I’m having this most peculiar sex dream. I very rarely remember my dreams. I even more rarely have sex dreams. I’m in a churchyard with two guys, one of whom I sort of know a bit, the other I don’t know at all. One of them’s wife goes away somewhere in a pickup truck. The three of us are somehow suddenly naked and one of them is pouring outrage juice down his throat, although most of it goes down his front. He’s a larger guy, but kinda hot. The other guy I don’t remember. There’s guacamole being rubbed all over me. There’s sauces and kissing that tastes like sick. There’s cheese. I have no idea where all this food is coming from. I do like my food, but to eat it not too wear it. I have a stonking great eunuchorn (in the dream and in real life – I can feel it). None of us actually cum, although we’re all hard. Suddenly, we’re all clean and dressed and this nice Norwegian lady is cleaning up the mess, so that the guy’s wife doesn’t find out. I wake up with a splitting headache. What the fuck was all that about? Any amateur psychologists fancy having a go?
It was easier to take the dressing off this morning; the most uncomfortable bit as usual was simply removing the plaster. The “wound dressing” had been digging into me a bit and there looked to be a tiny spot of blood on the inside, such is the first time I’d seen any since the operation. I gave the areas where the glue had left black marks a good rub with the nail polish remover pads.
I suddenly noticed that I had full sensation in my cock! I realised that it had been like that for a few days at least. For several days after the operation, my cock had felt slightly numb to the touch, I realised that I’d felt a little anxious after the operation wondering whether that was permanent and whether something had been damaged. It’s funny that sometimes one only becomes aware of one’s feelings once they have gone.
The new dressing wasn’t quite what I wanted, it was an “absorbent lint” rather than a gauze, but it’s soooo much more comfortable than the “wound dressing”. I forgot to put the ointment on, so I had to roll back the dressing, apply the lavender smelling ointment (I love the smell), then I had to put more micropore around to get the dressing to stick. I’m still wearing compression pants to help hold everything in place.
I feel much more comfortable now! Although I’m wondering how much longer I should be keeping the dressing on for?
Weird observation: when I was wearing my cock cage in public, going to the shops, or the gym, etc, I enjoyed the subversive, kinky feelings of gave me. I expected to get that same going out to the shops without my balls – instead, I just feel….
… LIKE ME!
The problems at home continue. Straight after work, I went and fetched the dog from kennels, as soon as I walked in the house it began. I’m being called a liar because I’d kept my desire for castration and all my dark fantasies a secret from him for years. Fair cop really, it’s true. He feels betrayed because I shared these thoughts and feelings with others before home, which is also true. I deflected my shame that I felt around that things onto him, which is also true. He’s been telling me this for months. Since I came home on Monday he’s been talking, sometimes shouting, calling me a liar, weak, a freak, and other names. He has not asked how I am (“you chose this, not me!” He says). He’s not asked how it went (to be honest, I’m not sure if want to talk about it while he’s like this anyway). He’s pissed that I’ve not shown him the results, but who wants to expose their genitals to somebody who is so angry with them? I may be mistaken, not I’ve not heard a kind word from him since I’ve come home. I try to remember this is PTSD and not too take it personally, but it is too hard and it still hurts. I called him a selfish cunt. For which I apologised, well, for the cunt part – right now I do feel that he’s selfish. He had just tried to grab my crotch, which did hurt. I have left the house for a walk: I am not safe there. I feel broken right now.
At least, after I went for a walk, we’ve both calmed down. Now he’s angry with the mental health people – and I get why – while I was away he tried to gas himself by turning the hob on. When the mental health people came, they just opened the window and walked away. I’m angry about that, too! He’s also furious about the questions that somebody calling 111 in a mental health crisis gets asked. I agree with him there because there’s a lot of “press button number 2” and “are you having a heart attack?”. He’s saying he wants to make a difference – I really, really hope that he feels this way when he comes out of this because I believe that he can make a difference and that doing so will help him and others.
Eunuchorn 
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