picking me up and spinning me around his head, my wedding tackle making firm and twisted contact with the back of his head. Thank god for the pain relieving properties of beer. And, what the fuck was Colin doing? This isn't Cirque du Soleil! This is my manhood! Men should know better. I should know better!

The doctor said I was good to go, and I might not want to put myself in a situation that could create trauma to that area for the next few days. (read: no sex) I asked him if I'd still be able to have children in another 40 years when I feel as if I've matured to the point in which I can safely take on the responsibility for another human being. He shook his head and said I'd probably be alright.

Walking back to my apartment, my girlfriend smiled at me and said she was happy my penis wasn't going to fall off. I told her I was happy too. She offered to buy me some orange sherbet to help with the healing process. I turned it down and said I'd rather have a crotch massage. She told me I was an asshole and all seemed right with the world.