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A little financial advice in these hard times.

September 16, 2008 · Filed under Girly Parts, Man to man

Hey, all. Did you miss me?

(“I don’t know – who the fuck are you,” I hear you say.)

Anyway, I’m back from the Big City. Boy howdy, do they have some tall buildings there – my neck’s still sore from staring up at them! But the people sure were friendly – and the bargains! One feller let me swap ol’ Daisy, my mule, for some magic beans! They weren’t real good though. I smoked them and only got a really faint buzz. I’m sure gonna miss ol’ Daisy.

But enough about my sex life…

I’m repaying the kindness of my Mistress (I mean that in the strictly platonic and business sense. That stuff with the whip was purely coincidental) and posting this as both Girly Parts and Man to Man. The boss, unfortunately, managed to get herself caught up with Hurricane Ike. She’s okay, you’ll be glad to hear, but the power’s out and it may be some time before she’s back online.

So – scouting around for a  topic for today’s post, I thought “What’s topical? What pearls of wisdom can I impart in these troubled times?” The only reasonable answer, I thought to myself, on the cusp of global financial meltdown, is money. “But this is a blog about sex,” I replied. So – money and sex – what better combination could there be? And what better combination of sex and money could there be than that good ol’ time prostitution?

Let me say two things right from the outset: 1) I’m in favor of it; and 2) I’ve never availed myself. So let’s investigate that, shall we? (“No, please – this is sooooooo boring,” I hear you say. “Stiff,” I say.)

Why do I support it? Let me count the ways…

The first reason is probably the most profound: people like to fuck. It’s just the way we’re built. For those of you of a religious persuasion, your god/s made us that way. So I start from the proposition that:

1. The right to fuck is a basic human right.

Now that doesn’t mean that it’s a right without responsibility. Only idiots and some Americans believe that those exist. The right to fuck implies the right to refuse to fuck; one can only exercise that right if the other person willingly and without coercion agrees to fuck, regardless of whether it’s a business transaction or not.

2. Some people have a hard time exercising that right…

…for a number of reasons, including not having a current fuckbuddy; being differently-abled; or just being plain fugly.

3. People have a right to do what they want to with their bodies.

And if what they want to do with them is sell them for sex, no-one has a right to stop them (providing no-one gets hurt – see 4, below). Note the word “want” – it’s another one of those rights/responsibilities things: “want” does not include coercion.

4. People who, for whatever reason, want or need to get fucked for money have a right to do so safely.

Where I live, a prostitute (who happened to be a man) was just put on trial for plying his trade while knowingly infected with HIV and Hepatitis C. He was sentenced to 3 months. I could talk at length about that sentence, but that’s another issue).

The bottom line here is that if you fuck, or are fucked, as part of a business transaction, you have the right to have some confidence that you’re not going to die as a result. Yes, yes – there are no guarantees in life, I know. No-one will guarantee that your new washing machine won’t break down one day after it runs out of warranty, but you do have a right to expect a reasonable assurance that you’ll live through it.

5. Prostitution is a universal reality.

Wherever you go, you can buy sex. Well, I don’t speak from experience – like I said, I’ve never availed myself. But I think that it’s probably true. Even in primitive theocracies where the punishment for such things is severe, like Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan and the USA, I have no doubt that you can buy sex.

The problem is that, unless it’s legal, the kinds of protections we all have a right to expect in any ordinary commercial transaction are not available. And the more it’s frowned upon, the more likely it is that the dangers will be multiplied. (Please note – I am not suggesting that legalisation = perfect safety and security. I may be a man, but I’m not a complete fuckwit. I speak from a post-modernist view – everything’s relative.)

So to summarise: my neighbour, Joe, who’s wheelchair-bound and my cousin, Annie, who’s so fucking ugly that even Hank (Daisy’s brother) needed a dose of Viagra, have a fundamental right to engage in the sexual activities of their choice – and there’s only one way that they’re going to do that in the short term: pay for it. And remember my young friends who were having such a hard time getting laid? They have a right to make it with a buff young stud (or studette) as often as their pocket money will allow. And they all deserve to be able to do it with a reasonable degree of safety, without fear of having their limbs or other appendages cut off or of going to prison (prison for fucking – think about that – please!).

Think about those things next time you vote.

Oh, and finally, to close the circle, thanks to politicians who got paid off by the finance sector to ensure that they (the finance sector) were not subject to appropriate prudential regulation, we’re all about to get savagely reamed up the ass. This is another confluence of money and fucking, not related to prostitution. So let me give you that financial advice I promised you in the title: sell whatever shares or assets you may have while they’re still worth something, and lay in as big a supply of barrels of KY Jelly as you can. Not only will it make it easier for you, if there’s any left over you can bet it’ll be one of the few commodities that retains its value. Also, you can live in the empty barrel.

Of course you really need to consider the possibility of Peak Jelly.

Thank you.

WDM

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Man to Man

September 3, 2008 · Filed under Man to man

As the name implies, this is a column by men for men, right? And as we men know, we never lie. So the story I’m about to tell is true. Every bit of it.

I’m casting my mind back to my youth. There were giants in the Earth in those days. Well, dinosaurs anyway. This was before I’d met the love of my life, remember. Now when, in the famous words of Monty Python, I were a lad, I’d basically have given my left testicle for the privilege of inserting my dick into a real, live vagina. Any real, live vagina – pretty much. And though I succeeded with increasing frequency as I moved out of my teenage years into my 20s, I was always astounded when I did; I always counted myself to be one lucky, lucky, lucky bastard. And I think that was partially because most of the time it took a lot of effort. It was just hard work most of the time. Worth every second, of course, but hard work nevertheless, involving at best lots of what one wonderful conquest called, perfectly, “pre-copulatory chit-chat”.

Oh sure – I heard about friends of friends who had amazing success with smooth lines like “Hey – wanna fuck?”, or one who, I had it on expert advice, would sit at a table with a woman and manipulate his dick so that it rose up onto the table. Oh – sure – most of the time they earned no more than a slap in the face. But their ploys worked, so my friends swore, often enough to make it worthwhile and, I might add, often enough for me to wish that I had the guts to try it. I never did.

“But now I’m gettin’ old, I don’t wear underwear – I don’t go to church and I don’t cut my hair” as Jimmy Buffet says, but I still remember the old days and the sense that, in order to spear the bearded clam, it was necessary to overcome a significant degree of natural reticence on the part of the fair sex. (Later I came to understand that this wasn’t necessarily a matter of natural law, but that’s another story.)

So perhaps you can imagine my surprise when a couple of young ladies who realise that, because I’m an old fart who couldn’t do them any harm even if he, gods forbid, wanted to, they can confide in me and talk about stuff that, in my youth, I’d never have imagained young ladies talking about. And in these two particular cases, the subject which they confided to me how frustratingly hard it is for them to get laid.

You heard right.

These two intelligent and attractive young ladies were finding it so incredibly difficult to find a dick.

Now when they told me about this I, naturally enough, couldn’t believe it. I mean at their tender age I would have murdered my parents, sold my grandmother, run naked through my school classroom, robbed banks, done just about anything to have the chance to sink The Whiley Old Snorker into some luscious young furpie. And yet one of them actually placed an ad on a web site saying “take me – I’m yours”. (It worked. Someone responded, they got together, it was going swimmingly until – get this – this is the truth – he couldn’t get it up. Really. That sobbing sound you hear is me.) The other one, as far as I know (I haven’t heard from her for a while) is still finding it hard, though she has had some success. I hope she’s had wonderful success.

Sometimes I sits and thinks. Other times I just sits. But when I sits and thinks, I often thinks “what the fuck?” Here I spent many good years as a young man spending 90% of my waking moments (and a similar quantity of my sleeping moments) thinking about how the hell I was going to score, and here I am talking to two young women about how desperate they are for some young man to slip it to them.

There’s no justice.

Some of you may have been lucky enough to see the classic porn movie “Devil in Miss Jones”. It’s one of the vanishingly rare porn movies that had such a damn good plot that it could have been a classic even without the porn. Long story short, Miss Jones dies young, goes to hell, and meets the Devil. She laments having lived life as a virgin and, in return for her soul (what else), Mephistopheles sends her back for a brief while, which she uses to excellent advantage. Times up, and off to Hell she goes having sampled, in that brief time, every pleasure of the flesh that life could offer. Old Nick, ever the subtle trickster, having seen that she’s now sexually obsessed consigns her to eternity, in all her youthful beauty and energy, in a room with a handsome, buff young stud who (and this is the good bit) is totally uninterested in sex.

I know how she felt.

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Man to Man

August 26, 2008 · Filed under Uncategorized

I made the mistake of asking The Esteemed Miss Moxie whether there was anything that she particularly wanted me to write about this week. I should have known better.

“MIcropenis,” she said.

At first I responded, as you do, with the inevitable “WTF?”. But being a responsible journalist I did some research and, the more I read, the more I realised that it’s no WTF matter. And then my esteemed colleague kookiedoh burst onto the scene with her intensely personal account of the importance of sex in relationships, at which point it all clicked and I began to think about micropenis as a condition, and what it might mean to someone with the condition.

According to the respected medical dictionary Wikipedia:

“Micropenis is a medical term that describes an unusually small penis. A common criterion is a dorsal (measured on top) erect penile length of at least 2.5 standard deviations smaller than the mean penis size. The condition is usually recognized shortly after birth. The term is most often used medically when the rest of the penis, and perineum is without ambiguity such as hypospadias.”

To those of us without medical training, it means a very small dick. There are pictures on the linked page and a Google search will provide you with all the information you need.

Now after all that we’ve said in these pages, you’d think that, while micropenis might be one of those conditions that could be compensated for. And in many ways I’m sure it could; a person with a micropenis could find many ways to engage in satisfying sex, and his partner could undoubtedly be well satisfied sexually. We know this. We accept it as truth.

But it’s bullshit.

I lay awake thinking about this. Really. I tried to imagine what it would be like. And if my imagination bears even the slightest relationship to reality, I can tell you now that it would be hell.

I imagined the strategies that Mister Micropenis would have to learn from an early age to stop his schoolchums from seeing it in the toilets and the showers. Children (the cruellest of all Nazis) would make life hell for MM from the first glance and, within minutes, the schoolyard would echo to the taunts and jibes. Gods – it would be horrible. I wonder how many childhood suicides, how many psychiatric conditions are the result of an inevitable sideways glance at the urinal. Guys – you all know what I’m talking about.

And I imagined what MM’s first tentative steps in the dating game would be like. At some point, if MM has managed to make it to adolescence both alive and sane, he’s likely to find someone who’s interested enough to be a potential sexual partner. Think about it. If you’re an old fart, like me, try to remember how damn hard it was to take those first steps. If you’re young, get off my lawn. And when you’ve done that, think about how infinitely more difficult it would be to be Mister Micropenis. There you are, testosterone fizzing like a shaken-up bottle of Croke, thinking – hoping – that this might – finally – lead to IT…

When do you mention it?

“Um, just in case we, you know, end up doing it, I thought I should tell you…”

Do you mention it early in the game, being honest and risking possible disqualification simply for mentioning sex before you have any right to assume? Do you wait until s/he’s undressed and in bed (or on the back seat of the car) before mentioning it? Or do you not mention it at all and hope against every god there is that s/he won’t laugh (the worst of all possibilities).

If you have any shred of empathy at all you’ll start to feel some of the brutality that life’s kitchen has dished out to Mister Micropenis.

Read what Netdoctor has to say then read kookiedoh’s violently honest and heart-wrenching tale. Netdoctor is a steaming pile of crap.

How many Mister Micropenises end up in stable and long-term relationships, I wonder. Some, undoubtedly. How many live lives (as Roger Waters so perfectly expressed it) of quiet desperation? How many never make it to the term of their natural life?

Next time you hear someone say “size doesn’t matter”, tell them that they’re full of shit.

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Man to Man

August 19, 2008 · Filed under Man to man · Tagged , ,

Well, the Olympics is nearly over for another four years. And wasn’t it wonderful? It’s just one long, continuous orgasm for two weeks. Maybe it’s even better than an orgasm? Who can describe the excitement of seeing one person swim or ride or run or throw something one hundredth of a second faster, or one hundredth of a millimetre farther than someone else? What can equal the sheer intensity of soul-searching as we ask in our heart of hearts whether we really believe that muscular, wasp-waisted hottie owes it all to training and not to steroids? What the depth of our admiration for the heroic efforts of these fine young men and women who’ve sacrificed everything for the once-in-a-lifetime chance for glory and multi-million dollar sponsorships from McDonalds?

By now you’ve probably realised that there’s just the faintest hint of sarcasm there. Come on – let’s be honest. The Olympics are a bore. And not just a little bore but a huge, global, all-encompassing, multi billion dollar yawn; a veritable cornucopia of nympholepsy narcolepsy. (I didn’t do that – my spelling checker did. Really.)

And it’s a damn shame. Here we are in the first decade of the 21st century and, though my flying car seems to be as elusive as ever, surely it’s not beyond us to turn the Olympics from their current state of terminal morbidity into something really, seriously exciting – something that we can actually enjoy, instead of just pretending that we enjoy.

The ancient Greeks had it right. Those guys were really into excitement. No mamby-pamby bullshit for them – if the loser in the boxing wasn’t killed outright, the excitement of seeing someone beaten into a bloody pulp really added spice to the evening’s post-Olympic carousal.

We need to take a page from their book. And if you’re reading this column you’ve probably already guessed where this is heading. Sex.

It’s not hard, is it? (Stop that – you know what I mean.) It’s the one thing the Olympics lacks; the one thing that would blow it instantly it out of the doldrums and thrust it into the roaring forties of televisual sponsorship excitement.

It’s so simple. The categories are obvious: Hetero, Homo, Auto. Single contestants, doubles or teams; 2 male 2 female. The potential is limitless.

The doping criteria are simple: Viagra = doping (not that that should prevent, for one second, sponsorship deals with Roche Pharmaceuticals.) Imagine what the makers of KY Jelly would pay for the sponsorship rights? And Ansell, the rubbergoods maker! The Mom and Pop’s Corner Sex Emporium and Fetish Barn chain! A whole new world of sponsorship deals opens up before your lust-filled eyes!

And that $5,000 high definition teevee you’ve just bought? Finally – a justification that the little woman can  get behind!

So there you have it. And to show that I’m one helluva great guy, I hereby offer the concept free of charge to the International Olympic Committee on one condition: I get to be the head judge.

See you in London, sports fans.

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Man to Man

August 13, 2008 · Filed under Man to man · Tagged , ,

it’s been a while. I’d rather not go into details. Just suffice it to say that raw meat can carry bacteria that are relatively easily absorbed into the human body if applied to facial contusions around the eye area. From now on my use of steak will be limited to absorbtion through the alimentary tract.

Anyway – on to this week’s episode which, in a roundabout way, related to fetishes. It all started when a friend pointed me to this site. For those of you without web browsers or an Internet connection, it’s an advertisement for a product called “Man-T-Hose” – essentially a pair of panty hose for men. But the words of the ad do it far greater justice than I ever could:

Now there is a pair of nylons made for MEN! Man-T-Hose is a pair of nylons specially cut just for men. Man-T-Hose even has a pouch for him to put his ‘manhood’ in. Great at parties or as a novelty gift. Ladies – Make him dress up for you for a change. This is as masculine as nylons will ever get, so don’t let this opportunity pass by.

Let’s deconstruct that for a minute, shall we? OK – so it’s panty hose for men, with ample room for the wedding tackle, at the low price of $5.95. “So what’s the problem with that?” I hear you say. Nothing. Not a thing. I know that wearing women’s clothing is a turn-on for a significant number of us, and there’s nothing wrong with that at all. But let’s consider the context. This is an ad on a site called “Stoner’s Funstores” (motto: “selling funny, goofy stuff since 1949 !”), an online store dedicated to an eclectic range of costumery, novelties, jokes and the like. The sort of stuff you’d wear to a Halloween party, or to go trick-or-treating in. All good fun.

But there’s something out of place about Man-T-Hose among the scary (Batgirl – eeeeeekkkk!) costumes and hilariously clever T shirts (“I’m 30 – that’s dead in dog years!” – gods – I can’t stop laughing about that one). Nothing else on the site – that I can see, anyway – is so obviously fetish gear. No bunny-tail butt plugs; no anal beads; no truffle-flavored lube – none of the equipment that’s stock-in-trade for Mom and Pop’s Corner Sex Emporium and Fetish Barn .

So my question, dear reader, is this: what they fuck was The Stoner thinking? Was s/he imagining that, among the happy trick-or-treaters, some overweight 40 year old would rock up wearing nothing but a pair of Man-T-Hose?

“Oh honey – look at that one – isn’t he adorable? Give him extra candy!”

“Hey, those look really comfortable. Plenty of room for the bedroom flute! Where did you get those, little guy?”

Or was Stoner simply so stoned when he bought the containerload of Man-T-Hose that it was something like:

“Hey man – check this out! Pantyhose for meeeeeeeeeen. See? My dick fits right in here!”

(Suuuuuck) “Cool. You should order some of those, man.”

The best explanation wins guaranteed immortality. Remember – nothing ever disappears from the Web! And if, like me, you simply can’t imagine, just tell us about your favourite fetish.

I’ve gotta go. It’s time for my antibiotic.

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Man to Man

July 22, 2008 · Filed under Man to man

It’s been a busy day, right? I’ve worked hard, the traffic was a biotch, you know the deal. So I get home, and there’s the little woman woman wearing those jeans that make her butt stick out like…like a butt that really sticks out, you know? Of course you do. So anyway, after a day like that, what’s a guy to do? I whip out the old one-eyed trouser snake, wave it around, say something romantic like “bend over and spread ‘em, because here comes my BULLET,” rip off said jeans and take her right there in the kitchen. From the rear. It’s what anyone would do, isn’t it?

Well, it turns out I did make a couple of small mistakes that, in retrospect, I should probably have considered beforehand.

I should have had a beer first. That’s the first thing. If I’d had a beer first, it’s possible that I would have given myself just a little more time to think before giving in to the irresistable (man – you should see her butt – maybe I’ll get a pic to post when she’s not looking, but that’s another issue) urge. So if I’d had a beer first, I probably would have thought “maybe I’d better wait until the neighbours leave.” I’m not saying definitely, of course, but maybe.

And maybe I’d have waited until the kids were in bed. Not that I think it did them any lasting damage. I mean kids have to learn about these things sooner or later but, as the Little Woman suggested, perhaps learning by watching Mommy and Daddy going at it like ferrets isn’t exactly what the child psychologists might recommend. Not that I’m a child psychologist, mind you – I’m paraphrasing what TLW suggested. (She’s not a child psychologist either. She’s a microbiologist, but I respect her opinions, even when they’re outside her immediate sphere of expertise,)

So as incomprehensible as it may be to me, I have to take her thoughts on board, right? And they were something like this…

Terrie and Sherrie (not their real names) have been a little under the weather recently. Something to do with a combination of teething and mastitis. (The kids don’t have mastitis – TLW does. I think that’s actually a little unfair – what would I know about mastitis? I don’t have boobies!) So apparently this has reduced TLW’s sleep pattern to something like one hour a night. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the gruesome details – to cut a long story short, she really didn’t feel in the mood for some serious lovin’ at that particular moment. The looks on the faces of the neighbours (the local Vicar and her husband) didn’t help, apparently. (Yeah – beats me too – I would have expected cheers of encouragement – there’s no accounting for taste.)

So what did I learn from this experience?

Most importantly, I learnt to have a beer first. I’m going to make that my motto. “Have a beer first.” The more you think about it, the more it makes sense.

Next, and TLW tells me this is the most important part, I’ve learnt that that any time isn’t necessarily the right time, and any place isn’t necessarily the right place.

“What madness is this?” I hear you say.

Well, it’s what she tells me, and I really have to respect that. (At least I do if I don’t want to sleep in the shed for the rest of the week.)

Those of you who read my first column will feel some resonance here. I think it’s got something to do with the fact that The Fair Sex (Huhuhuhu – I said “sex”) sees things differently.

It think I learned somthing today. Next time I’m overcome with the urge, here’s what I’m going to do: first, I’m going to have a beer. Then, when I’m on my way home from work, I’m going to stop at the florist and pick up a dozen red roses, a nice bottle of wine, and book a table at that Thai place that she really likes. (It’s amazing what you can do at that florist’s – they’ve really got it worked out.)

Then, when I get home from work, I’m going to take the kids to the neighbours (ever since that little “episode” I’ve never had to ask them twice) and, after dinner, I’m going to ask if she feels like it before I whip out the wiley old snorker.

And the other thing I’ve learned? You know that stuff about putting a steak on a black eye? It doesn’t work.

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Man to Man

July 16, 2008 · Filed under Man to man · Tagged ,

I remember seeing something in a Playboy magazine (which I only read for the pictures of naked women) which stuck in my mind, kind of the way that the pages stuck together. It was a cartoon of Moses standing on the mountaintop, peering up into the clouds with a bemused expression (“bemused” doesn’t mean “amused”, it means “puzzled”) saying “Let me get this straight – you want us to cut off the ends of our dicks.”

Like a lot of funny things, it was funny because it was true. I mean think about it – who first decided that it was a good idea to cut off the end of someone’s dick? (Well, I can think of some people whose dicks I’d happily foreshorten, but that’s another issue.) What’s particularly odd is that circumcision is so widely practised. It’s not confined to the middle east. From Africa to Australia, societies have been lopping off foreskins as a rite of passage for thousands of years so we have to assume that the idea developed independently in each of them. It’s just plain weird.

I’m thankful (well, I’m glad – “thankful” kind if indicates that there’s someone to thank) that female “circumcision” never caught on to the same degree. Where this unspeakably barbaric practise of clitoridectomy takes place its sole purpose is to ensure that women never enjoy sex – providing, of course, that they live through it. Whatever male circumcision is for, I venture it’s not that. If it is, I have some bad news for you, guys. But I digress. (I digress a lot. It’s something I do.)

What’s as odd as the practise itself is that it has survived until now; not just among people who believe that their invisible friend told them to do it, but among just about everyone. Until a few years ago it was something that you just did in (what we laughingly refer to as) the west. Reasons were various, but in many cases it was was “for cleanliness” or “so he’d look like Daddy” (that last, of course, is one of those chicken and egg things). Over the last few decades it’s fallen out of favor, although there was something of a resurgence for a while with some studies indicating lower rates of cervical cancer among women whose partners are circumcised, although more recent discoveries about the role of human papillomavirus have largely buried that one. Don’t take my word for that, by the way – what do I look like? A doctor?

Anyway, I think the arguments against circumcision outweigh the arguments for it. We know that the foreskin is the male clit – loaded with nerve endings specifically designed for fun. (Not that lopping it off leaves one nerveless; the glans (that little double-knob thing on the underside of the head) has its share of nerve endings that, judging by the porn movies, work quite well.) Cleanliness isn’t an issue – we solved that one when we invented soap.

“So,” I hear you say, “wtf is all this disconnected rant about?” (Or, if you’re a Canadian, “wtf is all this disconnected rant about, eh?”

This: if you ever end up being the parent of a boy, let him make the decision himself. Yes, I know it’s a bigger deal when you’re an adult than when you’re a baby (at least we think it is – I don’t remember anyone actually asking the baby), but cutting off the end of your dick is a big deal regardless. If he really thinks it’s the Right Thing To Do, or that it’s necessary, or that one or more gods told him to do it, or simply that it’s easier than buying soap, he’ll put up with it. If you make the decision to have him circumcised it’s just possible that he might, as some circumcised males end up doing, hate you forever for disfiguring him permanently before he was in a position to have any say in the matter.

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It ain’t the meat it’s the motion…

July 8, 2008 · Filed under Man to man

…as the song says.

If you look at pr0n on the web (and who doesn’t?) or if you take any notice of spam (does anyone?) you could be forgiven for thinking that if your dick’s any shorter than 10 inches you might as well opt for a life of celibacy. You’ll never satisfy a woman, so you might as well give up right now.

What you need, my friend, is a MONSTER COCK! Let me repeat that – a MONSTER COCK! If you had a MONSTER COCK you’d be an instant hit with the chicks. It wouldn’t matter if you were an ignorant fuckwad, a racist moron, a total loser, a self-absorbed douchebag, whatever. The one thing you need to have Paris Hilton come on to you from across the country is a MONSTER COCK!

Do you want to know a secret? Okay – lean in close, now, we don’t want the world to hear this, do we? It’s just between you and me.

The size of your dick is item number 99 on the list of 100 Things That Matter to Women.

“Wait!” you say. “You mean the spammers were lying?”

Well, only partly. There’s one group of people who are really going to be impressed with your MONSTER COCK. The problem is, it’s not women. It’s your male friends.

“Waaaaahh!” you say. “UR TEH GAY!”

Well no, I’m not. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The fact is that it’s only us males who give a rat’s ass about the size of our dicks. Well – I mean as long as we have one, but even that’s negotiable. Be honest with yourself, now. When you’ve looked at that guy in the pr0n movie – you know the one – the guy with the MONSTER COCK – haven’t you secretly said to yourself “man – I wish I had one like that.” try this experiment. Find a girl – any girl – and show her that movie. Then show her your dick, and ask her whether she’d rather the MONSTER COCK or yours.

When you get out of jail, try it again, but this time find a girl who’s a good enough friend so that you can do that without having her call the cops. Mind you, by now you’re pretty old and chances are the size of your dick is not really an issue any more, but you could try it anyway. Make sure you explain that you’re not specifically referring to *your* dick, but just using your dick as an example of a dick that’s not a MONSTER COCK.

If she says that she’d rather the MONSTER COCK than yours, I’ll send you a dollar. No – really – I mean it. I really will. That’s how confident I am.

So the point’s made. We guys are really impressed by dick size. Chicks, on the other hand, aren’t in particular. (Being a hetero mail, I’m basically speaking for hetero males here – I leave it to my gay colleagues to talk about whether gay males are impressed by MONSTER COCKS or not. It’ll be an interesting thing.)

So – if it’s not MONSTER COCKS that impress the chicks, what is it?

But that’s a subject for another column.

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