Scorchin' The Bishop
Oops! I Came... - Catastrophically funny, sexually humbling mistakes!
I had one mission: to come quietly. I failed spectacularly.
It was supposed to be a gentle night.
My partner was out with her beau, a poly perk. The house was still. The lighting was mood-lit and merciful. I’d even queued up the slow playlist, the one with whispered French and just enough cello to make a man feel sophisticated while contemplating self-seduction.
I had the bed to myself, the freedom to make questionable noises, and a fully charged device already opened to the last scene bookmarked. (You know the one. The one with the stretch and the gasp and that line of dialogue I will never admit to loving.)
I was ready. Willing. Needy in a way that was both primal and schedule-friendly.
And so, I reached for the lube.
Except… I didn’t.
Let’s take a moment to talk about the drawer.
This drawer is a graveyard of adult intentions. Condoms (expired), mini massage oils (unloved), a velvet pouch I’m scared to unzip, and an alarming collection of tubes that all look identical after 9pm and two glasses of emotional wine.
That’s when it happened.
The Grab.
Confident. One-handed. No hesitation. I didn’t check the label because I am a man who believes in instinct. I am also a man who, apparently, confuses peppermint athletic balm with personal lubricant.
Reader, I slathered.
I did not dab. I did not cautiously test a patch like a wise, worldly sex witch.
No. I committed.
First stroke, I thought:
“Ooh… a warming lube. Fancy.”
Second stroke:
“Wow. That’s really working.”
Third stroke:
“Huh. That’s… a lot of warmth.”
Fourth stroke:
“Okay Jesus fucking CHRIST I AM BEING POSSESSED BY THE SPIRIT OF A BLAZING COMET.”
By the fifth stroke I was no longer masturbating.
I was repenting.
Let me set the scene.
I’m standing at the edge of my bed, erect, determined, and suddenly fighting for my life. My genitals are, at this point, experiencing sensations no body part should have to Google in real time. It was no longer "tingly." It was chemical warfare.
I dropped the tube.
It rolled under the bed like a cursed artefact fleeing the light.
And that’s when the heat hit its final form.
Not the warming whisper of lube marketed as “playfully spicy.”
Not the cinnamon-scented “oh that’s different” thrill you get from something labelled for her and him.
No. This was the fiery tongue of a thousand personal trainers screaming PAIN IS GROWTH while setting my dick ablaze in the name of muscle recovery.
I staggered.
Hands clutched to groin.
Eyes wide with the horror of a man who has made a terrible choice.
Balls clenched like twin fists in a riot.
I shuffle-lunged to the bathroom.
Have you ever tried to sprint gracefully with your pants around your ankles and your cock acting like it’s being auditioned for a Greek tragedy?
No dignity. Just primal sounds and the slap of flesh against crisis.
I hit the shower controls like I was disarming a bomb. Cold. Ice cold. The kind of cold that makes your nipples sign a waiver. The kind of cold that feels like divine punishment from a wrathful sex god who saw what you were trying to do and said, “Absolutely not, you little pervert.”
I aimed the stream downward.
Braced.
Screamed.
It didn’t help.
The Deep Heat had bonded to my genitals like a symbiote.
We were one now. A cursed duo. Me and the Heat.
No amount of rinsing could undo what had been done.
The minty flames only laughed at my panic and dug deeper into my soul.
I squatted in that shower like a man praying for death or at least a reset button. I tried everything. Soap. Milk. That weird oat scrub I stole from my partner. At one point, I whispered a full apology to every man, woman, and gay I’d ever wronged.
Nothing worked.
Except time.
And shame.
Thirty minutes later, I emerged.
Raw. Rinsed. Humble.
Dick looking like it had seen the edge of the void and come back changed.
I stood in the bathroom mirror like a soldier returned from war.
Hair soaked. Eyes glassy. My once-proud penis now a wilted, pink-cheeked ghost of its former self, gently recoiling from the light like a vampire caught in dawn’s cruel embrace.
I dried myself tenderly. Reverently. Like a parent swaddling an injured pet.
The towel whispered across my scorched nethers with the caution of a man who now knows that skin is fragile, and some lessons are learned through fire.
And then I saw it.
That little red bastard, lying under the bed.
The tube of Deep Heat.
Still smug. Still red.
Still shaped exactly like the lube it had impersonated.
That’s when it hit me:
This was not an accident.
This was entrapment.
Why do we package sports cream in something so sexy? Why does it have a twisty cap, a squeeze tube, and a label that just says “HEAT” in bold, seductive lettering like it’s starring in a porno for the brave?
No warnings. No disclaimers. Just vibes and vengeance.
From that day on, I made a vow:
Lube shall be labelled.
Sports products shall be exiled to a separate drawer.
And my dick?
He gets veto power now.
Even now, years later, I can’t smell menthol without clenching.
The scent of eucalyptus sends my balls retreating like groundhogs seeing their shadows.
A friend once offered me a “cooling body balm” after a workout and I nearly punched them out of muscle memory.
Because once you’ve scorched the bishop, you never really forget.
You just pray to the gods of genitals that your story becomes a warning.
So let this be it.
This is your warning.
Your gospel.
Your sweaty, flammable truth.
Label your tubes.
Respect the difference between “warm” and “inferno.”
And for the love of pleasure and self-preservation...
Don’t jerk off with Deep Heat.
⚠️ Deep Heat Disclaimer
Deep Heat is a topical muscle rub designed to relieve sore joints and sporting regrets, not to be used as lubricant for solo or partnered pleasure, no matter how lonely the night or deceptive the tube.
If your cock feels like it’s preparing to ascend into the ninth circle of hell, you’ve likely made the same mistake I did.
Stop. Rinse. Repent.
Do not apply Deep Heat to sensitive areas.
Do not confuse "warming relief" with "cock flambé."
And for god’s sake, do not go back for round two just to check if it was “really that bad.”
It was.
You’ve been warned.
Your junk deserves better.
This has been a public service announcement from someone who has seen things.
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