Most women have a story about surprise cock and balls.
It wasn’t a shock to women (or men) when Me Too exposed all the unwanted willy viewings. Men get off on pulling out their pee-pees for ladies, or other men, depending on their inclinations.
Do I mean ALL men? Of course not. Do I mean a lot of men? Anecdotally, yes. The majority of men? I don’t know. Would they even admit to this behavior? Probably never but especially not in today’s name-and-shame digital outrage machine. Not all penises are bad, but how do we know the good ones from the bad ones?
Many moons ago, I began cultivating a peculiar mental exercise while I was on long road trips. Looking out over landscapes filled with mountains, trees, bushes, fences, barns, silos, strip malls, abandoned buildings, etc. I would imagine if people had ever had sex in these spaces. Then I would go one step further and imagine if a man had ever rested his penis on or put it in a particular item. Don’t ask me why or how I came upon this particular fascination. It’s how my loopy brain works. It’s a me-and-how-I-relate-to-things-thing.
My catch phrase for this is: Put a Dick On It!
And hasn’t the durability of a good boner been tested with pretty much everything?
I have no research or scientific findings to bolster my conclusion. But I know that if I can think of it, some man, somewhere, already has. There are no original thoughts on a planet of eight billion people. From the numerous conversations I have had with people of the opposite sex, the external sex organ of a male human has inclinations and urges that overcome better judgment. Endlessly and often.
Chain link fence? Check. Mulberry tree? Check. Halloween pumpkin? Check. Seagrass basket? Check. Cup of lukewarm chamomile tea? Warm white Mongolian lamb pillow? Bowl of Maple baked beans? Vase of Easter lilies? Puffer coat pocket? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.
Hypothetical silliness aside, I’ve had plenty of in-real-life encounters with wieners in the wild.
I have witnessed wankers in every major city I lived in: Chicago Schlongs, San Francisco Stiffies, New York Nether Rods, Seattle Super Soakers, Los Angeles Linghams. Phalluses were flashed in my international travels too. Lucky me! Canadian Cranks. Greek Gherkins. French Firehoses. British Bratwurst. Mexican Members. Guatemalan Goldfingers. Belizean Beef Whistles. Costa Rican Chubs. What’s a good euphemism/alliteration that goes with Italy and Ireland? Inchworm? Itty bitty?
Best story: The New York City subway
Every woman living in NYC has participated in a quintessential New York experience: The Flasher. Is this a new character for a blockbuster superhero movie franchise? Nope. Just a random douche with his dick out.
In the 1990s, I encountered an infamous subway flasher. In the evening, hours after rush hour, I was with a couple of friends on the Lexington Ave Local traveling south to Union Square. We were engaged in conversation, jokes, and giggles; aware of our surroundings but not paying close attention to the people leaving the train at each stop. Once we pulled out of the 23rd Street/Park Avenue South station, my situational awareness began to focus on the fact that the only people left in our train car were my gal group of three and a solo male traveler seated roughly six to seven meters from us.
A quick glance revealed to me he was seemingly homeless, wearing a dingy, stained trench coat, worn out shoes, a dirty beanie hat pulled over matted shoulder-length hair, and a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes on his tilted head. At least that’s how I remember him. His arms were folded across his chest, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, and he appeared to be sleeping. I kept this person in my peripheral view, because as a city girl, I always have a defensive side eye for any unfamiliar male presence. And the five-year-old version of me still believes all boys have cooties.
As we were nearing our approach to Union Square, I glanced over again to see our car companion had changed his demeanor.
The man was still sleeping, but now, his trench coat was open, his legs were spread open as well, and in the middle of the crotch area of his grimy pants, a hole was cut open to expose his rather prominent penis. And on the shaft of his penis, just below the head, there was a watch. With a red wristband.
The sudden shift of my body and odd facial expression alerted my friends that something was amiss. They looked over at the man and then all three of us got quiet. As soon as those train doors opened at our stop, we bolted onto the platform, screaming out with a mixture of shock and laughter at what we had just witnessed.
Oh, the creativity! New York's very own timekeeper, giving a whole new meaning to watching your six. Because clearly, what every woman wants is not just a man, but a man who can multitask as a human sundial.
Years later, when I was in Athens, walking up a trail on Mount Lycabettus with my sister-in-law, we came upon a man playing with himself in the bushes. This time, our party of two stopped, laughed out loud, pointed, and yelled out for my brother and my husband, who were a good distance behind us, to come see the local landmark that was his Little John. The man scurried away in shame.
If only I had been older and more experienced in life, like I was in Athens, when I had my encounter with that stranger on a train. My biggest regret? Not asking that man what time it was. I mean, with the effort he put into his display, I believe he cared about keeping his Winding Stem accurate.
Over the years, I’ve lost count of how many male friends/acquaintances in high school and college, at social gatherings and work events, thought it was funny to show me their Ham in Hand. I’m not a urologist, last I checked, so they weren’t soliciting medical advice.
A harmless crank prank or something more pathological in the male species? It’s a never-ending parade of penile tissue that Bros around the world seem to believe ladies want to see and need to see. We’re asking for it, even though we don’t know we are. They know what’s best for us. We have been bestowed an all-access pass to the Pecker Party. Because a healthy dose of ding-dongs will make us all better.
And with technology/dating apps comes the ever popular “dick pic.”
Is it any less disturbing receiving an Air Drop on your computer or phone of some strange dude’s veiny, mottled meat stick?
Nope. Equally reprehensible. Pinche pendejo thought it was a great idea to shoot his shot with a pic of his sad salami.
When the stories circulate about public figures, who I happen to like and respect for their art and/or contributions to society, whipping out their weenies to unsuspecting women, my visceral reaction is anger and then it morphs into great disappointment. These men should know better. They have good minds. They all have mothers. And grandmothers. And other variations of female relatives. Aunts. Sisters. Cousins. Daughters. How do they not see the tragic miscalculation of unsolicited Skin Flute showings?
And we as women don’t have the ammunition of giving them a taste of their own medicine. They would LOVE IT if we flashed our breasts and vulvas indiscriminately. They’d view it as an invitation. Or they would HATE IT. And prosecute us to the fullest extent of man’s law aka violence and penis good, compassion and boobies bad. No matter what we do… ignore this behavior, condemn it, or report it… the turgid Trouser Snakes prevail.
I cannot change the Pocket Rocket worship that dominates planet earth. For now. But I shall to continue to push back against the Purple Pythons, and declare,
“Your Wenis is not Welcome!”
Or just ignore it as the most mundane thing. “Not impressed, One-minute man. I’ve seen bigger and better. And I’m certain you don’t know how to cater to a clitoris.”
Unless of course, I’m into you. Or I’m horny. Or I want to get pregnant. Or I just want to get laid. Then bring on the Bulge, the Beef, the Liquidator, the Boom Stick, the Bally Wacker, and the Candlestick Maker.