Since the good people of Stuy Town have not seen fit to turn on the heat yet, I found myself having added socks to my customary bedroom attire which is drawers. I generally dislike sleeping in socks unless I’m deathly ill, but having cold feet is just not a reality I care to deal with when I know I could do something about it. Besides, The Feath is Queen of the Chilly Feet and two people in bed with chilly feet is like two junkies sharing a rock: united in destruction. Or something.
Anyway, as I jumped into bed last night, I found myself puzzling over various things; the sort of puzzling one is wont to do when they are trying to get warm in bed and aren’t yet at the point where their brain has volunteered to shut itself down for the evening. Sitting there, I stumbled upon a question:
How come guys in porno don’t take their socks off? Read the rest of this entry »
Baby butts are small. Adult butts? Less small.
Why then are baby wipes gigantic, moist paper towels devoted to baby butt crack while the adult equivalent are little better than the moist napkins that come with a platter of baby back ribs?
I’m a baby wipe fan. Have been since the ’05-’06 season. They’re versatile; they’re not only are a welcome finish to seated bathroom moments but are also a far superior alternative to a beat down towel after a roll in the hay. In fact, it’s not a terrible idea to give yourself the once-over with a wipe pre-roll, just to make sure you’re squared away.
After dropping off my laundry the other day–I stunt saditty baby–I hit Walgreens for some household needs. In one of my generally worthless, quasi-green moments, I elected to buy the adult wipes, which are about a third of the size of a regulation baby wipe but are flushable.
That’s baby wipes’ one flaw: You can’t flush ‘em. I do anyway, but being on this responsible kick of late, I elected to go with the 42-count adult wipes.
Fuck kicks and fuck adult wipes. They’re tragically insufficient in both the bathroom and post-coital realm. If you want to be clean and not get filth on your hands, you’re using two, which is a waste.
I realize baby wipes are giant because there’s a lot more material to deal with. But adult butts, while better wiped post-movement, have more area to cover. If that’s not enough, our hands are bigger. And, being the guy I am, I don’t care to touch poop.
Can’t we find some butt-appropriate size in the middle?
And now, some loosely-related coonery
So, seeing as I not only work for my parents–who are Black–and live in their place of residence–where they are still Black–a good deal of my social agenda takes place in automobiles. Whenever I get down about this fact, I try to just tell myself that I live in the Iberian peninsula and shouldn’t move out until I get married anyway. This doesn’t actually help, but losery loves company. Anyway, while recently partaking in some vehicular shenanigans, lost in the throws of post-graduate catharsis, I broke one of my cardinal rules: I let out an orgasm noise.
Now I’m no one’s WASP–though my friend thinks I’m something of a prude/not terribly gully because I wouldn’t observe art in the British gallery nude–one of my general no no’s is is the nut noise. I mean, I barely like to make a face in the course of an orgasm. I don’t have anything against it per se–well, that’s kind of a lie, seeing as I have a cardinal rule against it–I just don’t care to express myself in that way. Clearly, I don’t look like a dead body when I fire off, but I try to keep the emoting to a minimum. I prefer to clench in such a way that you might think I’m holding in a sneeze, and then exhale as if I’d done some good reps on the squat machine. If it’s a particularly good session, I will allow myself the “I just dunked on you and got fouled” yell. Stuck pig squeals? Never. ‘Just kicked in the pills’ grunt? Please.
I suppose it stems from self-awareness. For as many times as I’ve been to the rodeo, I find myself wondering how much I’ve fully enjoyed the show. It’s not to say I haven’t had some stellar tussles, I just think there’s some disconnect between me and the moment (Sidebar 1: I know this feeling extends to other arenas that do not involve fornication, such as live concerts. I’ve also found that surprisingly, alcohol is a swell gap-bridging lubricant, but I shy away from its frequent use. I hear it’s known to cause fatness and alcoholism). I am fully a participant, yet fully a spectator. Couple this with the fact that, as my friend quipped, “sex was my business,” and I wonder if I’ve in some way squandered the opportunities I’ve been afforded. I’ve been lucky; I once enjoyed a certain kind of life and that life was generous to me. Of late though, I’ve been wondering more and more about this disconnect and what contributes to it.
On one level, I know it can be contributed to a former lifestyle. I operated under a certain group of assumptions that dictated my actions. Firstly, I devoted myself to the pleasure of the other person. The thinking being, if they’re happy, they’re more likely to be bout it which, in turn, makes me happy. Secondly, I believed–and still believe–that having sex with someone once is not noteworthy; indeed, repeat performances are worth talking about (though that’s counterintuitive seeing as repeats are often predicated on being able to keep your mouth shut, unless of course your dealing with a known floozy who has no respect for herself, which you should generally avoid). Put the above together, and sexual encounters become a semi-nerve wracking experience. It’s akin to high school sports: still very enjoyable, but with a seriousness about it that prevent it from being given the label “fun.” If you get into that routine long enough, sex indeed becomes more business and less pleasure.
A this juncture, a person could certainly make the argument that I cheapened the point of sex. Where I can’t go all the way there–refer back to the various stellar tussles about which I have little to no regret–but I can say the business approach takes the fun out of it.
All that doesn’t really answer the question though. So why don’t I make sex faces or squeal like a stuck pig? I think it comes down to being sensitive but not openhearted. With no hint of sarcasm, I can say I have the sensitivity part down; frankly, I think that’s the reason–and not necessarily my stroke–that I was once a success (Sidebar 2: Don’t get me wrong; my stroke’s OK, I just wouldn’t say, gun to my head, that is key to the magic). Sensitivity works with all people on all levels I believe, and I think it’s particularly important in the bedroom, or car for that matter.
But openheartedness is different. Being openhearted requires something that sensitivity does not: the entirety of your heart. Your heart and all your passions and fears and insecurities and hopes and all other things that make us feeling creatures. Sensitivity doesn’t require us to exist in the uncertainty of a moment; sensitivity, while when sincere is still governed by the heart is still influenced by the mind. To be openhearted, the mind cannot be given the same amount of influence. To be truly openhearted is to be utterly devoid of bullshit, willing to stand in the awesome and terrifying light of truth. If it sounds dramatic, that’s because it is.
And more important than this, the openhearted must possess the courage to ignore fear and step into the void. At its most epic, that is what sex is: a demonstration of one’s open heart. I believe this to be a truth that can’t be dictated by social mores or religious doctrine or any other external influence. Openheartedness is determined by the individual. That is where I am disconnected. That is where I struggle.
So for my many memorable rodeos, those of the openhearted variety are few and far between. This is one of the “it’s not you, it’s me” scenarios that actually exist. I suppose it’s because I’m afraid of being vulnerable, afraid that someone would know something about me. Revealed secrets can’t be gotten back. The great question I’ve been afraid to ask is this: What happens when you put your heart in someone’s hand?
I didn’t write all this to find a clever way of saying I found someone to hold my heart. That I’m still trying to figure out like everybody else. No, I guess I’m just realizing that squealing like a pig might be the first step to open your heart. Peace to American Graffiti.
Penultimate Thought: I’m tired of wearing jeans.
Final Thought: When you hate on other countries, It’s not a great idea to ask them produce more oil so you can lower your gas prices.
Recently, she added a new colt to the rotation and had yet to decide whether or not she would give him a shot at the title (I mixed so many metaphors right there that I am almost ashamed). While he was a nice guy, she deemed him a bit too paunchy and in need of some paunch loss before slapping stomachs could legitimately be placed on the table. She had a requirement, a requirement he didn’t know about, of fifteen pounds or (no) bust.
The above was of course contingent upon the rest of the rotation fulfilling their dictal obligations. But, as is wont to happen to everyone who has ever engaged in the Life, ole girl hit a drought. Worse, her MVP went on sabbatical and thus she has been deprived of the catnip. Sadly, among singles in the post-modern era–or any era really–such dire straits tests the resolve; some power through the rough patch and emerge with standards in tact; others open the gates to Jerusalem and let the heathens in.
As you may have guessed by now, my friend, in need of some quality time, forwent the fifteen pound double secret ultimatum and let the young colt saddle up. Remember, he was a nice guy, nice enough looking sans paunch, and history has often shown that the its the people who you don’t expect that lay the pipe illest. Here, history was apparently on sabbatical.
His grade: F-.
And here’s the rubric as to why:
1. He had man boobs. “A legit 32B, possibly a C depending on the bra”
2.He was a tongue down the throat kisser. “I literally had to tell him, ‘Whoa buddy, too much tongue.’”
3. He was a hard sucker. “My nipples hurt.”
4.It lasted 5-8 minutes maximum “I wasn’t even that mad because Iwas so bored.”
5. He wasn’t packing “I mean, his dick wasn’t even big.”
When I heard stories like this in school, I’d laugh and heckle. When I heard this the other day, I shook my head with legitimate sad feelings in my heart. See, it’s different in real life. You don’t have that critical mass of people with whom to make up sexual follies with–for free no less. Out in the world, you’re very likely frequenting a limited number of places–work, your home, maybe a social place (assuming of course you have the money to do so); not only don’t you have to time or money for critical mass, you very likely don’t even know where it is.
On the occasions you get to slay, the margin for error is much slimmer. In school, you have bad sex on Tuesday, that situation could be reasonably rectified by Wednesday, if not Tuesday depending on the time of the incident. Bad sex in real life is often only followed up by the realization that good sex is some oasis in the distance.
While my friend, who will usually try to find something redeemable about someone she’s rolled in the hay with, just sort of shrugged off the performance, I sat outraged. I just don’t understand what some guys are doing when they get in the cut. On one hand, I blame the women that allow them to just be bad and never tell them, but I mainly think the onus lies with the guy. I fully believe that every guy can be OK at sex. Not great, but OK; I mean, even “unremarkable” is leagues superior to F-.
Let’s take our friend’s rubric for example and note the little, little things he could have done to better this for himself.
1. Some dudes have tits. While it’s best not to, it is something that happens and shouldn’t preclude them from procreating. HOWEVER, the ratio of your boobs to G has to be proportional. Namely, the bigger your boobs are, the greater your swag must be. Use any fat rapper as an example and it holds Kool-Aid. This guy was “nice” which, doesn’t mean he has no G, but if “nice” isn’t followed up by “charming” or “charismatic”, you needs must have less boob.
2. Just don’t put your tongue down peoples’ throats. In my opinion, when your first kissing a person, less tongue is better. Granted, I also think tongue kissing should be reserved for people you know like that, but if you feel the need to slip some pink, you should not be hitting wisdom teeth. You should be more like a kitten drinking milk, using just the right amount of tongue and savoring the moment.
3. Don’t suck hard. It’s foreplay, not liposuction.
4. I’m not a marathon man, but you need to stretch out that first go-round to a reasonable length of time. This is your audition and in order to get a callback, you’ve got to put up competitive numbers. There’s no getting around this. In the cases where you just can’t hold out, there has to be something that you do very well. In these instances, this is where you can use as much tongue as you like (sort of). Frankly, I think you have a borderline obligation to give her some love below if you can’t break the couple minute mark/ get it up. In my least fine hours, this theory has served me well.
5. Dick size is something you can’t do anything about, and if it’s not something you can hang your hat on, you just have to make sure your game is airtight in other areas.
Before my friend got off the horn, she wryly quipped, “See, this is exactly why you should take the car out for a test drive before you buy it.” Perhaps more importantly, we should be asking ourselves every now and again, “Does my lot sticker say ‘Fully loaded’ or ‘Needs work’?” Peace to the fundamentals.
Penultimate Thought: Supreme Obnoxiousness of the Week: The Michelle met Stephen A. Smith at a bar and, while drunk, continually said “HOWEVA” to him, even after he made it clear it was not funny to him.
Final Thought: The sun is better than lots of things.
Seeing as I’m trying to write a bit before I’m inevitably compelled not to, I went ticking through possible topics and came back to the only thing worth talking about–because it encompasses most things worthy of discussion–sex. And just so you don’t think I didn’t really give it an effort, here’s a bit of how my process went:
- Family? Generally fine, and anything worth talking about is none of your business.
- Politics? The Black guy won. Some of the female folk are salty, saying it’s an example of how sexism supersedes race, but never neglect to mention that a Black guy won. Yes, they even let a nigga try to be president before a white lady. Considering who benefited most from Affirmative Action over the last forty years, I’m willing to make that trade. And frankly, Hillaryites, he won because he didn’t seem like “business as usual.” Your girl did. If it makes you feel better, I think Michelle Obama could’ve given you a run for your money.(See that was only about a paragraph).
- Gas prices? They’re high and I ride the bus.
- Economy? We’re not at the point of using the dollar as wallpaper. Yet.
- The environment? We are fucking up. And going green costs green.
-Religion? They’re might be a God. Or they’re might not.
-R. Kelly? WOW.
See? I’m forced to go with what I know. Now the question is, what am I going to say? After wrestling between two topics–I’m gonna keep the truly juicy one in the hopper for now–I decided to let a summer Saturday morning guide me. At this time of day, I feel relaxed and reflective. And it is with this mood that I type. This is something of an open letter to the women who have made my life interesting.
To Whom It Does Concern:
As I stroll down memory lane, there isn’t a question in my mind that I have some degree of G. Though I am human and am unfortunately subject to bouts of wackness, I tend to think that I am worth a young woman’s time and energy. I blame my dad. Loyal to my mother, a devoted husband and father, never mistake for a second his swag. The guy’s a Scorpio. I blame my mother, a woman of grace and passion who set the bar for thoroughness so high that I could always proceed into situations with the notion, “Girl, you ain’t badder than my mama.”
Shit, I even blame my brother, who stayed leanin’ with that nice guy swag. What can I say? It’s a family affair.
Still, despite my genetic dispositions, I must take the time to say thank you. Without you, Id be just another clown spouting off with sad hypotheticals and far-fetched innuendo. Because of you I never have to lie. Now I could easily spend the time worrying about the pathos and effects of such a life–and I have. But those are night time thoughts. Right now, the sun is out and I can spend a lot of time smirking at the follies of my youth. Did we really try to do it one hundred times in a month?
Let’s set possible beef aside for a second. On days like these, I cackle with delight at the thought of too-small sweatpants, senior film projects, broken futons, extra-long twins, sultan beds, no bed, trundle beds, guest beds–with your cousin in the next room. We even got it done before the cops could catch us.
Some people might think it’s crass that I would spend time to say, “Hey, I appreciate that we did the do,” but when I think about, I think most show a lack of respect because they don’t. The do ain’t no right. And while I appreciate a a go at the rodeo as much as the next man, I’d be lying if I said that any vagina would do. Whether you knew it or not, no matter the level of our seriousness, you very likely had sex with my frontal lobe before you did with my lower one. As Aristotle noted, “A man should steer clear of chickenheads.”
I appreciate that you allowed to learn and improve. If wish I could say you always got more than you expected. But we know that’s not true. Sometimes I wasn’t “ready”–things could happen so fast that my manly parts were on tape-delay–; sometimes I feel asleep and sometimes the fight was over before it started. And while I’m sure you might have cackled with a homegirl or two, you generally kept my name out the streets, as I attempted to keep yours. At times, I wonder why you didn’t let me get chewed up. I’ve come to the conclusion that it came down to respect, and that humbles me still.
Thanks for being there when I got it right.
But mostly I want to say thanks for letting me lay in your hair. Curly, wavy, straight, weaved, relaxed, braided, brushed, teased, tossed and occasionally sweated out. If you do the math, I’d say a staggering majority of our time spent in bed wasn’t spent tussling. It was spent talking, laughing, debating; wasting whole days naked for the sake of the skin. And you would bring me safety as I slept. Warm milk has nothing on you.
It’s always good to see you on the lane. Take care of yourself.
So, seeing as I have The New York Times as my homepage just so I can feel like I’m up on what the liberal elite qualify as newsworthy, I had occasion to see that New York’s governor has apparently gotten himself into a bit of a situation regarding himself and a network of women who are given money in exchange for carnal satisfaction. As is customary with my homepage perusal, I looked at the headline, the picture and the first few sentences which the Times hope will entice me into clicking the link and reading further into a story that doesn’t put any money in my pocket whatsoever.
Now, I wish I could tell you that I read further and was dazzled by this yarn of deceits and betrayal, power and sex. But I didn’t click the link because, as I said, I have the page up mainly so I can stay somewhat informedish and have some semblance of an idea of what’s going on when one of the wonks, literati or talented tenthers in my life engage me in some discussion or another. Most of the time I’m still not nearly as informed as they–mainly because I care much less than they do–but I digress. I didn’t read the story and as of right now have no opinion on the facts other than the one I quickly formed–namely, “You dummy”–upon seeing the headline and picture splashed in the middle of the page (Sidebar 1: That’s partially why I like having an informative homepage. You just click on your browse and it can tell you almost anything. Sometimes you get Randy Moss to the Patriots; other times you get the Bhutto assassination. It’s a crapshoot, but what can I say, I shoot crap. Or something.)
Nope. I won’t be writing about Spitzer’s situation because I’d be someone not knowing what the hell I was talking about. The reason I’m tickling the keys right now is the picture the Times used. It’s the standard politician “I fucked up” press conference photo–Navy blue background, the American and state flag on poles off to the left, the mahogany podium and a man who is at the very least–or possibly most–really upset that he got caught with his pants down. But there’s one more piece to this press conference puzzle. The wife; the woman standing by as her husband humiliates himself and dishonors her.
Though what I’m about to say is not terribly earth-shattering, it still struck me in a particular way today for some reason. There he is explaining his indiscretions and there she was, by his side, with that pained and shamed look on her face and the only thing I could think was: Why does she need to be there for this?
Let’s for a second take an extremely reductionist approach to marriage, particularly the vows. Each is supposed to honor and obey, love and protect. I think we can say that that is basically out in the Spitzer house. Now the other side essentially says stand by your spouse no matter what. Obviously this isn’t at issue since she was standing there. My issue is this: Why does she have to be there for him in public during a moment that directly affects her relationship with this person? Since he only kind of honored his vows, wouldn’t it stand to reason that she should only kind of have to honor hers with regard to the through thick and thin statute?
This isn’t just a real estate scandal that makes the public question the ethics of her husband; this is a situation which flies in the face of everything that their relationship is based on. Now, I don’t believe for a second that the wives of politicians have any illusions about who their husbands are. It’s reasonable enough to believe that she knew about this situation well in advance of the public. Whatever your opinion, people make compromises and trades for whatever reason and it would be smug to stand in judgment, especially since your judgment is essentially immaterial. The Spitzers are a married couple and they came to whatever understanding or agreement that they felt necessary. Still, no matter the circumstance, no one likes to be embarrassed in this fashion, publicly or privately.
My question isn’t why these women stay with these men–every situation is complicated and particular in its own way–my question is why they need to be at these press conferences. Is it to reinforce the importance of standing by your spouse, even in the face of situations that are not a ringing endorsement for marriage in the first place? If you are willing to work through your struggles as a team–and in my humble opinion the most important component to marriage is thinking of yourselves as a team–why do I need to see the work? I mean, why are we keeping up appearances at the point when the husband is ADMITTING that he fucked up and stepped out on his wife? Sure, as a politician, you and and yours are public figures, but do we need to do the woman a further indignity–no matter her degree of complicity– by parading her out there while dude basically says, “Honey, the world. The world, this is my honey. Now where were we? Oh, right. I was telling the whole world I put my dick in other people and you were busy standing and being humiliated.”
I just don’t get why she needs to be there for that. After doing her so dirt, why not just say, “I’m doing this press conference by myself?” The press conference does only one thing for certain and that’s embarrass everyone that knows you and hurts the people you care about most. Is it uncouth to take this kind of lump by yourself? Who’s to say she isn’t sincerely supporting him from the privacy of their home. What does her standing there NOT getting to say how she feels or what she thinks prove? The injury has been done, I see no need for the insult.
Times are different for the wives of politicians and public figures. It used to be that certain indignities were suffered in relative privacy. Yes, people knew about the indiscretions of these men but knew well enough to let that be a matter between the spouses because at day’s end, it was a spousal matter that didn’t affect the populous one iota. Until the iota began to multiply inexplicably because we as a culture don’t have anything better to do than be obsessed with the lives of people who actually do shit. Don’t believe me? I like to think I’m a fairly intelligent person who is in touch with the world around him and I could probably finish the crossword puzzle in the back of more than a few gossip magazines before I could tell you the name of th guy who replaced Kofi Annan (though I do listen to NPR in an attempt to balance this out).
In a picture already full of shame, I guess I just feel like that puzzle could stand to lose a piece. Peace to Coretta and Jackie.
Penultimate Thought: Jill Scott has a filthy mouth.
Final Thought: Baby wipes: Mouth wash for your butt.
So this summer, maybe because I’m getting soggier about the middle or maybe because time spent as a semi-recluse evokes delusions of grandeur, I thought my penis grew. After being informed by a fairly reliable source that this was indeed not the case, it got me to thinking about the interesting relationship between me and my main squeeze.
As a little kid, he wasn’t bringing a whole hell of a lot to the table. “Peedie”–that’s what he was known as back then–would sort of take care of the whole bladder situation and just chill until he was called in to do his thing. Although used in a limited capacity, there was a lot of confusion, particularly in the school bathrooms (no Larry Craig). For the life of me, I could not understand why I was the only kid who had to hold on while going. Other dudes could stand back from the urinal, double-fisting Juicy Juices, and I’d be sitting there like I was a damn volunteer firefighter. Bare in mind I was basically the only Black face I’d see until I got off the school bus, so seeing this hands-free peeing put into my mind early that there was something different going on with me.
Fast forward a few years in a world that never neglects to mention that all Black dudes ever are genetically predisposed to keeping baby arms in their trousers and suddenly, peeing–which I was able to chalk up to a technicality–was the least of my worries. Although I grew up in a wholesome town at a time when the idea of getting your dick touched by someone other than yourself in middle school was patently absurd, I, like every other guy, still had to address the question that was suddenly relevant: Howbig is your dick?
This wasn’t exactly a topic of discussion; indeed, this was about the time when certain rules began to formulate with regard to openly speaking about male genitalia. It was understood that:
You didn’t discuss the specifics of your man.
You didn’t discuss or even admit you’d gotten more than a blurry glance at another dude’s junk, no matter the circumstance.
You never referenced your man unless it was directly involved in a story e.g. “The ball bounced up and hit me in the tip.” or, down further down the line, “Son, I put it back in her mouth!!”
(Sidebar 1: Some of you might be saying, “Hey Jon, what about the locker room?” In this middle school epoch, being assed out in the locker room was completely unacceptable. Yeah you had a towel to wipe yourself off, but to think it was for actual showering purposes was absurd. After gym, you wiped down (spare me), threw on some deodorant and put your school clothes back on. If, for whatever reason, you had to change your drawers, you made sure your ass was facing your locker and you bent at the waist to create that dark safety nook for your crotch until it was covered back up.)
Dicks were not a between classes discussion. On one hand, I think it’s due to the fact that talking about penis, at any age, takes a certain kind of clarity on life. On the other, I think it’s an engrossing subject for the individual. Everybody knows everybody else is thinking about it, but nobody wants to be the person that brings their dick concerns out in the open because that would have said you were either gay or packing light or both.
Still the question hovered. How big is your dick? The question spoke to your ability to be a man. Again, since I grew up in North Kingstown, RI, the question was more preparatory than practical. Indeed, the question “Will you know what to do with it when you need to use it? wasn’t terribly pertinent seeing as none of the girls we knew were knowledgeable enough to let us know one way or the other because they weren’t giving us that time of day one way or the other. As you might recall, these were also the days when getting onto the internet required signing on and going to do something while your dial-up got going, so doing your own homework was out of the question. Remember, this is your dick, it’s not a shirt you’re trying on that your boys can chime in on. There are a lot of questions going through your mind, not the least of which being what will the girls think of it when it’s time to get loose (and not the most of which being what the hell does it matter)?
And unless you’re a Child Being Left Behind, you have to ascend to the high school ranks where, depending on your set, genitals–both male and female–start to seem of increasing consequence. Drinkin’, Druggin’, Fuckin’. Those were my set’s pressure points and unless you were an absolutely stand-up character, you were gonna feel a pinch from one of the three. Since I didn’t like to be out of control of my person and since I was one of the few Black people in my town, the double Ds were out. So that left sex–and by sex I mean to include pretty much everything including handjobs, which were acceptable at the time–to be the boulder on my shoulders.
Now, you would think that after the summer before tenth grade, when my man made his debut on third base, you would think that would be more relaxing. No more angst; somebody, at least one person in the universe, had seen what I had to offer and didn’t go cackling toward the hills, and that’s a good thing, right? Wrong. True; no one sent peals of laughter through the woods behind a friend’s house–in those days you had to get creative about your ejaculatory pursuits–but the experience taught me something: I liked having my penis touched by someone other than myself and that left me open to more internal conflict.
Remember that part earlier where I fast forwarded? Well, once sexual activity became something to do, all those years of bombardment got replayed. Slowly. Being a young man figuring his sexual shit out is bad enough, but doing so as a tall Black dude was, and in someways continues to be, difficult. In jokes and lore and otherwise, Black dudes, all of us, are supposed to be Mandingo warriors that club women over the head with their schlongs and then…I don’t know, stand around being big-dicked.
It may sound funny, but it was a very tough time. By my later teens, I was fairly sure my penis itself wasn’t going to win the first prize rodeo buckle–I feel you just know those sorts of things–but I also knew from my limited encounters that I wasn’t utterly disgraceful. So I was left in some sort of middle, I had no frame of reference; all I had to go on was what the rest of the world was saying, though I had no idea exactly what that meant. As I’ve said earlier in this very journal, I would get so nervous because, on top of the fact that I had long ago figured out why I peed different, I had the added pressure of wondering what a young lady was thinking, wondering how I was measuring up (assuming of course I wasn’t too nervous to get it up in the first place, which, on my grower side of the spectrum, only acts to further my neuroses by misrepresenting me). I certainly didn’t want to be the guy bringing the average down.
In college the game is very similar, the only difference being that dicks are suddenly a fair topic of conversation. Dick’s big? Somebody’s talked about it. Dick’s small? Sorry, but somebody talked about it while shaking their head. And, in a weird twist, the discussion isn’t restricted to girls or homosexuals talking about the guys they’ve viewed. I’ve found that our friends on the whiter side of things, utterly heterosexual lads, will talk about their boy’s dick. I have been party to an extended conversation–really it was a soliloquy–about a friend’s dick (Dude, I was cornered at the fuckin’ bar and legitimately could not escape) and the monologuer’s amazement at seeing this third leg in the shower after practice.
And my angst hasn’t completely ebbed on the matter. In my career of going to the mattresses, I could have a perfectly nice rapport with a young lady and the talk of a dick that is possibly bigger than mine can get on the brain a fuck my flow up. Even if it’s not discussed, if I know a person that has been with the dame in question, the question of “Who’s winning this buckle?” crosses my mind. Sadly, it can sometimes be louder than the chants of “Fuck that buckle” (clap clap clapclapclap).
This isn’t some long explanation about my shortcoming–indeed, like an Apple, I think I’m very user friendly–but, rather than follow up with something ignorant like, “Ask about me,” I’ll leave you with a funny tale of quasi-triumph.
At the Skin party during senior week, yours truly went in a pair of white bike shorts a la Exotic Erotic ’06. After doing a bit of dancing, I went to the coat room downstairs to see if anyone had called me. In the room were some senior co-eds and as I was checking my phone, one such co-ed, ATL, turned to me, looked at my spandex and said, “Jon, do you have a big dick?” I just sort of had a pause knocked into me. Mind you, she was drunk, but this wasn’t asked in some floozy way; it was asked in a “How did I not know this?” sort of way, like when you know an answer but ask the question anyway because you’re so puzzled. Upon my saying nothing, she turns to a friend and says, “I think Jon has a big dick,” again in a tone like someone’s been lying to her all this time. Now I’m tickled and secretly thrilled, but the coup de grace has yet to come. As I sit and pretend to coyly deflect in the face of not really knowing what to say, the homie Bourbon Street walks in and ATL asks her the question point-blank. “Bourbon, does Jon have a big dick?” Same wonder, same befuddlement. Bourbon Street, without skipping a beat says, ” I mean Jon…he’s doing pretty good for himself.” Is she a pal or what? Peace to Book and Snake.
Penultimate Thought: A pair of Stan Smith’s are an order.
Final Thought: I’ve decided once and for all that I don’t like Ne-Yo.
So, I’ve recently decided a movie everyone that has ever cheated/ considered being a femme or homme infidel (word to my Parisian duns) needs to see is Unfaithful. This movie displays the complexities of the human romantic condition; its adventure, its dangers, its tragedies, as well as the kind of sex scenes people want to see on celluloid, unlike that pounding witnessed in Monster’s Ball. Yes, said pounding was realistic, but just about no one wanted to see that shit.
At any rate, every time I watch it, it reaffirms my personal ethic with regard to shtooping people with husbands. Now, I’ve been known to make a cuckold of a few boyfriends in my day, but husbands are a completely different story. Boyfriends might go crazy if they find out your name is written on their kitty’s cat. Boyfriends might try to get into a dust-up with you in the streets for 30-35 seconds, hate you for a few months to a year, then it’s pretty much over. Unless you’re messing with Ronald Isley’s girl, in which case you’ll find yourself broke-legged in the middle of the desert, there is an above average chance that you’ll survive the encounter. Shit, you could maybe be buddy’s with the guy in a half decade.
Husbands? Stop playing. The only “might” in question is, “I might hit him with the pick axe rather than the circular saw.” These dudes are married to these women. Got rings and everything. They might even have a little crumb snatcher running around, putting report cards on the refridgerator. A husband will kill or disfigure you for three reasons:
1) You made him look like a fool. You got waist deep in his grasslands, grasslands he assumed he had the right of way on for the rest of his life.
2) You made his wedding day an utter waste of money. Engraved invitations ain’t no joke.
3) In reality, he wants to kill his wife, but since she brings too much to the table (love of his life/ mother of his children combo), he’s gonna take it out on the guy who bought nothing to the table. In fact, you took something off his table.
Now, I can’t really speak for women, but I have to assume that the same rules apply. If you’re dating, I think it’s essentially the same except for the fact that a woman will hate that other women for the rest of her life. I’m talking the same virulent hatred, with absolutely no decrease in intensity, from day 1 to 13765. No exceptions. Again, marriage is a different ballgame. In fact, you probably shouldn’t marry a woman that wouldn’t cut a bitch if you two-timed her.
Granted, I definitely think women are more level-headed in these situations (I mean how many “I showed up at her house and let her know that he’s my man without ripping her eye out” songs have we heard?) and the possibility of not getting mollywhooped is better than if it was two guys (consider the ‘Coming To Break You Off’ video. To be honest, I’m not sure that guy was married to the girl. If he wasn’t, then he’s falling into that marginal “might snap” category. If he was, he’s exactly proving my point), but really, I don’t think you wanna find out that the person whose home you are wrecking is a Superthug (what what what what what wh-what).
On top of the fact that you might have a car hit you while getting coffee (from your cupboard), the whole thing invariably ends badly because you either:
A) Get left for the person he/she should be banging in the first place or…
B) You have somebody who wants to be with you/ you want to be with (you think) who has a small issue of a spouse to contend with not to mention the fact that this person that wants to be with you is an infidel. And as Elgin Lumpkin said, “If you cheated on him, you’d do it to me.”
Truly, point B applies in all relationship cases, but is indeed worthy of mention when considering the matter of nuptuals. Peace to Richard Gere.
Penultimate Thought: I think it’s unfair that Black women got ‘Something New’ and we got ‘Jungle Fever.’
Final Thought: I miss my Eudora.