My penis is a paradox.
It is at once the symbol of masculinity, of potency, of power, of
virility, and the most delicate, fragile, vulnerable part of me. It is
a source of pride and of shame, of pleasure and of pain. Sometimes it
is hard, sometimes it is soft — and in either state it can be a source
of great embarrassment. If it’s erect, you can tell through my
clothes, and I feel like I’m being judged as a sex fiend — even if it
was just the steady rhythm of the train that did it.
Think about yoghurt. Think about yoghurt. Damn, turns out my penis
thinks yoghurt’s sexy. Stop thinking about yoghurt.
I was circumcised as a kid, because I got an infection — at least
that’s what I was told later. I have no memory of the infection, or of
being uncircumcised. I have no opinion on whether I’d rather not have
had that done, since my whole experience of how a penis feels and
behaves is based on the one I’ve got. Nonetheless, I sometimes wonder
if it’s big enough. I have no memory of having a bigger penis, either,
but still I speculate. Would I rather have a longer one? What if it
were the same length, but thicker? Would I be more self-confident if I
possessed more pendulous genitals?
Why do I wonder about that part, and not others? I never wonder if my
fingers are an adequate length, or if larger feet might have altered
Is it big enough? Is there even a definitive answer to that? It shifts
about so much through the day that it seems pointless to wonder even
how big it is. It’s bigger after a hot shower than after a cold swim.
Sometimes it dangles — satisfyingly, confidently, like a lizard who’s
found a safe warm rock to sun itself — and sometimes it seems to want
to hide among my pubic hair like an acorn in the undergrowth. Do they
all do that?
It’s the one I’ve got. Don’t laugh.