I am quite pleased with
my dick. Over the years it has given me lots and lots of pleasure,
and relatively few problems. So what follows are observations rather
than criticisms.
Dicks, as every man
knows, tend to lead a life of their own. You're with a lovely lady,
it's all shaping up fine, but at the critical moment, just as you don
your matador's cape to administer the coup de grace, the
Imperial Todger goes into a sulk, and hangs there drooping like the
last turkey on a butcher's slab. Conversely, you are in a
social gathering or at a business meeting, and suddenly for no reason
the Knobbly Ape stands to attention, tenting your pants, and
throbbing like a blind cobbler's thumb. Mega-embarrassment and
frustration in both situations, because there's not a lot you can do
with a limp dick, and there's even less you can do with a stiff one
if you're in the middle of a meeting of your local Parish Church
Council.
I have no explanation
for this phenomenon. It's probably the fleshly equivalent of the
apparent contrariness of things, what the Germans call
“die Tuecke des Objekts”, the sheer bloody-mindedness of
inanimate objects.
There is of course a
condition known to an older generation as “pizzle-proud”, which
can give an old rake the illusion in the early hours of the morning
that the Cherry-capped Dangler is experiencing a new lease of life.
But before he can nudge the Memsahib into a cooperative experience,
it's gone back to its normal happy flaccid state, where, to quote the
schoolgirl who asked her grandpa what a penis was, and when he showed
her, said: “Oh, I see, it's like a prick, only smaller.”
Is there a female
equivalent of this phenomenon? Delicacy prevents me from inquiring
further, though any comments from the ladies would be most welcome.
But please put your reply in a plain brown envelope: this is a family
channel.
