Cock Cages

WARNING: THIS MAY BE A LITTLE GROSS FOR MEN, SO IF YOU HAVE JUNK ON THE OUTSIDE, MAYBE YOU DON'T WANT TO READ IT. JUST SAYING.

I just put up a story, Eve's Cage, which is not about me, but deals with ... you know. So I thought I'd talk about.

I'm not really a fan of cock cages, or chastity devices, for men and women. I've got a book somewhere that a girlfriend gave me a long time ago, about patents for anti-masturbation devices for girls in the 19th century (it's a real book!) and that is seriously fucked up.

Honestly, I like my cocks free range, thank you very much. And as far as female chastity devices. Yikes! Nothing should ever get between a woman and her clitoris.

But I do have an experience, sort of with a chastity cage.

This was years ago in Vancouver, I was kind of on the edges of the lifestyle. Still into rough sex, but drifting away from it. There were a lot of really good people in the lifestyle, there has to be, it's really all about trust. You can't trust assholes, so they tended to be identified and frozen out. But I was around the fringes, not the mainstream. It's really fucked up to describe the lifestyle in terms of mainstream and fringes - by definition, the lifestyle was far out there.

But go figure. I think any culture or subculture inevitably starts to organize itself, sometimes in toxic, sometimes in positive ways.

Anyway, I was there on the edges, I hung out a bit, dated some, played some, socialized a bit.

I got to know these bi-guys, and had a fling with them. Dave and Danny (not their real names). Danny was sweet, he had that fuckable softness and innocence that you see in some gay or bi men. Dave, much pushier, verging on asshole. I remember, he had a staple gun and at some fetish scenes he'd go around stapling people (volunteers).

I wasn't really supportive of that because I was a bit of a prude by then, and really - staples? They're not sterilized, they can't be sterilized, it's just cheap porous metal, you can't sterilize the staple gun. What the fuck? Someone told me 'boil it in water, that will sterilize it. Really? Immerse it in fucking water, leave water residue in all those hidden inaccessible parts and crevices to rust or cradle bacteria, and then just wait and you've got a sepsis gun. Fuck! What is wrong with people?

I didn't introduce them to each other, or even get them together. But they weren't together before we started playing. And after at some point they were together.

We did some DP and some games. It was a lot of fun, casual fun, without any real baggage. DP is such an art form. It's best to do it with bi-men, or at least guys who won't jump screaming out of bed at an accidental touch with another guy, or won't be hyper-vigilant about avoiding the touch.

It was fun off and on. But after they hooked up and became an item, it was less fun. There was a lot of negative energy in their dynamic. It seemed to push the extremes of their personalities. Danny became softer, more pliable. Dave was more of a jerk. Negative energy.

I stayed on good terms, we saw each other in the same places, among the same people. I just didn't play with them. I'd see Dave leading Danny around on a leash. Even in public. I guess it worked for them. Oh and Danny ended up in a cage. They were very proud of that. I was even invited to feel it through Danny's tie-dyed jockstrap at a party.

Anyway, a few months later, I got a call from Danny, asking me to help him with something. He'd broken up with Dave, which I sort of approved of, but it had been messy.

I said okay. I really didn't want to. I mean, if he asked me for money, I didn't have much. If he wanted to park on my couch for a couple of months, no way. And if he saw me as his back up relationship, fuck that. But I thought I'd see. I'd learned to say no.

What he needed me for was to get his chastity device off. At first it had been off and on, then longer and longer, and for the last while ... weeks at least, maybe a month or months, I have no idea. Anyway, the break up had been nasty. Dave had flushed the keys down the toilet.

Now it was the next week, and Danny was contacting me to help get it off.

Honestly, my first impulse was to be bemused. I wanted to laugh, it just seemed so silly. Okay, sure.

That ended when I had him roll down his jeans.

I could smell it. Seriously. I could smell his genitals the minute it came off, and it didn't smell normal, or good.

There was a slimy smear on the insides of his underwear.

And his junk, what I could see of it, was swollen and purple yellow in the transparent plastic penis sheath. His scrotum was bloated and angry red, and looked sweaty.

I thought, "Holy shit."

I didn't even want to deal with it. This was something for a hospital. But he refused to go. The entire week since the break up he'd been sleeping on couches, hiding it from everyone while it got worse and worse, until finally he'd come to me.

All right, so he'd made it my problem. I didn't want to even touch it. I put on gloves and examined it. It was just some standard little shitty dollar store lock, the kind you bought a buck ninety nine.

My first idea was to just get another key. These are shitty little locks. I didn't think the company that made them spent all that much money. They probably only had a handful of tumble combinations. So, just go to the dollar store. Buy a dozen or so, and keep trying until you got a key that worked.

Luckily, I took a look. Know what I found? Glue. Dave had squirted glue into the keyhole. Danny had no idea, so it must have been when he'd been asleep or stoned. It must have been a power trip for Dave, I don't know what he was thinking. I still don't, I never talked to him after.

All right, Plan B. We went to the hardware store. I bought a little hack saw, some clamps, a few other tools I thought we might need, and some gloves.

Then we went back home. At first I tried snipping it with pliers, but it was too thick. Then I tried using the hack saw, but the motion really hurt him. Danny had been in pain or discomfort for weeks and he'd masked it with drugs, advil and weed. But it was getting past that now. And given the shape of it, I was worried about tearing something.

So I set up the clamps on the kitchen table to brace it, then I clamped his device and I sawed through the lock, very carefully and slowly. No rushing. I didn't want the saw to slip and rip into his flesh. I had to stop in the middle, just to get a breath, because the smell was so bad.

But we got the lock off.

And the device wouldn't come off. It was stuck to his swollen flesh. Danny was having a panic attack, so I had to calm him down. I took him into the bedroom and laid down beside him and cuddled him until he relaxed.

When he was all right, I got him to lay with his ass on the edge of the bed, and his legs up in the air, spread. We joked that this was what it was like to be on a gynecology table.

Then I went down (not in that sense) and worked at trying to free him. I didn't have the proper tools for it. I can't even imagine what tools you'd have specialized for this. I didn't even have sounds (I do now, but that's another story, and I haven't even used those for years) (they wouldn't have helped in this situation). So I made do with a manicure kit, nail file, tweezers, etc.. Sterilized everything first with a lighter, just in case.

At first, nothing. His flesh was melded to the cheap plastic. But I had vaginal lubricant, water based, so I started using that to moisten the skin and try and squirt lubricant fluid in there, as I teased the flesh loose.

The scrotum ring came off fairly easily. Oh, you should have heard his sigh of relief. But the penis sheath was tough. Skin protruded through the holes in it, and I had to work all those through, and as I said, he wasn't just swollen, he was bonded. It took half an hour before I got the last piece off. It was all using the tweezers or nail file to loosen and lift the skin a millimeter at a time, then squirt a little lubricant in with this little squirt ball, give it a minute to work its way in, then lift another millimeter and try not to tear anything. It was so gross.

It still looked horrible. It reaked, and if anything, now it was uglier than ever, the purples and yellows, the swollen puffiness, the slimy discharge, the smell.

Honestly, I wanted to be sick, but I didn't want another panic attack, so I just played it calm and positive, and told him that now that it was off, I was going to clean him up.

I should have done that in the bathroom, but I didn't want him moving. So I filled a pot with lukewarm water, and got a washcloth and a turkey baster, and all my dry wipes. I'd have liked to use wet wipes, but I was afraid that the alcohol content or chemicals might burn him. Anyway, I cleaned off around his genitals. Then I gently squirted water, dabbed it dry, wiped as much as I dared and repeated the process. That was another hour. He couldn't hold the position, he kept having to put his legs down. So he'd rest, we'd talk for a few minutes, mostly casual shit. Then he'd put his legs up and I'd continue.

It looked better cleaned up, and that got rid of a lot of the smell, but it still looked like shit.

Okay, it was time to go to the hospital. Danny was dead set against it. Now that it was off, he just figured he'd be okay, he'd recover in a few days. He tried to hit me up for some money for weed, so he could have something while it sorted out.

I lost my temper. Well, not a full tantrum. But I put my foot down and insisted. He was so fucking reluctant.

Eventually, we compromised, I agreed to go with him to the hospital and hold his hand.

I remember we put all the pieces of the device into a ziplock bag in case the hospital or doctors needed it for forensic purposes. And then that ziplock bag went into another ziplock bag before I allowed it into my purse. Yes, it went into my purse. I wasn't going to walk around with a transparent ziplock bag, or even a plastic bag, with that thing.

So off we went to the Emergency room, where we got triaged and waited for almost eight hours. Fuck me!

I learned later that if we'd just called an ambulance, he would have been triaged on the spot and probably been seen right away. So if you're ever injured or fucked up, don't walk into Emergency on your own, call the ambulance.

Finally, we saw a Doctor. I had to pretend to be his wife to go into the examining room. The Doctor was an East Indian guy, young man. I started off by explaining I wasn't his wife, just his friend, and some of the background as to what had happened, and what I'd done. Basically, I didn't want to be blamed for what he was going to see. If I'd made a mistake or fucked up trying to help him, okay, I'd accept that. But the condition? Nope. He listened very patiently, and finally asked to see it.

So we showed it.

Five minutes later, he was being checked in and wheeled.

All the parts in the ziplock in the ziplock. I showed it to them, but they wouldn't even touch it inside two ziplocks. They held the wastebin open and I dropped it in. What a waste of time.

That was it. They had him. I went home, my good deed was done.

When I got home, I threw out the nail set, the clamps, the hacksaw, the bedsheets, everything, and scrubbed everything down. Just... ick!

Danny was in the hospital for three days. I'm not sure what they did for him. Lots of antibiotics I assume. But after that, who knows. They had him on an IV when I came to visit, but I didn't see under the covers. He was in good spirits.

It wasn't gangrene or a septic infection or anything weird, like I feared. It was a runaway fungal infection. External Trichomoniasis or something like that. Honestly, I wasn't actual next of kin, so the hospital wasn't telling me much. And Danny was pretty vague. I'm not even sure that they ever confirmed or figured out what kind of fungus it was. Maybe toe fungus or athletes foot. I heard about something called trenchfoot at a WWI display at a museum once. I don't think they cared really, as long as it responded to treatment and they got rid of it.

I don't know how serious it actually was. I was worried that he might lose everything down there. Particularly if it was gangrene or septic infections or something. Even fungal ... I don't know, maybe? It looked really fucking bad. But who knows, maybe it wasn't nearly as serious as it looked and all it needed was some regular antifungal baths. Maybe he didn't even have to be in the hospital. Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe it was all nothing.

And honestly, I didn't do anything for him that the hospital wouldn't have done, and probably done better, if he hadn't been too chickenshit to just go directly. So I'm not Saint Eve, or anything like that.

Danny was okay. He didn't have sex for a while, or if he did, he was catching, not pitching. He had some scarring on his penis, especially the head, but you wouldn't notice it, unless you knew what to look for and what it was you were looking at.

So I've heard. I never ever came near his cock after that. Not after what I'd seen and done.

Danny was off guys, especially Dom guys. He hooked up with this heavy chick who was into pegging. She didn't like me much, but that was cool. They were together for a while. We lost touch.

Dave? The story got around. Luckily, I mostly got left out of it. But Dave his name was complete shit. He was completely ostracized, to the point that if anyone was aware he was even talking to someone, someone would find that someone, take them aside and fill them in on what Dave had done. I don't know if Dave hung around Vancouver for long, or what happened to him. I don't really give a shit.

The story travelled. I heard about it a couple of years later, in Toronto. All the details and names stripped away, but the essentials were there. I think it passed into urban legend, before slowly being forgotten.

I asked Danny once, afterwards, why he'd come to me of all people. He said it was because I was the most together person he'd ever met. I found that hilarious. Me? Holy shit! The nonstop whirlwind of fucking up? Me?

I don't really have anything against Chastity Play. I've seen and been around it before and after. Done correctly, it's safe enough.

If you were going to do it, I'd say go all the way, use a device made from surgical steel. Go high end. But fuck, cheap porous plastic? Oh my god.

I won't do it myself. To me it's like 'Eyeball Play' - yeah, just not a good idea. Edge all you want. But at the end of the day, take good care of your stuff.

And, you know, for what it's worth... take care of each other, look out for each other. I went through some fucked up (not as fucked up as what Danny had, but fucked up in other ways) things, but I made it because people looked out for me at moments.

Looking after Danny was a giant pain in the ass, wrecked my whole night. But he needed someone. And you don't ask whether they deserve it or not, or whether they did it to themselves, or shit like that. Someone needs help, even for something stupid, you help them.

Look out for each other, that's the only way we all make it.