It is often suggested to me by well-meaning folks that I become a lesbian. I don't mean men hoping for some hot dyke-on-dyke. I mean my girlfriends, nursing me through the latest of my pricks who turn out to have two other sweeties. “Maybe you should go lesbo!” they advise with sunshiney kindness. I think my girlfriends are hot for me.
Sure, lesbianism would be a field of daisies and a fresh summer storm. But there's something about a penis–and the man behind it–that the purtiest girl couldn't replace. (Exceptions, as always, for Angelina Jolie.)
Besides, you know lesbians would always want to talk. You know what comes out of a penis? Testosterone. You know what testosterone does when absorbed through a woman's walls? It acts as a mood adjuster. Can talk therapy do that?
If you want to talk, let's talk cock.
We could talk about it like a romance novelist would (his steel sheathed in velvet) or like a pornographer (um, drilling her with his massive rod?). But really, let's just picture it for a moment: the prettiest one we ever saw. Maybe two inches in diameter, perhaps eight inches long, its light curve allowing it to hug the belly all the way up to the navel rather than sticking out straight as a missile. Its firm balls, small enough to fit in your mouth, and its thick soft skin—soft like a rose petal, pink as a rose. And always, but always, hard as a hammer.
For that penis, I suffered conversations about garage sales and rockabilly duds for two years of Sundays; soon, we kept the television on, so we wouldn't have to talk.
But as head-crushingly dull as the man attached to it was (and I don't think I can explain to you the boredom and the stretched smiles as I listened sweetly while he outlined every T-shirt he'd bought that day to sell on eBay, but it would go on and on and on, and then he offered the guy 20 bucks for all 50 shirts, and the guy said, “No way, man!” But then my man said, “Well, nobody else is gonna buy these shirts 'cause they suck!” and the guy made a mad face and sold them to him, so my man really had it over on him, and boy, had he won–he was the victorand the chief!), as head-crushingly stupid and boring and mundane–well, I never, ever broke our date.
If Mulder and Scully had a vampire, we would watch all the way through, but if it was another Smoking Man conspiracy episode, soon enough, he'd have picked me up and set me on my hands and knees. He was a little guy, but he was strong, with amazing balance and a preposterously light touch. A light touch, gentlemen, only works in combination with a great big dick.
Sometime after my man up and got secretly married, I learned I had been a great mystery. His roommate—whom he was fucking—had always wondered who “Sunday Night” was. His other roommate—whom he was also fucking—had wondered, too. They would talk about it, speculating endlessly on where the guy they were both sleeping with, who was about to secretly marry someone else, was faithfully going for X-Files.
Did one of us break up with him? Did one of us try to keep his penis to ourselves? Oh, people may have tried. But fact is we put up with his boring, four-timing shit for as long as he'd have us, till he and that beautiful cock disappeared around the bend. And oh, the spiteful things we had to say about the woman who had it.
