The Day I Became an Urban Legend or The Cautionary Tale of a Cock-Ring Gone Awry

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It wasn’t until afterwards that the hospital urologist explained the cock ring was incidental to the actual injury.

1.

You would think that when I purchased my first cock ring all the way back in 2008, the shopkeeper would have warned me of the risks.

I was living in Breda, a small town down the southern end of Holland. It seemed to have as many sex shops as it did milk bars, and a Dutch sex shop is rivaled only by the Japanese variety for providing a mind-boggling window into the character of the national psyche.

Pretty much anything you like is available in Holland as far as pornography goes, provided it isn’t snuff. Zoophilia and coprophilia (google them) are both legal and freely available.

I chased my then-girlfriend around a particular shop with a DVD that featured pictures of women masturbating whilst eating one another’s shit until looking at the pictures on the back made me feel ill.

Having worn myself out, we stood and looked at the array of devices in the counter display cases.

“What does that do?” my girlfriend asked the shopkeeper.

“It’s a cock-ring,” he replied with a smile. “Good for both of you. He stays harder for longer, and you can grind your clit against it to get yourself off.” He gyrated like a belly dancer at the cash register, a hand either side of it in case it might try to get away.

“Can we see one?” she asked.

“This is a training one,” he said, taking it from the cabinet and placing it in her hand. “Go into the change room and try it on,” he instructed, pointing one of his long fingers at the black curtain close by.

Once behind the curtain, I dutifully unzipped and attempted to try it on. We just couldn’t figure it out. She was far less embarrassed than I, and stuck her head out from behind the curtain.

“How do you put it on?” she asked.

He soon appeared, sweeping the curtain aside and unbuttoning his jeans to reveal a hairy – and heavily tattooed – lower abdomen.

“Don’t worry,” he said to her, “I’ve seen lots of cocks.”

He produced the most astonishing penis I had ever seen in my life. The entire tool was tattooed like a barber’s pole in psychedelic colours, extending from the shaft up onto his abdomen. The head had been coloured-in black.

He had a pirate’s earring through the eye and a large, chromium ring at the base of his cock and balls. He lifted his tackle and turned it over like a handful of vegetables at a market stall to give us a better look.

“Here, I’ll take it off,” he said, and dragged his cock out of it like he was pulling a worm through a keyhole middle first, before manhandling his testicles free in the same fashion.

He then held the ring in one hand, pinched his scrotum with the fingers of the other and drew it through, pushing one testicle after it, and then the other.

“Cock goes last – you don’t want to squash your nuts,” he said, as he pulled his dick back in, head-first.

“Trust me,” he said, “You’ll love it.”

And indeed we did. After the training ring, I graduated to a heavy stainless steel device, the weight of which added to its aesthetic appeal, not to mention the pleasure of the activity. The orgasm produced was far stronger, and further delayed by the effect of constriction.

One girlfriend discovered it had its drawbacks, however, when she came down hard on it one night. She flew off as if she was on fire and landed in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed.

“Jesus,” I said, coming to her rescue.

“It bit me,” said she, showing where it had pinched her on the down-stroke, cutting her open inside her labia.

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