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.
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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.
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