It was definetely a weird one today. I took the bath as planned but it was interrupted by an irksome little sister needing to use the room's toiletery facilities. Perhaps I would have been less agitated by this if I had not clearly asked her with considerable clarity before my bath whether she wished to make use of the room to prevent her disrupting the procedure.
The mood well and truly ruined (and my caustic loathing for the cramped flat in which I reside emerging blinking and growling into the fading daylight) I decided to postpone the festivities.

A matter of hours and a simply superb live radio session by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs later (which can be found here BTW, the session that is, not the hours) my original bath was tepid so I threw to fingers to the enviroment and ran myself another.

The pleasant warmth washed around me but my genitals seemed wholly unresponsive to stimuli of either the physical manual or creative mental variety. In fact as I cycled through a large list of potential fantasies and my shaft stayed inert I grew mildly concerned, to develop impotence while still in one's teens would make a fifth genital complaint and I was uncertain that I could really tolerate a full hand (nor an empty one for that matter) of difficulties.

It seemed that, as ever, once my mind eased and concerns faded my member jolted to life. I was planning to apply olive oil as I mentioned but decided only to make use of it when I could get no further.

This plan was somewhat curtailed though by my mother's request for entry. Having already been delayed by one family member I had little desire to allow a second interuption but her point was a good one: it was late and she required the usage of the facilities which I had been using for well over an hour.

She set about slowly making use of the room as I hovvered and attempted to mask my annoyance. I considered filling her in on the issue (especially when she asked whether the olive oil saucer was water for the cat) but frankly I felt like some form of X-Rated sit-com character by this point and was keen just to get on with it.

She was finally finished and permitted me some more usage time of the bath after some light pleading. Thankfully I was significantly swifter to rise this time around and some Yaoi-flavoured fantasies involving a foxy yet submissive red-head boy and a inexplicably dragonesque blonde youth (I concocted some half-baked fantasy setting for them to inhabit which I might expand upon) sodomising him in an evidently mutually pleasing fashion.

This was all well and good, by my standards it was well away from the league of bizarre (I once imagined a few scenes with an actual dragon involved but that was inspired by a Japanese myth and manga I heard of so that only half counts, plus it was months ago and involved a maiden rather than a male) but the weirdness did not eminate from the contents of my head but from my prepuce.

My progress had been slow, at least relatively to my last two full efforts, but I had expanded the skin slightly and it was enough to observe something rather disturbing. It appeared to me that there was some peculiar layer of tissue connected from my glans to the skin coating it, it was nestled neatly within the little V but when the skin was pulled slightly away from the head it followed, clearly the pair were bonded as one.

As it coincided almost precisely with the area marked by a scar from an infant condition (see this blog's premier post for more on that one) I suspected that the doctor's involved had perhaps made some error and stitched it down or somehow the fused flesh had melded into one in a very unpleasant fashion during the operation.

I was severely concerned at this discovery and was instantly of the belief that this was the root of my woe and that all might be lost: the scar tissue would snap if I attempted further prisings and I would have to choose between potential infections or the daunting prospect of some worryingly radical piece of corrective surgery.

However I later discovered (just before making this post in fact) that my thoughts on the internet as an equally adequete distributor of helpful and informative data as aimless and worthless purveyor of pointless inanity. For a brief check through a Google Image search in addition to a standard textual one indicated that I had been proven utterly ignorant of my own anatomy: this enigmatic but fear-inducing connective band was not the botch of a bloody butchery but was in fact my strokable, lovable friend the frenulum.

His disguise was deceptive: the view which I recieved from other sources was never from that direction and I have rarely had the opportunity to inspect other intact fellows in the flesh while flaccid or otherwise (alas) so it seemed I was simply suffering from a lack of frame of reference.

Once the foreskin has been tugged down fully the frenulum is rolled down along with it, providing a tight tug in some cases (so I am informed) and basically acting as the bridge between lower shaft and head allowing for a smooth roll. As I have not got my skin around my head post-puberty I have never witnessed this occurance and (alas I say again) the pornography that I have had the varying pleasure to watch has never included any natural gentlemen I have never really recieved an opportunity to watch the process in action.

It seems there is a condition named Frenulum Breve whereby the fren' is too tight or short or both to allow proper retraction. I hope that I am not suffering from this as othewise I will probably end up recreating my blog under the name of "BreveBlog".

It is certainly interesting for me to learn this information and I am highly relieved that it is a standard part of the body rather than some well-hidden mutilation.

I failed to fully spurt although this was compensated for by the fact that this time around I noted a far more instantly welcome development: the rolling of the skin along the glans was finally something I could actually find pleasurable. There was a joyous enjoyment gained from the steady, double-handed unfurling and refurling that was equal to if not excelling my original style of frantic friction production.

This was most certainly pleasing to me.