Rating: NNNNNIn an age of relativities, it is comforting to think that there's something absolute and quantifiable about a.
In an age of relativities, it is comforting to think that there’s something absolute and quantifiable about a man. Perhaps that’s why our culture is obsessed with the idea of big dicks. Nobody, it seems, wants an average-sized penis. Everybody wants a big one. And not just large, but absurdly large. Guys refer to their “pony,” “the old hanging hog” or “cyclops.” Attempts to express the largeness of the penis will bring out the surrealist in almost any male.
My favourite is either “eggplant” or “like a baby’s arm.” But the size of the penis seems to have a more important function than just the alleged sexual one. There’s an almost “poetic justice” scenario at work in the mass psyche, which wants penis size to be the big leveller, the ultimate and final measure of a man. You can be a big bulging muscleman or a conquering general, but if you have a small penis you’re less of a man than some nerd whose penis would stun the blinkers off a good-sized draft horse.
A simple test to see where one’s own conditioning lies can be educational. Imagine one or two of your most appreciated heroes. Let’s say Mike Harris or the Pope. Now imagine those same celebrities with little wee boners that might be stiff and twangy but are terribly, terribly tiny. Do you still hold them in the same high esteem? If the answer is no, then maybe you are “bigdickcentric.”
That’s not to say there are no real advantages to having a big penis. This can be verified by a visit to the big penis support group (www.lpsg.org). This site started out as a joke but quickly drew enough response to become genuine. Far from being a resource for those troubled by the immensities and problems of having big penises, it’s more about a practice known as “selfing.” Selfers are master narcissists. They suck their own penises. This feat, which some achieve by simply bending forward, requires extreme yogic contortions in those not so well endowed. One unfortunate result of this is that broken necks among men with small penises are not as uncommon as we all might wish.
Fortunately, those endangered by small penises do at least have the option of visiting Dr. Stubbs, who performs penis enlargements. I once met his nurse at a poetry reading, and she assured me that most clients had fairly normal-sized penises and just thought they were small. She told me that the operation — which pulls penis mass forward from within the pelvic bones so that it sticks out more — even when successful is always terribly painful. Hideously, it’s also one of those best-laid schemes o’ mice and men that gang aft a-gley.
Perhaps there’s a way to put the urge to a bigger penis to work for us. If we could find a way whereby only spiritual exercise, only qualities of soul would enlarge the penis, we could breed a nation of Spiritual Giants, I can assure you. We would have big-dicked Christs and Gandhis on every corner giving ultimate mass.
Ironically, the larger the penis grew, the less the saint whose genital it was would really care. For a true mystic knows the one truth — penis size is fairly irrelevant with regard to sexual function. Or as Maria Muldaur once sang, “It ain’t the meat, it’s the motion.”
Or at least it’s not so much length of penis, but mass and girth — the wideness at the base in particular — which stretches and fills to its extreme limit that lovely sensate ring at the entrance of a woman’s vagina where all the nerves are.
How then to quantify penis mass? Must one measure breadth, length, circumference, weight, density, etc, and execute difficult mathematical manoeuvres?
The answer is much simpler than that. Simply fill a calibrated container with water, dip the erect penis into it and note the level the water has risen to. An ancient Greek mathematician, Archimedes, discovered this technique while in the bathtub. He was so excited, he’s reputed to have risen naked from the tub and run off bobbing down the street yelling, “Eureka!” Which means “I found it” in Greek. Guy culture everywhere can be grateful.
I hope we can lighten up and learn to see the humour in penises. They are such puppies. It is important to laugh at these flopsy gentlemen in their overlarge judge’s robes. Think of them as slumped centenarians with soft superhero secret lives. These boneless blood balloons. The penis is very old and wrinkled, but not wise — don’t worry. The penis is a monomaniac. It has one instruction always on override. It is a dumb rower toward oblivion. If it could speak, it would only say “but but but.” It’s inflatability cannot help but suggest the ego. At one moment it is all chest, a hands-on-hips supergeist standing up straight from the groin in its vermilion German helmet. Next, it is hung down dejected, lost in its own wrinkles without so much as a bone to help it lift its doggie brow and sniff out the next oblivion. A lot like a man.