If there’s one thing I’ve learned writing these columns, it’s that you ladies have penis on the brain. Which is why I’m going to admit that my penis is so huge, so gargantuan, that when I get excited, I barely have enough skin with which to whistle. Seriously. It’s like three grapefruits in a gym sock. Trash bags are my preferred prophylactic. I ain’t bragging or nothin’.
Does size really matter? How do you know your vagina isn’t all floppy? I knew a dude once who described sleeping with a woman as “driving a hatchback through the Lincoln Tunnel.” I am convinced y’all make so much of a fuss about size as a passive-aggressive way to get back at dudes who you perceive as judging you solely by your boobs, waist, and butt. But when it comes to sex, good sex, bite-mark-on-the-shoulder sex, we are the sum of our physical, and emotional, parts. Otherwise, you’re not having sex. You’re just slapping bits.
It strikes me as weird and creepy, the way men and women rate, judge, and obsess over body parts like the old Greek women in my neighborhood who cluck and molest fresh produce. It’s almost serial killer-like, as if we’ve all got our favorite organs chilling in a fridge. Don’t get me wrong. I love curves, piercing peepers, and a big ol’ badonkadonk. But I don’t stroll around with a clipboard, checking boxes like the USDA Inspector of Love.
Men are rightfully insecure about the size of their packages, and there’s an entire industry built around assuaging these inadequacies. Pumps, pills, ointments, and surgery are options, and they don’t work. A former co-worker once admitted to me that he had been taking “Male Enhancement” drugs — but, you know, not that he needed them. (Why do people tell me these things?) They were just helping him grow from elephantine to wooly mammoth-esque. And all I could feel was bro’ pity: They’re just placebos. Fake confidence, I suppose, but confidence nonetheless. And confidence is the not-so-secret secret of quality boot-knocking.
I realize I’m probably not qualified to talk about size mattering, in that all of you have vaginas, and I, to date, do not. Personally, I roll like I’ve got a straight-up thumb dick. Honestly, I don’t know what the Penis Fairy bequeathed unto me, but I’ve been told it’s superbly average and that it’s like the third bear’s bowl of porridge – just right. Most men know what I’m talking about. Overconfidence makes your game weak. If you play like you’re not packing maximum ordnance, you are more willing, eager, even, to perform to please.
And pleasing is the whole point. It’s clear to me that there are guys who act like a crowbar dangles between their legs (even though most dudes who swing like that have straight up Napoleon Genital Complex) and dudes who don’t care either way. Because we can get you off a dozen different ways. We will ninja bone you. Whisper unspeakably filthy secrets one moment, then leave you giggling, and suddenly there’s a burst of smoke and the next thing you know your nipples are lit fuses, red claw marks paint your back, and you’re getting that feeling you get when you throw your hands up right as the rickety roller coaster gives into gravity. By this point, size doesn’t matter.
Perhaps women who obsess over Goliath tube and dudes who demand giant hoots deserve each other. Because, most likely, they’re control freaks who can’t let go and let their lover crawl under their skin. To these people, sex is purely decorative, a point of pride, a way of inflating the ego. It is totally lost on them how the very point of living this sometimes crummy life is the glorious abandon that comes from growling, blushing, and sighing naked with someone who doesn’t see the forest for the trees. The sexy forest? You know what I’m talking about.