The Easily-enticed Bell-end Pecker

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.