By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
He woke up alone, in the recovery room.
R> "It's like everybody went home for the day."
Kent stayed there for an hour, groggy and sick, until finally an orderly came in. He asked about results, but the orderly didn't know anything. He gave Kent some medicine and sent him on his way.
He phoned the doctor the next day and was told he had gained an inch and a half. Kent waited a week, then took off his bandages.
"I had a lot more scarring than he had told me. I had about six inches of scars."
Kent bled for a month; Rosenstein's office kept telling him to bandage the area where the stitches had opened. He told them he was going to go to the emergency room.
He says he was told, "They are going to be horrified at what they see, because they have no understanding of what this procedure is."
After four months, Kent noticed more scarring. He saw no evidence of new length. In fact, he says, his penis was shrinking.
He returned to Culver City for a scar revision. "They told me I'm one of those rare people that heals with excessive scar tissue. And I don't believe that for a second, because I used to race motocross and I've actually got a few scars, and they're perfect."
He says he told the doctor, "'Quite frankly, my girlfriend is appalled at the way I look.' Igo, 'I look like some kind of Frankenstein/Bobbitt construction here.' And he goes, 'Well, you probably need another girlfriend.'"
Kent arrived home from the second trip and realized his sutures were again splitting. And this time, when he finally healed, he says, "I was really distorted. I didn't look normal at all."
He explains, "Normally on a guy, they've got the penis shaft and of course their testicles hang underneath. Now my shaft was coming from between my testicles."
It had been more than a year since the original operation. Kent had lost months of work, and he was running out of cash. He moved in with his parents so they could take care of him.
Kent returned to Culver City again, where doctors promised they'd make a small incision underneath the penis, to make it look as though he had a shaft again.
Instead, he says, "They cut me from just below the head of my penis to down underneath my testicle sac. They split me wide open."
Voice cracking, he says, "I took a look at it, and I almost had a heart attack. What they did to me was unbelievable.
"I kinda had a shaft back again, but it looked like if someone blew up one of those long, thin-type balloons they make animals out of, and then put a rubber band in the middle of it."
He called the doctor, who told him the skin had to be pulled extra tight because it would loosen.
"Well, it did loosen up, because all of my stitches came out. And basically, I could at that time look down into my testicle sac."
He flew back to Los Angeles in 1996 and checked into a hotel near Rosenstein's office. He turned on the television and saw news accounts of Rosenstein's tussle with the California Medical Board.
"That scared me to death," Kent says. He found another doctor, and a lawyer. Reconstruction will take two years, at a cost of $6,000. He lost his girlfriend, too. And as for sex?
"I don't feel very good about myself, so I don't really let myself get in that position."
"Where are my raspberries?" David asks the waitress, tapping his spoon on the burnt sugar atop his creme brulee.
Doesn't come with fruit, he's told.
After three drinks, David's speech is a bit slurred. And he's getting friendly. You don't talk a lot, he says to the waitress. She smiles.
Does she have kids? No.
A boyfriend? No.
Where does she go out?
"I don't go out much," she says, still smiling but edging away from the table. When she comes back to take the check, he tries again to engage her, to no avail.
He leans across the white butcher paper, which is now adorned with crude pen depictions of his surgical woes. "Do you think she's a lesbian or something?" he asks.
David still dates, he still has sex, but says he's embarrassed about his penis. He tells the girls he needs therapy.
And no, it doesn't help to turn off the lights.
"Whether you turn off the light or not, you can feel it. You know it. It's kinda deformed."
He has a five-inch scar down the middle, two little ones on either side, and one on the top where the fat leaked out. Plus, his penis is lumpy and, because of the bubble on the end, he has to squeeze it after he urinates or risk walking out of the men's room with a wet spot on his trousers.
"It's like a faucet. You got a leak in the faucet and it's dripping," he says, shaking his head in disgust.