How Misshapen-Genitals Shape Lives

Diphallic Terata is a serious, but rare condition wherein human males are born with two phalluses. (I will provide a link, but, click at your own risk, this is a graphic image of genitalia, so do not click if you can't handle black and white medical images: link here). While some people find this condition amusing, it is not. It is not a boon to sexual activity despite how it might seem like it would be, and in fact having two is a burden no man should have to endure. No, the simple truth is that most men who suffer from this rare and sexually stupefying disorder, do in fact just suffer. Some suffer more than others.

The best example of this extreme comes from a recent case study of a man suffering from DiphalicTerata who happens to be, in a strange and inexplicable coincidence of fate which has nothing to do with this hub here, a member of our HubPages community. That dual-weiner-wielding writer happens to be our very own Christoph Reilly. Recent activities of Mr. Reilly brought his condition under scrutiny from the parties responsible for collecting data for this article, and I have subsequently put down the results of that research in this hub article.

Like all spiteful stories of someone’s youth, Christoph’s woes began at puberty when he had his first nocturnal emission. Typically, young boys will, at a certain age, produce a quantity of, shall we say, gamete-rich effluence. This occurs because their reproductive organs have finally begun to function properly. While developmentally normal, this pajama puddle can be embarrassing.

Fortunately for most young lads, retaining dignity is merely a matter of slipping the damp pajamas into a hamper where the issue will dry, going completely unnoticed by the time the laundry is done. But not poor Christoph. No, with two hoses working, he was like the concrete guy blowing gunnite onto the side of a swimming pool. When he tried that hamper trick, two days later his poor mother pulled what she thought was road kill out of there. She thought he’d gone mad and drowned a possum in a vat of yogurt then wrapped it up in a pair of fire-retardant pajama pants. She confronted him, and he had to share his awful truth.

His mother called the doctor and a dairy man.

Two days later, after an examination and an uncomfortable pair of nights hooked up to a milking machine “just in case,” Christoph’s condition was diagnosed. It was horrifying for the entire family and Christoph vowed that he would never dream of women again.

What followed were years of ridicule. The P.E. showers were the worst, and once word got out around school that Christoph was a “two point buck” and various other metaphors, he became an introvert, finally joining the theater club where he could hide in the shadows and the dark. He had a particular penchant for choosing roles where he could play characters with only one wiener, just so he could know what that felt like.

As he got older, he became more comfortable with himself. He used his acting skills to mask his insecurity, and even faced his demon head on one day--or heads on I suppose if we’re being accurate--and took on the roll of male stripper just to prove he was all right. Many of you may have read about that adventure, but having read the rest of the research, I can tell you a lot more: there are more than a few details that he left out.

It turns out that he ended up having an opportunity that was far more sexual at the end of that experience than he revealed. His client was a real dirty girl, and she took him home and even recorded them as they grew more amorous. (I have the advantage of having got hold of the video.)

What I am about to reveal was Christoph’s first sexual experience with a woman. It was at this moment that he discovered having two instruments did not make for a better band, so to speak. No, poor Christoph found out that sporting that much wood just sucked all the blood right out of his brain. Alas, for poor Christoph, arousal means near total retardation. Which is terrible and sad, but this hub is about science and medical realities, so, let’s move forward.

I have to point out, given that this article is being published on the G-rated HubPages, the video is too graphic, so I was forced to make a transcript for the HP audience. While heart breaking, I believe it still speaks for itself and the tragedy of Diphalic Terata and poor Christoph’s sexual malaise. That said, here is the transcript of Christoph's sexual eternity, begun with the scene already underway:

<sound of unzipping pants>

Her: Oooh, you have two...? Mmm, this could be fun.

Him: Damn straight. Just you wait.

Her: So how do we do it… you know, with both?

Him: Damn straight. Just you wait.

Her: No seriously, how do we do this?

Him: Damn straight.

Her: Are you okay?

<moment of silence followed by rustling sounds>

Him: I like ice cream.

Her: What?

<screams>

Him: <yelling> Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream.

Her: <shouts> You’re biting me!

Him: <singing> My hotdog has a first name, it’s O-S-C-A-R

Her: Dude?

Him: My hotdog has a second name, it’s M-A-Y-E-R

Her: Where are you going?

Him: <still singing> My other hotdog has a first name and it sort of smells like dirt

Her: WTF?

Him: I’m batman.

Her: <leaps up and grabs her clothes>

Him: Paraguay is the capital of Montego

<sound of door slamming>

As you can see, adulthood came with a new set of issues for poor Christoph, issues that plagued him his entire adult life and into his dotage. And even now, ancient and feeble, he still tries to copulate successfully just one time—the loss of blood precludes memory and so poor Christoph is doomed to keep trying with no clear memory of each successive sexual tragedy.

Even Sisyphus weeps when he thinks of Christoph’s plight.

What's worse, in his dotage, Christoph has had to resort to Viagra now, which costs him a fortune given that he needs twice the normal dose. With no memory of his endless tragedy, even urges for self-gratification leave the poor bastard spending weekends wandering about, licking windows and making antelope noises in the back of the short bus, not even aware that he is really just waiting for his woodies to go down.

And the loss of fortune isn’t limited just to his purple pills. No, there are other costs as well. One of the most formidable of these is bathroom tissue of all unexpected things. And the reason is not what you think. No, it’s the cost of having double doses of the dreaded phallic-reality known only as Penile Tip-Sticky.

Yes, that’s right, what for most males is a tense moment the morning after a sexual encounter (solo or else-wise), becomes for Christoph a nightmare only seasoned firemen appreciate via an experience with a un-manned hose.

For most of men, this early morning urinary ritual involves a simple relaxing of the prostate followed by a precarious moment of peering down hoping there will just be one stream. If so, we relax, straight-arm the wall, and let nature take its course as we contemplate the day. But sometimes, a strange adhesive nightmare occurs--a condition known only as "tip-sticky"--and, well, then the snake speaks with forkéd tongue as Shakespeare or some ancient Native American might say.

At this point, a normal male must make a mad grab for his errant nozzle and, as quickly as he can, make such adjustments with his free hand as is possible. Occasionally, these wayward streams can emerge at such angularity that the roll of toilet paper that is typically suspended not far from where he stands gets a bit of, well, moisture. (Yes, ladies, this explains that warped roll you find from time to time, and no, we didn’t just get it wet while we were washing our hands. Do a little role playing with yourself and see if your hands even pass over the roll when you swing from the sink to the towel….)

But imagine poor Christoph having to control two forked streams! That’s FOUR jets, two tubes, and only one pair of hands. It takes two hands to fix one forked stream. One for aiming, and one for the, uhh, un-sticking process. But poor Christoph has TWO streams spouting four. He must let one stream have its way with the wall, the toilet paper, and, sometimes, with the cat. (You may find it interesting to note he wrote a hub about his cat trying to kill him, and yet somehow managed to leave this essential little detail out, making his cat’s hostility towards him seem completely random. Well, now you know.)

So yes, poor Christoph must stand there, hips contorting, twisting his body trying to get one of the four jets at least pointed where it should be, working furiously to straighten all this out whilst the restroom is being horribly deluged.

He gets one fork un-tined, if you’ll allow, only to find that his aim is now off again--the branches now a singular line pointing somewhere neither were before--and he must once more adjust before moving to the other, erm, member of the dual streams club. Same trouble, and, well, as you can imagine the horror he feels doing this rain dance, and the eternity he agonizes through before finally getting a firm pair of grips on things and all missiles finally on mark, etc.  Etc.

Sadly, and humiliatingly, there is no way to pretend the damage to the tissue roll is “from hand washing” and so it is that Christoph goes through two rolls of T.P. every day. An expensive prospect to be sure, and an insulting piece of real-world minutiae infesting his reality.

As you can see, this condition, Diphalic Terata, has cost Christoph in many ways: years of suffering and ridicule and financial hardships nearly too unspeakable to write down. The only benefit that can be accounted to this bifurcated bejewelment he suffers is that Christoph is about the only man you’ll ever find with both biceps the same size, which is, in case you were wondering, how he ends up with the morning problems described above given his perpetual state of virginity.  I shant go into why that is for those who don't quite fathom it, however, as I might be accused of borrowing topic ideas from him.  So I’ll just leave it there.