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Published June 15, 2012 More Info »
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Published June 15, 2012

 

For the better part of a decade, I have had to fight off the urge to self-mutilate on almost a daily basis.  I’ve been a vapid, self-loathing curmudgeon, with the self-esteem of someone residing in a battered men’s shelter.  But, as of late, my self-image is trending upward.  I think I’ve turned the proverbial corner and I want to share with you how I did it.  Hopefully you can apply this method to better your own life.  It took me a long time to realize, but what my life was missing, and what I need in abundance on a daily basis, is……………cock, copious amounts of cock.

Let me explain.

Outside of immediate family members, and that nameless “uncle” who used to invite me over to his garage every Thursday to play a game he called the “Benadryl Challenge,” I didn’t see my first flesh missile until the seventh grade.

I remember it well.

In the early 90’s, it was common practice for school administrators to cram about 30 of us seventh graders into a one-stalled bathroom, so we could change out of our gym clothes and back into our school uniforms after PE class.  This was not as pleasant as it sounds.  It was every seventh graders’ worst nightmare that the caliber of his tender and delicate manhood would be exposed to his classmates.  That is, for every seventh grader except one.

We had this kid in our class – a swarthy, Indo-Caribbean type – that was here on an exchange program and who had absolutely no inhibitions when it came to flaunting his endowment.  I remember the first time I saw him in all of his glory – it was a seminal moment in my life.

It was a late-spring afternoon and we were all drenched in sweat after a contentious game of Indian Pin.  We were packed into the gymnasium bathroom like sardines into a tin can.  Although the quarters were tight, visibility was low due to the thick haze covering the bathroom air as 30 teenage miscreants liberally applied aerosol propellants into their armpits to combat the putrid smell emanating from them.

After I finished getting dressed, I made my way over to the bathroom mirror to make sure my sides were perfectly slicked back with the perspiration I had just spent the last 45 minutes accumulating.  I noticed a shadowy figure standing in front of the mirror.  I couldn’t tell who it was – as the antiperspirant fog was still too thick – but I could tell the person was about a head taller than me, so I figured it had to be the exchange student.

As I got closer to the mirror, the density of the fog seemed to thin, and much to my surprise, I noticed the shadowy figure wasn’t wearing pants, or a towel for that matter, but before I could turn away and hurl anti-gay epithets at him, he rotated towards me and offered me a dabble of his Drakkar Noir.

And there it was.  I had never seen anything like it before in my entire life.  I remained absolutely motionless – paralyzed by fear, except for the occasional composure swallow – as I gazed admiringly at what appeared to be an ear of corn dangling between his legs.  I stood there staring at it with my mouth wide open for what seemed like an eternity, but what couldn’t have been more than 6 to 7 minutes.  Ok 8 – Tops!  In retrospect, I must have looked like Vincent Vega during that scene in Pulp Fiction when he opened Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase and was absolutely mesmerized by the contents contained therein.

This was a watershed moment and it was the first time in my life that I ever felt inadequate.  He was Peyton Manning, and I was Cooper.  For the next several years, I could not get the image of his middle leg out of my mind.  It was seared into my memory and it affected me greatly.

I began to withdraw socially from my friends at school.  I joined an anti-immigrant, neo-nazi group and spent a majority of my free time starting fires, torturing small animals, and spray-painting pentagrams on government property.  I was displaying all of the classic signs of a serial killer.

It wasn’t until two years later, when I entered high school, that I finally started to gain some perspective on what I had witnessed in the bathroom that fateful afternoon.  I joined the lacrosse team my freshman year and we split time in the locker room with the cross-country team.  Skinny, upper-crust white children, and not a minority in sight – this is exactly what the doctor ordered to repair my self-esteem.

After observing dozens of joysticks that looked similar in length and girth to mine – and a few pre-pubescent ones that made me feel like Huey Lewis, David Boreanaz, or the Imp from Game of Thrones – I realized that not everyone was as anatomically gifted as that mulatto boy in the bathroom that day.  The anxiety and self-hatred started to recede and I began to get back to my normal self.

My penile equilibrium had been restored.

Over the next few years, the only pocket rockets I saw were those of my lacrosse brethren, the 5 that were featured in the October 1996 edition of Black Tail Magazine that I kept at the back of my sock drawer, and the 7 that appeared in my VHS copy of Rag Shag 6.

This gave me a more realistic, and well-rounded, perspective of Mushroom Tip – as my portfolio pretty much ran the gamut.  The gentlemen from Black Tail Magazine represented the “long” and the “thick” end of the spectrum, while my lacrosse buddies represented the more feeble side.  That left me somewhere in the middle, which is exactly where I wanted to be.  You see, I strive for mediocrity in life – nothing more, nothing less.

Everything was great for the next several years until a few unexpected events occurred.  The first was when I blew out my knee in the mosh pit at the annual Gathering of the Juggalos, and as a result, I lost my lacrosse scholarship to Vassar, which meant no more sack tapping with the fellas in the locker room.

The second unexpected change in my life was the creation of the World Wide Web.  With the advent of the Internet, long gone were the days of flipping through the same skeet-covered pages of Swank Magazine for months on end.  I was now jumping from browser-to-browser watching well-endowed men of color pelvicly destroy petite, teenage runaways on an hourly basis.  Mandingo, Lexington Steele, and Mr. Marcus all became part of my lexicon.

In retrospect, I wish I would have spent more time on pinkydicks.com instead of WhiteHoleBlackPole.com, because like the seventh-grade foreign kid, this had a profound effect on my self-image.

This was the beginning of a 10 year distortion of my phallical equipoise.

You see, for most nights over that decade, I was my own wife.  It was a dark and lonely time in my life and it’s amazing to look back on the statistics:  4 diddles per week, 10 scenes per session, 52 weeks per year.  Let me channel my inner Steven Hawking and tally some numbers real quick – ok, that’s like over 2,000 units per annum.  Multiply that by 10 years and – BAM!  I laid eyes on well over 20,000 jollyrods throughout my 20’s.

And let’s not kid ourselves, there was nothing ‘jolly’ about those rods.  Most were quite menacing, actually.  The majority of male erotica stars were popping handfuls of Extenze and mainlining Viagra into the zenith of their member only moments before it appeared on camera, which left it twitching like a body builder who had been abusing steroids since the mid-70’s.

After viewing 20,000 engorged, pulsating, heaping masses of vascular flesh, it was easy for me to feel like I had more in common with a triple-A battery than I did with the average male.  My sense of genital reality had been skewed, and since I was no longer playing sports, I had no frame of reference for how I was sizing up with those outside of the adult-film industry.  I thought all of the tallywackers I was seeing on the Internet were the norm.

I didn’t realize that these were outlier knobs until about 3 months ago when my company instituted a wellness program.  As part of the wellness program, they gave us free memberships to a gym right down the street from our office.  My boss encouraged us to head over there as soon as possible to explore the facilities.

As lunch time hit, I immediately got in my car and drove over to sign up at the new gym.  When I arrived, I was greeted by a very pleasant elderly woman who insisted on giving me a tour of the gym.  I agreed and as we walked through the gym everything seemed pretty normal – free weights, treadmills, elliptical machines, etc.  She then instructed me to take a walk through their world-class men’s locker room, to see all of their wonderful accoutrements – saunas, steam rooms, Jacuzzis, etc.

I agreed but little did I know what was waiting for me on the other side of the locker room door – Rigs, and lots of them.  I’ve never seen so much disco stick in one place in all my life.  There must have been 60-70 in my immediate line of sight – and I was only two steps in the door.

You see, what my boss failed to mention, was that this gym marketed and tailored its services toward the “executive crowd,” which is absurdly euphemistic.  This place was freaking Heaven’s waiting room.  I was the youngest person in the joint by 25 years.  Now, I didn’t have a problem with that, I just wished he would have given me a heads up that I was walking into a morgue.

You see, the main difference between old people and young people, is that old people don’t give a rip about being seen in their birthday suit, while young people do.  Maybe it’s a generational thing, or maybe they just don’t care because they’ve got more yesterdays than tomorrows.

Walking into an old persons’ locker room, you’re bound to see some cryptic, old Jewish lawyer, with liver spots and a couple of hip replacement scars, standing stick-to-stick with his financial advisor, who is wearing nothing but a headband and wingtips, talking about shorting the mortgage-backed-securities market.  These guys are completely naked, and it’s the most normal thing in the world.  Their schmekels are virtually tip-to-tip, and the only thing separating their discolored genital veins, are a couple sheaths of translucent skin.  It’s amazing.

That just doesn’t happen in a young persons’ gym.  You’re likely to see more skin on the average woman walking the streets of Tehran, than you will in a men’s locker room at 24-Hour Fitness.

At first, all of this new-found wang kind of weirded me out.  I mean, I went from not seeing an in-person schlong in 10 years to seeing about 60 per day.  It’s like being a virgin on Monday, and filming interracial bukkake scenes by Tuesday.  It was all going so fast.

But after awhile, I noticed the positive effects that it was having on my self esteem.  You see, it is very important for me to feel like my manhood is in line with the median – that there are as many below as there are above, and I spent the previous decade watching Internet videos that made me feel like I was hung like the Statue of David.  This was the first attempt – albeit, unknowingly – that I had made to counterbalance all of the damage I had done to my psyche over the previous years, and it felt good.

Obviously, 20,000 is a large number, but if my calculations are correct, then I should be back to par in a little over a year.  I’m at the gym 5 times per week, laying eyes on about 60 gigglesticks per workout, which puts me at about 300 per week.  Multiply that by 52 and you’ve got a little over 15,000 per year.

I’ve also been lurking around the Shoney’s salad bar on weekends trying to get some extra credit.  I’ll usually sneak up behind some unsuspecting senior citizen and recommend that he try some of the delicious blue cheese crumbles located towards the back of the spread.  As he leans over to reach the recommended delicacy, I will tilt my mirror-taped-shoe under his pastel tennis shorts to see what he’s got under the hood.  I’ll usually get in 3 or 4 before management asks me to leave.  I usually feel great on my drive home even though I’ve just committed a class-C felony.

Anyway, Bill Maplewood looks to be a new man by the spring of 2013, and if you follow my advice, you can too.

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