Penis: A Love Story
I made it! This is my one-hundredth blog post. Yay! If this blog were a TV show, then we could be syndicated by now and make the big bucks. I was really thinking about what to write for my hundredth post. It better be something special.
CNN had an article on the apathy of American teenagers who identify themselves as Christian. That could be good. There was an article on Brad Paisley from The New Yorker that I really liked. I was kicking around some fine stuff. Carl Bernstein has nothing on me. I can write like a journalist. But then I thought Carl Bernstein isn’t really my style. I’m more like his ex-wife, Nora Ephron, or Elaine May. That’s more my style.
What to write? What to write? And then the other night, I was hanging out with the Mr. Brewsters.
Mr. Brewster #1: Don’t you ever google celebrity penises?
Gooseberry: No, I can’t say as I ever have spent a considerable amount of time googling celebrity penises.
Mr. Brewster #2: She’s secretly a lesbian.
Gooseberry: Yes, that’s it. I’ve been found out.
Mr. Brewster #1: I just googled the ten smallest celebrity penises.
Gooseberry: Really. Who won?
Mr. Brewster #1: Daniel Craig
Gooseberry: Oh, you mean he won the largest.
Mr. Brewster #1: How do you know that?
Gooseberry: I once saw him in a movie called The Mother where he had an affair with his girlfriend’s mother after her husband died. I can’t remember. Was there full frontal nudity in that?
Mr. Brewster #1: Google Layercake.
Mr. Brewster #2: Ah-ha! He said smallest, and you knew Daniel Craig was the biggest.
I’d been caught. I’ve never googled Daniel Craig’s penis. Well, not before last night, I swear! Then we looked up shots of Prince William. Apparently, he took a leak in public at a polo match or something, and the paparazzi caught him.
Mr. Brewster #1: He’s not clipped.
Gooseberry: It’s kind of hard to see anything in those shots, but you can tell that. There goes my fantasy of having sex with royal penis.
I really have a longstanding love story with the penis, which is a funny word, if you think about it. You never call it that when you’re fucking. It’s always a dick or a cock instead. Something about the word penis ruins the mood. But for the purposes of this blog post, penis it is, and if I can repeat it often enough to use it 2-5% of the time, I can take advantage of search engine optimization to drive traffic to my site! You just thought I was a stupid fat chick with an obsession for what? Penis.
I grew up with them. Penises. I have a father and a brother. I showered with my father and bathed with my brother when I was really small, before I was school age. I always knew they existed. It was kind of a matter of fact thing. I remember the first time I actually saw one that didn’t belong to a family member.
My parents took us to the Kansas Coliseum to see the Ice Capades. It was probably Sesame Street on Ice or something like that. I think I was ten. There was an intermission, and my parents told my brother and me that we should walk around the Coliseum. It was so large. We weren’t going to believe it. Now, keep in mind that I grew up in the seventies and eighties. If I was about ten, this was 1981. It was a different world then. You would send your kids around the Kansas Coliseum with the reasonable expectation that they would return to you unharmed.
My parents were not lying. That was a long walk. And once we were about half or three-quarters of the way through, my brother and I were the only ones still roaming the halls. Everyone else had gone inside the stadium, although the intermission was not yet over.
Some guy shouted, “Hey, little girl!”
I kept on walking ‘cause I was no idiot. But then he called out again, and it had been such a long walk. I wondered if my parents had sent someone looking for us. I was holding on to my brother’s hand, and I was the older sibling, so it would have been up to me to look after him. I decided to turn over my shoulder and at least look.
And there it was. Penis. Sneaky bastard! He was standing in the middle of the hall with a black satin one-piece jumpsuit in a pool at his feet. No underwear. There was a black satin mask over half of his face, but his eyes were visible. He wanted to see my reaction, what little there was. Now privately, I was very scared of full-grown man penis when I was a ten-year-old girl, but I showed nothing, grabbed my brother’s hand again, and yanked him.
“Come on,” I prompted my brother. And I maybe walked just a touch faster, but I didn’t run. I walked. I had dignity, and I wasn’t going to give that flasher the satisfaction of seeing a reaction. But I did spend the rest of the Ice Capades trying to figure out which one of the skaters had probably flashed me. Was it Big Bird or Ernie?
Then skip to me being fourteen. The first time I touched a penis that’s how old I was. We were living in a trailer park in Oklahoma. The trailer park had a storm shelter that doubled as a recreational room where we held a party for a boy who lived there and was moving. I had a girlfriend who was sixteen and she and I and the boy who was moving, who was all of thirteen, were taking turns playing “Truth or Dare” in a private stairwell.
Now when you’re the kind of girls we were when we were fourteen and sixteen, Truth or Dare should just be called Dare, because, let’s face it, you don’t have any Truth to tell. You’re just thinking that maybe if someone dares you to do something remotely interesting, you’ll have some Truth to share in the next game.
I was alone in the stairwell with this boy. I think his name was Ryan. I had made it perfectly clear that I was not willing to do anything that my girlfriend hadn’t done. He told me she touched it. The Penis.
“Well, okay, then.”
He pulled it out, and it looked like a purple snake. Wow! I placed my open palm underneath it. That’s all. I touched the penis. The poor boy literally shuddered. And I remember thinking, “I have power.” That was the prevailing thought I took from that experience. The penis gave me power.
Later, I found out that my girlfriend hadn’t touched it at all. I was tricked, tricked I tell you, into touching the penis.
Fast forward four years to college. The poor man who was lucky enough to date me at the beginning of my experimental phase when I should have earned a tiara for being Queen of the Prick Tease would let me stroke all I wanted. And several other guys did the same thing. I was obsessed with the penis.
I didn’t have penis envy. That is the most absurd concept that any weirdo ever made up. I didn’t want one hanging off my body. I just wanted one to play with sometimes. I wanted to borrow it. Seriously, I just thought they were so cool. It must be really neat to have one of those. It works more efficiently than my equipment. It’s so handy and accessible. I think the penis is really kind of amazing.
When I was in college I used to sculpt them out of pieces of silly putty or Play-Dough as a party trick. They were always circumcised, and I would poke a urethra in the front with a safety-pin. Someone would go to sit down on a sofa or chair and find an anatomically correct but small silly putty penis.