I’ve never been able to quite get a grip on a man’s attitude towards his penis.  Look it’s a body part.  We all have body parts.  But somehow, someway, the male penis has evolved to such an extent; it’s developed its own personality, hell, its own life.  If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.  Go ahead, ask a man.  I guarantee you; he’s named the damned thing.

Now let me tell you, they’re not ordinary names, no sir.  This small, goofy looking piece of flesh, sitting in front of two overly sensitive orbs, always, and I do mean always, merits some sort of large or action packed name – “Big Jim and the Twins” or “Pumpin’ Pile Driver o’ Passion”.

Yep, they’re talking about that thing that retreats at the merest suggestion of cold water, and the twins?  They’re hydrophobic.  No doubt about it, none at all. They don’t merely retreat, they flat out run away.  Or is it roll away?  A shyer trio you’ll never find.

These appellations, slightly threatening in tone, have no relation to the actual size of the organ.  Even the tiniest penis, to its owner, warrants big and dangerous names…”The Thrill Drill”, or my personal favorite, “Vlad the Impaler”.  At least the latter shows a rudimentary knowledge of history. 

I don’t quite understand the threatening part.  When those little things are spurred into action, don’t they want to draw women in?  Think about it for a second, would you prefer to be impaled, drilled, or massaged?  Why not something like, “Gianni Gentle” or “Ronny Rubdown”?  Or better yet, go for the gold with something meaningful, albeit lengthy, like, “No, your ass doesn’t look big”. 

My momma always taught me that you catch more flies with honey, than vinegar.  

Owning a penis must be a daunting proposition.  The maintenance alone must be overwhelming.  The poor owner has to continually “drain the main vein”, and “pull back its turtleneck” to properly wash.  Then, of course, he has to dress the little bugger by “putting on its helmet”.  It almost appears that the adult penis is the equivalent of a Barbie doll.  They get to bathe it, dress it up, and play with it.

Not only is maintenance a problem, but judging from snippets of overhead male conversation, bad penile behavior must run rampant.  Honestly, their conduct must be appalling.  These poor men are constantly “spanking the monkey” or “choking the chicken”.

And responsibility?  Nope.  None at all.  These tiny, dangerous organs take no responsibility for their actions.  They’re able to rise from their hairy nest, and somehow, with only one good eye, are able to hypnotize their owners, all the while, ferreting out their target.  They’re not particularly picky about their targets, opting for an “any port in the storm” type of mentality.  They’ll sometimes even go off, half cocked, leaving their poor owners dazed and senseless.

We, as women, really should give men a bit more respect.  Spending a lifetime as a penis wrangler deserves some sort of credit.

In case you’re wondering how I feel about my body parts - I have a vagina.  I’m glad I have a vagina.  It just sits here and waits, waits for me to spur it into action.  And by the way, you’re not going to catch me calling anything “Large Marge”.

"Men & Their Little Friends" copyright D. Gustafson, 2002.  All rights reserved.