Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar
There are two things I’d do if I had a penis.
One. Pee. Everywhere. Make that burbling hollow sound in the toilet. Pee in a corner of the parking garage. Pee on trees. Write my name in the snow with a lovely yellow stream of pee. Pee pee pee. Directionally and with great glee.
Two. Make love to a woman. What’s that like? I have a good imagination, I’ve been on the girly end, and I know what I like. I see how guys do it, the experienced and sexy guys, all their little tricks and traps, the Kama Sutra positions and in-outs counting to 10, with 10 being the most forceful. I think I could do it. I just want to know what it feels like from the poking point of view. I’m sure my tendency to get carried away during the act would result in something ‘premature’, but I could always rub her back and flip her over and do it again.
Given my dishing on penises, I must also say, I don’t have Penis Envy. I like them, I enjoy them, I wrap parts of my body around them. I enjoy the pleasure they give me, and like to see what pleasure I can give them. I think they’re handy little conduits for waste and wee swimmers. But. I have no real desire to obtain one for my own genitalia.
Given that, I was stymied the other day by a male co-worker's suggestion that I was afraid of penises.
Because I’m afraid of snakes.
I HATE snakes.
The whole stinkin’ lot of ‘em.
They’re nasty, creepy, squirmy creatures who live only to freak my shit out.
I have touched a boa constrictor before, in some class or other. Yeah, I didn’t die, but the thought of barfing was a real possibility.
If I’m reading a book or magazine that has a photo or illustration of a snake on it, I have to turn the page, and the next page, and the next, until I’m sure there’s no way the snake could come to life and attack me.
When I was 10 years old, going down into the basement for a jar of strawberry jam, I nearly stepped on a garter snake that had made its way onto the basement floor’s dank darkness. Such a scream my parents never heard…they thought I was dying. I’m still scared of their basement.
When I know there are snakes in the area, I become this paranoid Snake-Hunter, nervously watching the ground, the floor, the drains in the bathroom, for any sign of wiggling or forked tongues poking the air, sniffing for my fear. I pee several inches above the toilet seat.
There’s rumour that the vacant lot beside my office holds tons of snakes. I didn’t believe it until a female co-worker came into Cubeland and left a snake’s skin for another co-worker of ours.
A big snake skin.
More than 3 feet long.
Now my feet are propped up and I’m searching the carpeting for any signs of slithering. Freaked out.
It has nothing to do with penises. Peni. Whatever.
Penis = good.
Snake = horrible, ugly, slithering death monster.