You Injected Too Much Trimix. Now the Doctor Needs You to Cum.

It’s a medical emergency: You've had a nonstop erection for nearly four hours.

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here.

Illustration by Jason Leviere (@mister_dashing)

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You hear of Trimix from your increasing number of gay friends who have an OnlyFans, from the swingers in their fifties and sixties who need more than the little blue pill. You figure you don’t need it. You are in your twenties, after all, at the height of your sexual prime. Your cock stiffens from the lightest of breezes, from a particularly plump tomato. Often, it comes alive at inopportune times, your horniness surfacing like a submarine breaking through the ice coating the Arctic Ocean. You then text your ex, in an act of desperation, immediately regretting your decision upon pressing send, well before she replies, though most times, she ignores you (as she should).

It’s not your fault, you tell yourself the next day. All the blood from your head had rushed south, and you weren’t thinking clearly. You also had a few drinks. She’ll be okay. She’ll understand. She’ll forgive. (She is okay and does understand but does not forgive.)

That isn’t the only time your cock betrays you, and honestly, this form of betrayal—when it’s active when it should remain dormant—is far worse than the reverse. It makes being in your sexual prime (and indeed you are) moot. For when others glance upon your soft cock (as this phenomenon is most likely to occur in front of an audience)—so comically pitiful while flaccid— you don’t feel young and virile; you feel young and pathetic.

There was a night, not too long ago, that you had looked forward to with such glee, with a naughty sparkle in your eye. In fact, you trimmed your pubes and undoubtedly over-douched, as you wanted to be prepared for any unforeseen opportunity. You suctioned a dildo (eight inches!) to the tiles lining your shower and breathed deep from your diaphragm as you worked the hard silicone into your behind. It was painful initially, but you persevered, knowing your future self would thank you. You wore your sluttiest thong, the string riding so far up your ass you could have used it to floss. You meticulously packed your fanny with the essentials: lube, poppers, and wet wipes, to name a few.

Then you got to the basement where the dimmed lights were red, and the music was German House. Men were in jocks. A few were fully nude, their hard cocks on full display. (You so desperately wanted to be like them.) You smelled the faintest aroma of shit, and a man brushed your bare ass cheek as he walked by. You turned your head and met the man’s gaze, only to realize he was not your type, so you quickly looked away to avoid giving him the wrong idea. He picked up what you were putting down and carried on his merry way, aware that it was a numbers game. The men here came for anonymous sex, and surely another man would be interested.

Then you saw it, the bubble butt of your dreams, cheeks fat and juicy. By some miracle, he was not already occupied by another, so you sauntered to claim him. You started playing with your cock, fluffing and stretching it, but your body betrayed you. You had so much stimulation, but that was the problem. It was too much stimulation, and the wires in your amygdala were so overloaded with arousal, they shortcircuited.

You could have just sucked some dick or get fucked, but you really are more of a top. Yeah, you douched, but that was in case you, on a whim, wanted to get fucked while fucking someone else. And that top, the topper of tops, would have had to be bigger than you (and you’re 6’2 and two-hundred pounds).

You did your best not to let your erectile dysfunction ruin the night. You had time, and you didn’t even know anyone there. (Why were you so nervous? What were you so afraid of?) But like a parasitic worm, ED had wiggled through your brain and was setting up shop rent-free. It had invoked squatter’s rights, and so, my friend, you were fucked. You were so unbelievably fucked, and the grounding exercises your new somatic therapist (she’s great, by the way—highly recommend) suggested would not be effective. As the five things you could see were a hard dick, a soft dick, a semi-hard dick, a semi-soft dick, and a singular vulva. (Trans men were welcomed in the event description.) As for the things you could touch, you could not touch them with the part of your body that so desperately wanted to touch them. And as for the one thing you could taste? Ass (and not in a good way).

But that was in the past. Tonight, there is a new moon, and you are slated to attend a similar event. You have a chance at redemption, at hedonistic glory. Michael (one of your Onlyfans friends) arrives to pre-game and offers you a shot of Trimix from his thermos filled with ice.

You say, “You know what? Fuck it,” even though you are deathly afraid of needles. He asks if you’ve done it before, and you lie, saying you have. You have no reason to lie. He wouldn’t have judged you, but the lie slipped out so effortlessly, like a heavy breast in an oversized robe, and there’s no taking it back.

So when he asks about the dosing, you try to recall an article you read in VICE (or did you just see a graphic on their Instagram page?). “One em-el,” you reply with an undeserved confidence.

“One milliliter?” he questions, his eyebrow cocked.

You want to say you’re not sure, but the part of you that finds it necessary to lie works so swiftly of its own volition. So you double down.

“Damn, all right, let’s do it,” Michael replies as he plunges the needle into the bottle, extracting the serum. “Count to three,” he says, dabbing an alcohol prep pad to the base of your shaft, the point of injection. You close your eyes. “One.” Deep breath. “Two,” and before you can take another inhale, he’s injected you, his devious plan all along.

“Breathe,” he says, pressing the plunger. Three foreign chemicals swim in your spongey tissue, which stings slightly. “Apply pressure,” he says, removing the needle. You do as he says, squeezing your base.

Fifteen minutes later, in the Uber, five minutes from your destination, your cock swells in your joggers at no particular thought or image. You get erect, extremely erect, and say to your friend, “Wow, this shit works great!”

“Right?” he replies, with a grin on his face, a grin that screams, I am about to take so many goddamn loads.

You pay the entrance fee (thirty dollars) and head down the poorly lit staircase (don’t the producers fear a fall? A lawsuit?) to where you check your clothing (including the slutty, pink thong you wore again). You smile because you are hard, and no amount of nerves—no nebulous fears—could cause you to lose your rigidity. You are now a product of science, of the twenty-first century. (We put a man on the moon, and by God, we can make your cock hard.)

The first hour, you are a god. You are fucking everything with a pulse. You ram your dick down throats, and you pummel plump asses, and multiple men whisper, “Goddamn, you are so hard,” and “I love your thick dick.” You walk around, shoulders back, head held high, like one of those men, the perpetually hard men, and guys come over and stroke your cock. You let them because why else did you inject yourself if not for this? You wonder why you hadn’t tried Trimix before, why everyone isn’t doing Trimix all the time, and if you can get a prescription online without having to see a doctor in person.

The second hour, you are still a god, but one slightly troubled. See, your dick is starting to hurt from being erect for so long. You want it to go down, to give your manhood a second to breathe, but it is painfully erect. You see Michael in the corner of the room. He’s getting taken from behind, and a line has formed behind the top, others patiently waiting their turn while vigorously stroking themselves. You don’t want to interrupt, but your worry precedes Michael’s pleasure, just for now. (He can get back to business momentarily). You cut to the front of the line and say, “It hasn’t gone down, and it’s starting to hurt.” The top continues to fuck unfazed as Michael says, “Shit, I forgot the antidote at yours. I’m sure it’ll go down in a bit.”

“Yeah?” You know you should walk away and let Michael enjoy what he came here to do, but you are (rightfully) concerned.

“Well, I mean, you did take a lot. I only took point one em-el,” he says, his erect cock slapping his lower torso while he continues getting his guts rearranged.

What?

Your head spins as you realize you have taken ten times the amount of a standard dose. Then, an eerily calm voice pops into your head from a forgotten time when seven minutes of commercials accompanied every twenty-three of programming. The man says, “If you have an erection lasting for more than four hours, seek medical assistance immediately.”

You pull out your phone, conveniently stored in your high socks, and see that you’ve been erect for two and a half hours. You have time, you tell yourself. You don’t need to be worried yet.

For the next thirty minutes, you fuck relentlessly, taking your anxiety out on innocent holes. Every bottom loves you and would have accepted a marriage proposal then and there. After the last bottom cums in his jockstrap while taking your extremely firm dick, you know what you have to do.

You tell Michael, who's on load number eight or twelve that you’re heading to the hospital for priapism. He offers to go with you, but there’s a dick in his ass, and the line behind the new top is still long, and the offer doesn’t seem that genuine, so you tell him to stay here and keep having fun. He doesn’t protest.

The hospital is within walking distance and surprisingly full at this hour in the evening (morning?). You explain to the registration clerk that you took ten times the standard dose of Trimix. You lie about how long you’ve been hard, saying five hours instead of three hours and fifteen minutes because you want to be seen immediately.

It works, and you are immediately taken to a private room. (A real room with a wooden door, not a makeshift one with curtains!) You sit upright on the exam table, your feet dangling off the side.

A busty nurse enters, and you can tell she’s trying to conceal just how large her chest is by wearing an uncomfortable sports bra underneath her scrubs, but it has the opposite effect. The sports bra pushes up her tits, and now they are at eye level, and how does she not have back pain? (Maybe she does.)

“What brings you in here today?” she asks as she takes your vitals. You repeat the problem at hand with an urgency. “Oh, I see,” she says, seeing the problem clear as day through your joggers. “I’ll get the doctor right away.”

The doctor opens and shuts the door to your private room. He has a firm gait, softened by the excessive cushioning lining the bottom of his sneakers. He pulls up beside the exam table and smiles, all-knowingly. Of course, he’s handsome, like a doctor in Grey’s Anatomy. His face is clean-shaven, revealing cheekbones and a cut jaw. His eyes are round and kind, a dark forest green. His teeth are straight and white, but they are not veneers. Not those fake-looking teeth that remove all character when you smile. Your dick somehow fills with even more blood.

“The nurse filled me in. How long have you been erect?” he asks, his voice soft and doctorly.

“Three hours and fifteen minutes,” you say, honest this time.

“And how much Trimix did you take?”

“One em-el, thinking it was point one.”

He pauses to type something into the computer. “Are you in pain?”

“Yeah. Not excruciating, but it’s extremely uncomfortable. I feel like I’m going to burst.”

“Um-hm,” he nods. “Do me a favor and undress so I can see your penis.”

You (successfully) fight the urge to respond, “Buy me a drink first, doc,” because now is not the time to make jokes.

You pull down your joggers and remember that you are wearing a pink, sparkling thong. Your hard cock cannot be concealed by such little fabric, and the upper half of your dick is poking out from the pouch.

You make eye contact with the doctor and blush. He’s a medical professional, you remind yourself. An ER doctor, no less. Undoubtedly, he’s seen worse. He’s likely extracted particularly phallic cucumbers from men’s asses. Barbie dolls. Maybe even a (dead) gerbil.

“Please remove the thong, too.” If he is surprised, he doesn’t show it. You’re thankful for his professionalism.

Your hard cock flops out the moment you pull down your thong. It is standing tall, at attention, as if saluting the doctor.

“I’m going to touch your penis,” he says. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

He grabs the base of your cock and squeezes. He inches up your shaft, repeatedly squeezing, and your dick flexes in his hand.

“Yeah, you are very erect, but not to worry.” You appreciate the calm in his voice.

Gently gripping your head, he moves your penis to the side, then releases it. Your penis swings back to attention.

“Okay,” he says, backing away from your member. “So we have some options. You have a little bit of time being this erect before it causes permanent damage. I could do what’s called ‘aspiration,’ where I insert a needle and draw out the excess blood. In some situations, though, the procedure doesn’t fully resolve the priapism and can lead to long-term erectile dysfunction. There is also a risk of damaging nerves during the blood withdrawal, which might affect penile sensation and function.”

“Yeah, I don’t love the sound of that.”

“I can also inject phenylephrine, commonly referred to as the Trimix antidote. It’s a vasoconstrictor that will help reduce blood flow to the penis. There are fewer complications associated with this.”

“Okay, let’s do that.”

“Great,” the doctor says, rummaging through the cabinets for a vial. The doctor repeats what Michael did less than four hours before—the alcohol prep bad, the counting, the stinging.

After the injection, you wait, cock out, feet dangling. “How long does it take to take effect?” you ask.

“Yeah, so it should start to work pretty immediately.” The doctor squeezes the base of your penis, and it is still impossibly rigid.

His hand lingers around your base as he says, “The thing is, you took a LOT of trimix, so…” The doctor pauses.

“So…”

The doctor maintains eye contact, and his previously calm face now has a certain sharpness and severity.

“I think the injection will partially help, but to get you to go down fully, you’ll need to ejaculate, and as quickly as possible.” He starts to stroke your penis gently and asks, “Do you understand what I’m suggesting?”

You are frozen as stiff as your cock.

You question your sanity, your grip on reality. Surely, you are dreaming. You are being punked. Is the entrapment? Is this legal? You gulp and, still too in shock to speak, nod.