jubyred

Having a Huge Penis is Not So Great

an essay from the PhatPhree book...

I really have to put a stop to this glorification of giant penises. Seriously, I can’t take it anymore. From pills like Longitude to Swedish penis pumps, the fascination with having a monster manhood is out of control. Well, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I happen to have one of those “huge cocks,” and it isn't all it's cracked up to be.

        Yeah, yeah. I suppose it’s better than having a really small penis, but this damn thing hanging between my legs is ridiculous. If I had the option, I’d trade it in for regular-sized member in a second. Shit, I’d even take one on the small side. Five inches sounds great to me. I’m not kidding. There are three inches of me that is still a virgin. That’s just frustrating. There is only so many times you can hear, “slow, slow, slow, ouch” before you start to wonder if it is all worth it.

        Everybody always focuses on the few positives, but let me tell you, it ain’t all church picnics and ice cream sandwiches. Most of the time it’s just a nuisance.

       And I can’t tell you how many movies I’ve missed the first ten minutes of because I am getting the third degree from the damn ticket taker abouttrying to smuggle in outside food.

        “Sir, you can’t take that cappicola into the theater.”

        What am I supposed to say? There are kids around. It’s embarrassing.

        And, how about shorts? Those must be nice. It’s damn hot right now in Los Angeles, but unless I want to risk exposing myself to the world, I am in trousers. I can’t even wear boxer shorts. You see, it’s not just the size; it’s the weight. I need some support. Not that briefs don't    pose their own set of problems. Putting them on is like trying to stretch a twin-size, fitted sheet over a king-size mattress, but it’s better than the back problems I had when I was letting that monstrosity hang free.

        Don’t even get me started on condoms…Magnum, you say? Yeah, right. Those things are like a tourniquet. I might as well try to squeeze into the tuxedo from a Ken doll. One time, while on vacation in Mexico, I met up with this hottie local scuba instructor, Maria. We hit it off. She even tried to act excited when I pulled out my curse, but I could see the terror in her eyes. She didn’t have any trash bags or shower curtains, and I wasn’t about to raw dog it with some Third World trollop, so I ended up using the left leg of a youth-size wetsuit for protection. I couldn’t feel a goddamn thing with that on. It was a disaster.

        And forget about oral. I mean, some girls might try it for the novelty, but unless she’s a circus performer you’re half-mast even before she starts complaining about her jaw hurting.

        Sure, there are some girls who love a great big penis, but those girls are all skanks. I’m looking for a nice girl, not some loose tramp who I am embarrassed to take home to my mom. And don’t try to tell me you are a nice girl who likes her men big. If your g-spot is the underside of your left ventricle, you are a skanky ho, and I am not introducing you to my family.

        Guys are even worse. In public restrooms I try to be discreet and only pull out enough to keep my pants dry, but there is always some guy staring at me. What is the fascination? It’s just a big penis for God’s sake. I don’t want to hear about how “not gay” you are either; just look up and finish your business. And no, you cannot touch it, so stop asking me! I am a human being, not some freak show petting zoo.

        So the next time you see a well-hung porn star like Lexington Steele plowing some professional penis rider, remember that not all of us are porn stars. Some of us are just regular guys trying get through the day  without closing our big, dumb penis in a car door. Be thankful you don’t have to worry about that.

Poetry Corner

A great luxury for me is having time to just sit and read poetry.  As an English major in college, I used to do a lot of that--some by necessity, but most by choice, actually.  I have shelves and shelves of volumes of poetry, anthologies, collected works, most collecting dust at this point.

But today, on this lazy Sunday, the boys are at the baseball game, GirlChild is napping and I am feeling indulgent.  Dare I not spend the next four hours doing laundry and cleaning the house? 

I love these translations.  Here are three sappy ones from Rilke to ponder...

________________________________________________

Love Song
   
How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
    it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
    it gently up over you on to other things?
    I would so very much like to tuck it away
    among long lost objects in the dark,
    in some quiet, unknown place, somewhere
    which remains motionless when your depths resound.
    And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
    takes us together like a single bow,
    drawing out from two strings but one voice.
    On which instrument are we strung?
    And which violinist holds us in his hand?
    O sweetest of songs.

____________________________________________________

You,   beloved, who were lost
  before the beginning, who never came,
  I do not know which sounds might be precious to you.
  No longer do I try to recognize you, when, as a surging wave,
  something is about to manifest. All the huge
  images in me, the deeply-sensed far-away landscapes,
  cities and towers and bridges and un-
  suspected turns of the path,
  the powerful life of lands
  once filled with the presence of gods:
  all rise with you to find clear meaning in me,
  your, forever, elusive one.
 

_________________________________________

You, who are all
  the gardens I've ever looked upon,
  full of promise. An open window
  in a country house—, and you almost stepped
  towards me, thoughtfully. Sidestreets I happened upon,—
  you had just passed through them,
  and sometimes, in the small shops of sellers, the mirrors
  were still dizzy with you and gave back, frightened,
  my too sudden form.—Who is to say if the same
  bird did not resound through us both
  yesterday, separate, in the evening?

Translation by Cliff Crego
 

Poetry Corner

She Had Some Horses

byJoy Harjo

---

She had some horses.

She had horses who were bodies of sand.
She had horses who were maps drawn of blood.
She had horses who were skins of ocean water.
She had horses who were the blue air of sky.
She had horses who were fur and teeth.
She had horses who were clay and would break.
She had horses who were splintered red cliff.

She had some horses.

She had horses with long, pointed breasts.
She had horses with full, brown thighs.
She had horses who laughed too much.
She had horses who threw rocks at glass houses.
She had horses who licked razor blades.

She had some horses.

She had horses who danced in their mothers' arms.
She had horses who thought they were the sun and their bodies shone and burned like stars.
She had horses who waltzed nightly on the moon.
She had horses who were much too shy, and kept quiet in stalls of their own making.

She had some horses.

She had horses who liked Creek Stomp Dance songs.
She had horses who cried in their beer.
She had horses who spit at male queens who made them afraid of themselves.
She had horses who said they weren't afraid.
She had horses who lied.
She had horses who told the truth, who were stripped bare of their tongues.

She had some horses.

She had horses who called themselves, "horse."
She had horses who called themselves, "spirit." and kept their voices secret and to themselves.
She had horses who had no names.
She had horses who had books of names.

She had some horses.

She had horses who whispered in the dark, who were afraid to speak.
She had horses who screamed out of fear of the silence, who carried knives to protect themselves from ghosts.
She had horses who waited for destruction.
She had horses who waited for resurrection.

She had some horses.

She had horses who got down on their knees for any savior.
She had horses who thought their high price had saved them.
She had horses who tried to save her, who climbed in her bed at night and prayed as they raped her.

She had some horses.

She had some horses she loved.
She had some horses she hated.

These were the same horses.

---

© 1983 Joy Harjo. She Had Some Horses, Thunder's Mouth Press.

I go through phases of reading poetry.  I used to devour it in my 20s and then, well, I had children and now it's on and off depending on my mood and amount of free time I find.  I just found this Joy Harjo poem from a reading I went to when I was, like, 21 and had forgotten how powerful it is.