By J. Matthew Nespoli

Men have been accused, for years, by the media, by Hollywood, and by women, as being simple, ignorant creatures, who think about one thing and one thing only- the penis.

While that’s not entirely true (we also think a lot about vaginas, sports, music, and breasts), the claim has its merits.

However, this is not a disease that affects only men…

It also affects boys.

You see, our obsession with our man-part is not something that comes about with puberty. It’s something that is ingrained in our DNA and is obvious from birth. Our obsession with sex and our man-part, along with women’s nature to nest, is what keeps the human race alive and well. For without our inherent need to rub our penis on anything that warm and friendly, then women’s ability to lure us with their curvy warm bodies would be rendered ineffective. Without these two biological tricks, we would not reproduce and the human race would die.

But that’s another discussion.

This one is about men and their obsession with their genitalia.  As I said, it starts at birth, and rather than argue this with anyone, I’m just going to give you the evidence as I’ve found it .

Here are things I have noticed about my child, myself, and my friend’s children:

• My friend Robb’s four year old kid, while in the hot tub with his dad, said, “My favorite part is letting the jet hit my penis.”
• Another friend’s kid, during potty training, said, “Daddy, I’m gonna eat your penis.”
• Another friend’s kid upon seeing his Mom naked, “Mommy, your penis looks weird.”
• A friend’s child, in the bath, after tucking his penis up into his body, “look, Mommy, I have a vagina now.”
• Another, “When I’m older, I’m gonna have a huge penis, like Daddy.” (this friend, if reading this, is very proud right now.  He was certainly proud when he told me about it.)
• A friend’s kid, at the YMCA, seeing an uncircumcised penis. “His penis looks like a turtle!”
• Another, “I got sexy penis!”
• “What did you have for lunch today?” Kid answers, “Penis. It was yummy!” (this is the same kid who said he was going to eat his daddy’s penis. We’re worried about this one.)
• My son gets a boner every time he’s naked
• I was chronically masturbating at the age of four

If you believe in God, then you believe he created us as we are. If so, he made men horny for a reason. That reason being that he wants us to spread our seed and make some babies. And if you don’t believe in God, then you likely believe in evolution. Evolution has dictated that horniness and penis obsession are necessary to keep the human race moving forward. Maybe one day, God will decide that 7 billion of us are enough, and he will strike us all down with ED. Or maybe, we will evolve to a point where we can procreate with our minds, without touching each other. However, until then, it is what it is. Gawking at breasts and talking about our penis is in our DNA, so please stop giving us a hard time about it!

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I haven’t had sex in exactly 37 days and 11 hours.

This is the longest stretch of my life since the first time I had sex, two hours into freshman orientation at Duquesne University.

I’m feeling a little desperate, and maybe for the first time in my life, my sexual confidence may be in a rut.

I’m begging for someone to compliment me.

The bride is in love with our baby. I am too but, in her case, he has replaced me. I went from being an object of her sexual desires to a pack mule and chauffer.

I’ve heard that babies are a great way to attract female attention. Yesterday, we took Keller for his first walk on the beach. We wanted him to see his backyard, see the ocean he’d be surfing, the sand on which he’d be winning AVP championships, and the sexy tail he’d be conquering.

I also wanted some girls to come and flirt.

They didn’t. What’s this shit? Is Keller not cute enough? Am I not? Is the bride cramping our style?

“Babe, can you walk about 20 yards behind us. I want to see if that changes the outcome.”

She laughed at me, but she also humored my request.

Still nothing.

What is going on?

I’ve turned into a desperate man. I look at every girl I see. I look upon fat women with sexual desire. I look at old women with sexual desire. I look at rail thin waifs with sexual desire. Just a stiff wind alone causes near pre-mature ejaculation.

I’ve taken back to masturbation like I was 13 all over again. The only difference is, in the modern age, there is a limitless amount of porn with which to go at it. Alone in my bedroom as a teen, with no lock on the door, it used to be a race to the finish line before someone walked in on me (which happened exactly six times, but my Mom only realized what was happening once).

Now, I have limitless porn, so I try to take my time.

Two problems: 1. I have no time. 2. My child is a bit of a boner killer.

Three nights ago I was making love to myself in my home office. The home office also doubles as the nursery. Little Keller was sleeping like a hibernating bear. I like sound with my porn. Sometimes I close my eyes and just listen to the sound, pretending I’m making love rather than the dude with back hair but none on his head, on my computer. This time, I went full tilt on the volume. It was definitely loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and I’d forgotten to close the blinds. The girl whose bathroom is across from my office got an eyeful. That I was fine with. It wasn’t the first time.

What I was not fine with was Keller waking up right in my most momentous glory.

I mean, someday, more likely sooner than later, Keller will be making love to himself. However, at 11 days old, I’m not so sure he could comprehend what was happening.

As I heard him cry, I instinctively threw a towel over my lap. I hit the pay-off but got zero pleasure. I had to keep my moans of happiness to myself, and the only sensation I felt was guilt.

This sucks.

Then, last night, I was having an incredible sex dream about a past girlfriend. A girl who was as beautiful as any, other than my bride, and a woman who so kindly gave me her virginity. I was dreaming the entire event like it’d just happened.

I awoke.

The baby was not in the bed, nor was the bride.

They were in the other room, feeding.

When opportunity knocks, you must answer the door.

So, I proceeded to make love to myself.

And predictably, just like in a bad teenage sex romp movie, the two of them walked in right at the pay-off moment. This time my eyes were closed and I didn’t see them.

“Umm, Matt,” the bride said.

“Grr,” I moaned. “Not now babe. Turn his back. Don’t get in bed!” I yelled. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t so, instead, I threw the sheets over my head, went for it, and soiled the bed.

“Sorry, son.”

I pray I haven’t scarred him.

Now, I feel guilt for two things, both revolving around genitalia.

1. Castrating his foreskin. 2. Getting caught loving myself.

The parent is supposed to catch the child, not the other way around.

So, today, still unsatisfied, still not feeling sexy, still needing a compliment from a woman, I took Keller for a walk without my bride.

“So cute!” she said. She was 5’7”, probably 115. All butt and boobs, and was on a pair of rollerskates with those sexy knee high socks. Long brown hair in pig tails – the ultimate naughty school-girl look. She was probably about 22, but could have been 28. Regardless, she was a vision of perfection to my sex starved eyes.

“Thank you…and what do you think about my son?” I asked.

She chuckled. Humor, now that my body has gone to shit, is my best angle on women.

“Such a doll. How old is he?”

“Fourteen days,” I said.

“Is he well behaved?”

“Very. He cries some nights, but I get up and give him the bottle.” Then, I made the saddest face I could and said, “Being a single dad is rough. I get lonely, but seriously, Keller is the only lover I need. He’s amazing.”

I seriously saw this girl’s heart melt. It melted before my eyes, her face turned to butter, and her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “That is so sweet,” she cooed. “Daddy isn’t bad either.”

I felt the surge. It was the ego booster I needed.

“No girlfriend?” she asked in a flirtatious voice.

“There’s prospects,” I lied. I got what I needed from this beauty, but I couldn’t let it go any further. I had to part ways. “Well, we’ve got to get going,” I said. I felt like I was breaking her heart. It felt good.

I immediately went home to the bride, confessed my story, and told her how incredibly in love I was with her.

She laughed at my story. She thinks stuff like that is cute. She is the most amazing woman on the planet. Many a bride would divorce me on grounds of unnecessary flirtation.

But she knows how much I love her, and that I’d never stray, so to her it’s just funny.

And she knows she’s got the magic pussy, and that I wouldn’t risk my chances with that. Speaking of the magic pussy, after my story I began pathetically begging.

“Lover,” I said. I never use that term unless I’m really desperate. “I need sex. Tonight.”

“Babe, the doctor cut me from my Potzie (I love that she uses this term I invented) to my dirty hole. There will be no sexy for at least four more weeks. Doctor’s orders.

“Can you make love to me with your mouth?”

“Babe, I’m tired…and frankly, I’m just not at all horny.”

“But I am.”

“Sorry, love. Give me a few weeks.”

“What if I get desperate and go hook up with some young chick?”

“A. You won’t. B. They won’t. You’re old. Hermosa Hotties are now out of your league.”

“Is that a challenge?” I asked.

“No. And it’s not a dare. And don’t even think about it,” she said, putting her foot down.

I’ve been married long enough to know when I’m pushing my luck. I dropped the subject.

We went out for lunch and then shopping. I’m sick of freaking shopping. This kid already has more stuff than I’ve accumulated in 36 years. I’m seriously getting jealous of the fact that I work my ass off everyday and he spends all the cash. I made a deal with the bride last week. “Every time you buy him something, I’m buying myself something. This is non-negotiable.”

Somehow, that passed, and I’ve been keeping my word on that.

Today, we bought Keller his third stroller in seven days. Why a baby needs three strollers I have no idea. He’s got to have more strollers himself then some small tribes in Africa. However, I’m fine with it, because in those same seven days I have purchased: an LED big screen TV, a Blue Ray DVD player, a new laptop (on which I am typing now), a new sound system for the TV, a Netflix account, every single Pearl Jam live concert CD ever made, new strings for my guitar, a new Amp, a longboard for the new sport of paddleboarding and a Wii (I don’t even like video games). I didn’t get all that just for the strollers, believe me. There has been way more stuff we’ve purchased for the little shit in the last seven days.

We’ve spent more money in the last seven days than I think we spent all of last year. I have no idea how we’re going to pay for it all, but whatever.

I want to end this blog by first apologizing to Keller for A. My jealousy and B. Having to see my erection…twice. I want to apologize to my bride for A. Spending all our cash and B. My flirting, which hasn’t stopped since the day we got married, but has been amplified since she was about 8.5 months pregnant and stopped loving on me.

I love you guys.

And the next blog will be back to politics as usual. But sometimes I just need to vent about my personal life.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for tolerating my whiney ass.

And if any woman wants to tell me that I’m sexy, or anything like that, I could use the compliments right about now.

I am not above begging.

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I know that I typically stick with either humor or politics here, but I’m feeling a little philosophical today, so please, allow me that liberty tonight:

Americans use drugs.

Lots of them.

Whether its cocaine or caffeine, alcohol or ecstasy, anti-depressants or oxycontin, cigarettes or pot, congregates of hippie orgies or mega-church Jesus worship, America is a society that likes to alter their state of mind. Sometimes we get our drug of choice from a doctor, sometimes from a drug dealer, sometimes from a peddler of idealism. Whatever or wherever, we like an altered state of mind.

It’s obvious. There’s no other way to explain why every town in America has more bars and churches than medical clinics and libraries.

Anyway, this is not a blog to pick on religion (this time)- I do not want any part of that argument right now. So, if my mention of churches angers you, please remove that statement and continue reading- this isn’t about religion- this is about us.

Last night, I altered my state of mind. It was great. Then, once altered, I went about my night:

I had some Hershey’s kisses. It was the best chocolate ever. I savored every single detail about them. The chocolate melted on my tongue like ice cream and the flavor was so intense that I had to close my eyes and moan with pleasure.

I watched a comedy, one that I would typically describe as dumb schlock for the masses, but instead I laughed my ass off for about 90 minutes. I laughed so hard and for so long that I am actually sore in my ribs today. That laughter felt so incredibly good; like a wave of health and vitality and optimism washing over me and taking away all my worries.

Then, I made love to my beautiful pregnant bride. This time it was slower and a little more tender. We took our time, the scent of her skin was stronger and made me dizzy with euphoria, her kisses her softer and I became mentally lost in them, her skin felt like warm butter and the simple act of stroking her back gave me intense pleasure. We made love, we took our time, and it was phenomenal. The climax, for both of us, was out of this world.

Afterwards, lying there in a pool of our sweat, holding her between my arms, taking in her scent and her beauty, I began to think…

Why does chocolate taste better when I’m altered? Why are dumb movies funnier? Why is making love more intense?

I gave it a lot of thought, and I’ve come up with a theory. I may very well be wrong, and if I am, I’m sure you’ll all let me know… But I think that I’m on to something here…

Chocolate doesn’t taste better when “altered”. Sex is no different either. It’s just that, when we find ourselves in this state of mind, we are allowing ourselves to fully enjoy the feeling; to completely absorb ourselves in pleasure, 100%, without even the slightest hint of guilt.

We are raised and taught that with pleasure, comes sin; that everything that feels good is wrong.

We eat chocolate and we can’t fully embrace the deliciousness of it, we can’t completely enjoy the experience, because we are aware of the calories that are with it, and we start thinking about our lack of discipline.

Sex, we are taught, is something that should only be between a man and a woman whom love each other, mutually and exclusively. This is why college kids get inebriated on the weekends. It gives them an excuse for “perverse” sexual behavior that otherwise they could not allow themselves to have. We are inundated with so much dogma about sex, from so many different places (parents, schools, churches, etc, etc), that it nearly becomes impossible to ever consummate a relationship and be 100% in the moment of a fuck. And forget about casual sex and one night stands. Those activities come with a smorgasbord of guilt that builds so much that it eventually pushes us to depression- then self-hatred, and eventually on to more drugs to escape those feelings.

Tasty chocolate, great laughter, gut wrenching mind-blowing sex, should not be the exception, it should be the norm. I mean, chocolate is really fucking tasty. The next time you have a Hershey’s kiss, stop whatever you’re doing, turn off the TV, do two minutes of meditation or prayer to clear your head, turn out the lights in whatever room you’re in (alone), and then, eat that chocolate kiss… only this time, allow yourself to really taste it.

IT’S FUCKING DELICIOUS!

And I challenge you to do the same with sex. You’ve been making love to your wife or girlfriend for years now. It has the possibility to get a little mundane, a little routine. I’m no sex therapist and I’m not going to tell you to try some new position or touch her this way or that, or any of that garbage- no, I don’t care, do it the exact same way you always do, but this time, put yourself totally in the moment. Before you start, clear out all the shit in your head about work, let the unpaid bills be forgotten, push out all the dogma you’ve ever heard about sex and sin, and focus on how much you really love your wife. Touch her, really touch her, smell her, feel her, taste her. It should be mind-numbingly good- EVERY TIME. And it shouldn’t require “mind-altering” substances to get there.

And if you’re not married and don’t have a long time lover, but really want (and need) to get laid- then do it. Go ahead and treat yourself to a one night stand- guilt free. Deprogram the thinking that’s been put in your head since puberty. Forget the bullshit you women learn about how it’s okay for guys but not for girls to behave this way. You, as a woman, don’t need to have eight beers as an excuse to have a one night stand with a cute guy. You want to have sex with someone? Do it. Excuse free. And in the morning, be happy that you did it.

I’m getting too wordy (like usual), but my point is this: I’ve decided to always be aware of how incredibly good life, and all its twists and turns, can be. I’ve decided to embrace pleasure, 100%, and never again allow feelings of guilt to enter my mind. In other words the bottom line is: IF IT FEELS GOOD, AND IT HARMS NOBODY, THEN DO IT!

Words to live by.

Now, I know at lot of you are going to come at me with “Matt, I don’t feel that way, I’m not sad, I don’t need to alter my brain, maybe it’s just you, maybe you need Jesus, and maybe then you will be happy.” That’s not what this is about. For one, I am happy. Second, I use the proverbial “we” so as not to single out any one group of individuals. I work in a field where I meet fifty new people a week, people of all colors and creeds, and I can say, without question, that most of America is sad, and most are either seeking out or imbibing in some sort of escape.

Life is grand. There are simple pleasures to be had. The euphoria that comes with a glass of wine or a hit of a joint needs to be the norm- and for that to happen, we need to free ourselves from the guilt we have been taught to feel. We need to live free and indulge without judging ourselves or one another. Yes, we need to be responsible, but responsibility and pleasure do not need to be inversely proportional. In fact, I believe quite the opposite.

So, before you all write me back and call me a “liberal-pot-smoking-homo-hippy-lettuce eating- sex junky” just think about what I said, politics and religion aside for a moment, think about your life, think about your happiest moments, and then figure out how you can live within that state of mind, because that’s where we all need to be living.

And now, you can let the insults roll-

Love, Matthew

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This story happened about three weeks ago. I’ve yet to share it, because even I realize that some thing is not meant for the entire Face book community.

-HOWEVER-

Since that time, this episode has been a stack of red hot coals burning in the pit of my belly, igniting my soul. I feel that if I don’t get this story out, that the fire will grow out of control and I may spontaneously combust.

So, I’m sharing this gruesome story, more for my general health than for your entertainment, and I’m warning you, this story may be viewed as offensive… So if you’re the type to get offended by crude sexual talk, please read no further.

Also, this story is long, so bare with it in the beginning, let me build my case, as the end gives a big payoff, and you will either giggle like a girl who’s just discovered the vibrator for the first time, or you’ll be like Bruce Banner at the point when he starts turning green with anger… either way, it will get a reaction from you… so read on-

-And we begin-

I’m running down the Strand, enjoying the fresh ocean air, the crisp spring sun, and the mind bending lyrics of Eddie Vedder pumping into my head from my IPOD, when I get a sudden sharp pain in my left foot.

I’m running alone, and have nobody to impress by running through the pain, so I stop and walk.

Some girl, in shortie shorts, jogging towards me in the opposite direction, stops and yells, “Hey Mattie!”

“Hey… you!” I say back. I have no idea who this person is –

(An aside- I have the world’s worst memory- this is why I blog- it’s a way for me to chronicle my life. I used to keep journals and diaries, but I forgot where I put them all, and they are now lost. You can’t lose the internet. Anyway, my memory is so bad that I’ve introduced myself to one of Rea’s friends exactly eight separate times. Every time this girl shows up at some social function I introduce myself to her. Rea is always embarrassed and I always defend myself by stating that ‘all Asian women look alike’, but the truth is that I’m a complete nitwit. I can’t put faces and names together)

-Back to the story-

She hugs me. This surprises me. I don’t know who she is, but I’m pretty sure she does not fall into the “huggable friend” category. “How’ve you been? It’s been… like… I don’t know- a long time,” she says.

“Too long,” I reply.

“You look different,” she says.

My shirt is off- this is her coy way of telling me that I’ve gotten fat.

“Yeah, I’m growing my hair out,” I reply. “You look fantastic,” I say. “Really fit. I love the short shorts look on you. Designers came up with the concept of short shorts because asses like that exist.” (I’m exaggerating. Her ass is average, at best. But I don’t know her name, so I’m trying to compensate for that)

“Thanks, Mattie… You’re still the charmer I see.”

“A married charmer now,” I say.

“I know that… It hasn’t been that long.”

That should have been a clue for me, but I still have zero idea who this woman is; I’m curious, but no so much that I want the conversation to continue any further. I can bull-shit, but if it goes on too long, eventually I’ll get busted.

“It’s great seeing you. You should call sometime and we’ll all get dinner,” I say.

“Yeah, great. I will,” she says. “What’s your new number?”

I tell her.

“Shoot… I don’t have my phone.”

“Bummer,” I reply.

“You know, I’m about done with my run anyway, I’ll head back with you so I can pop in and say hi to Rea.”

Shit! We’re a mile away from home- walking there will take twenty minutes. I don’t know who this person is, and therefore it may not be someone that Rea really wants me to bring home.

“Umm, yeah, okay,” I say.

-So, speeding up the story-

We’re walking, talking, bullshitting. Mostly it’s just me asking her vague questions, trying to pin point how I know her. Nothing is coming to me. Eventually, the small talk ends.

-Very abruptly-

“So,” she says, in a very coy tone of voice. sort of Uma Thurman-ish in Pulp Fiction, in the part where she asks Travolta if he could “roll me one of those cigarettes, cowboy”. She was super sultry… she dramatically pauses after saying ‘so’, and then continues, “You know, all these years, I’ve wondered.”

I’m nervous… beginning to sweat again. “Wondered what?”

“You know… if it’s true.”

“If what’s true?”

“You know, Mattie,” the way she says my name makes me very uncomfortable.

“Umm, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What Tara (changing the name to protect identity) told me,” she says.

I’m getting even more scared, because I can’t, for the life of me, remember who Tara is.

“Refresh me,” I say.

“You’re hilarious,” she says.

I don’t reply. Her eyebrows rise.

“Mattie… c’mon… You know… I’ve always wanted to ask you, but I’ve never really had you alone like this to ask.”

“Hmmm,” I say, I can’t think of anything safe to say at this point.

“Tara said that in bed you… (I’m not sharing this) Did you? Because I have known Tara to embellish a bit, so I just wanted to know – Oh, and she said that you were completely shaved down there. Were you? Are you?”

“Okay, ummm- I just remembered, Rea’s at her sisters, so there’s no point in us going there. I’m going to stop in at Mickey’s Deli and get a drink- I’ll give you my number there (a fake one). And to answer your question, yes Tara does embellish… And if you must know about my grooming habits…”

The conversation ended shortly after that. I

I’ve been thinking about that conversation for the past three weeks, It’s taken me back to some other conversations I’ve had over the years, and reminded me of a theory I once came up with, but never shared.

It’s time to share.

It will now be known as THE VAGINA THEORY.

Since this conversation, all kinds of ethical and hypothetical’s starting sprouting in my brain, growing like vines, latching onto any gray or white matter in my head, winding tightly around it, cutting off my brain’s ability to get oxygen and function properly- I developed a one track hypothetical mind, and until I solved this conundrum, I would not be able to mentally go in any other direction.

It took me about three days of weeding through the depths of my brain, to resolve all this.

Let’s start here:

-women are always complaining that men have one track minds (which is partially true), and that we are boob obsessed (also partially true). Men are pigs with only one motive (Sometimes true). But what they don’t mention in their diatribes is that if we are pigs, then they littering our pigpens with shit- more shit than we need- hence “happy as a pig in shit”.

Cutting through the shit metaphor, what I’m saying is that these women who have these gripes about us men, are the same women walking around in tank tops that are three sizes too small, with no bra’s, three weeks after their implant surgery. They are perpetuating the problem they bitch about.

I am man.

Like any man my biology programs me to be attracted to women with curves… large boobs, firm round hips and assess.

My biology does this because women with curves have the traits necessary to bare many children and nurture them with mucho breast milk.

It is also my biology to spread my seed all over town- this is what keeps the human race along the path of evolution.

In the same way that this is men’s biology, it is woman’s biology to nest- to attract a man- with her curves- to get her pregnant- and then get him to stick around and help her raise that child. It’s called “nesting.”

I call it THE PUSSY TRICK. They use it to trick a man committing into an eternally long commitment that his penis will forever resent him for… (I’m joking girls… I’m joking my darling lover, Rea).

That’s all barbaric, and not meant to be insulting in any way, but it is true and it is our biology. We’re animals, and though we have evolved, we are still animalistic in ways, and sometimes slaves to our inner biological drives.

Back to the point- I love boobs. I love it when women wear skimpy little outfits, tight little tops, and show some cleavage. I especially love it when a woman wears a tank top that shows a little side boob, or even better yet, a cut off that shows the bottom of the boob line. We’re all excited by cleavage, but we’ve also become a bit desensitized to it, because we see it every five minutes. Bottom boob, or side boob, more exciting.

-But I’m getting ‘side- boob’ tracked (love a good pun)-

It’s our nature to be attracted to boobs. So whether you sport side boob, bottom boob, straight up cleavage, or cover it all up like a fundamentalist Muslim virginal bride- we are going to look at your chest. Do not be insulted, do not bitch about it, do not tell us that we are objectifying you. We do this only because it is instinct. And soon, after looking there, we will also look at your face, and eventually we will try to strike up conversation with you, and over the course of time we will become more interested in you as a person, than a living breathing vehicle that carries boobs around the planet.

I love women, and more than anything, I love a woman who I can lie in bed with, all day, and have amazing conversation with… seriously, the post-coital talk is almost as good as the actual fucking. I love a woman with a sexy mind. But I also love her to have a tight ass and firm tits. It’s my nature. So back off.

But you know what, even if it weren’t our instinct to stare at your boobs and talk to our buddies about them, you have no right to bitch about it.

Why?

Because you do it too.

When we men talk about your boobs to one another we can be pigs, but we are in no way as pigulous as women, in the language we choose.

-Yes, I just made up a word- pigulous- deal with it-

Women, after sleeping with a guy, get on the phone five minutes after he goes home, call their sisters friends and sometimes their mothers (yes, I know women who have done this), and share every little (no pun intended) detail about the the size, shape, curvature of the poor guy’s wood, then they go on to talk about how long he lasted, the moves her performed, if he went down, and everything else you can possibly imagine.

You are objectifying our members and our moves us in the same way we objectify your boobs and assess.

And I know this to be true because I have witnessed it many times.

Yet you don’t here us crying about it.

Because it’s fine. I’m fine with it. We’re fine with it. It’s just sex. Everyone needs to lighten up about it. But when you bitch about us doing the same thing, regarding your boobs, this is a double standard, and it ain’t right for you to whine about it. Its sex, boobs are sexy, let us talk about them. It doesn’t mean we don’t respect you. We do…

At least most of us do.

I once worked at a hospital, in butt fuck Tennessee, with all Asian women who were FOB (fresh off the boat- brand new to America). Besides the doctors, I was the only guy working in this hospital. They imported nurses from overseas because this town was such shit that no American in their right mind would take a job there.

But I did. Why? Because it was my first job out of college, and I wanted to travel and Tennessee sounded cool.

It wasn’t. Pittsburgh was heaven compared to this place.

Anyway, I’d sit and listen to these women talking about men’s peckers, all day long. These Asian women, before they came to American, had only slept with other Asian men. However, once here, they got white boy fever, and started spreading the Asian vagina around to all the local red-necks.

And you know what? They couldn’t wait to share the details and comparisons of white boy peni to Asian boy peni.

And quite honestly, I couldn’t wait for lunch each day, to hear them talk about it. I found it interesting and a bit arousing.

Actually, a lot arousing.

Anyway, there’s a myth out there that goes like this- Asian guys have smallish wood… Or so I thought it was myth. According to these women, who were now experiencing white boy peni- it was no myth- it was true.

NOW CALM DOWN, ASIAN BOYS- I have many Asian guy friends, so before you hate mail me, this is just a generalization, a stereotype, and like any other stereotype, it’s only true some of them time… I’m positive that all my Asian buddies, at least the ones reading this, have GARGANTUAN cocks that put mine to shame- so don’t give me shit about the truthful myth- I didn’t invent it.

Moving on: these women loved talking about peni. LOVED IT!

Eventually, one of these girls managed to find the only black man that lived in butt-fuck Tennessee, and she got naked with him.

The next day, she couldn’t wait to share the details.

I was a bit surprised, and very appalled to learn that her fellow Asian gal pals considered the schtooping of a black man to be “slumming.” Their language and attitude towards black men was horribly offensive and fucked up, and I couldn’t believe my ears. Nothing more disgusting that racism like that… But that’s another discussion.

Regardless, this FOB chick-ee told the story of this man’s cock and imbibed on the legend of the peni of the black man… Listening to the story, you’d have thought that he literally had an anaconda between his legs. After hearing the entire story I began to understand the expression “once you go black, you never go back.”

So, in summary, according to these women, Asian men were smallest, white dudes in the middle, black guys the largest.

The way that they talked and giggled and shared blew my mind. I couldn’t imagine that women talked this way, and thought that these Asian women were a bit unsophisticated…

-But later, with age, and more experience, and wisdom, I learned that many many women engage in this type of conversation-

Before we go on, let’s get one thing straight about peni. A penis is a body part like any other; for the most part it’s proportional to the rest of one’s body. Black men, on average, are bigger than white guys, and white guys bigger than Asian guys- that is just fact. So, logically, on average, the peni ratio will follow.

Of course, there are exceptions to every lame generalization. For example, the three largest peni I’ve ever seen in person were, in this order:

1) Derrick Alston (7 foot black center on the Duquesne University basketball team)

2) Ron Jeremy (he’s a friend of a friend, and I’ve seen it many times- in person- he is a 5’6” trollish looking dude. Thus, he is the exception)

3) Willie Stargell (6’5” baseball player whom I urinated next to as a 13 year old autograph seeker at a baseball card convention- his wood was intimidating- gave me nightmares)

So, from that, you can see that two out of the three fall in line with the logic of the peni being proportional to the size of the rest of a man, and one of the three breaks the stereotype and generalization. That’s 66% accurate in this instance, and if I were guessing, I’d say that most stereotypes are between 30- 60% true.

Moving on-

THE VAGINA THEORY:

Being that I work in a field largely dominated by women, and being that I’m also very non-threatening and pretty easy to talk too, I’ve heard a lot of shit, from a lot of women, over the years, about peni. However, one conversation that took place, between two female black co-workers of mine at an L.A. based hospital, put me over the edge.

The two of them were conversing about a sexual escapade that black girl #1 had the night before with, “my first ever white boy”. She went on to make fun of this guy, and how little his pecker was.

I knew this guy, he worked in my department. I liked this guy, he was my friend, and I didn’t like what was being said. I don’t know if he had a little pecker or not, but I know that if he had made comments about this woman’s fat ass (she had a fat ass), then she’d be hitting him up with sexual harassment and he’d be losing his job.

The fire started burning within. I was angry. Not so much about her comments, but about the fact that I knew there would be a double standard were the situation reversed.

“I mean, it barely felt like he was up in there,” she said to her friend.

I couldn’t keep quiet any longer- “Maybe you couldn’t feel him ‘up in there’ because you have a giant fucking vagina!” I replied, in anger, and in defense of my friend. (and no, this is not one of those cases where my friend is me- he really was my friend).

Anyway, she was obviously appalled by my comment and immediately went straight to our supervisor with a complaint of sexual harassment. I stated my case of the double standard, citing what she had said about our co-worker. Frankly, the boss, a black man, didn’t know how to handle this, and it was eventually swept under the rug. I shouldn’t have said what I did, because I could have lost my job, but that’s the point.

There is a major double standard. Why is it okay for women to talk this way, but not men?

After this incident, I started thinking quite a bit about my peni proportion theory, my statement to this woman, and how it likely applied to vaginas.

I thought about every Asian girl I’d ever been with. Nearly all of them had commented on my large size. “Oooo, so big,” (that’s my stereotypical Asian FOB impression- I realize this is insulting).

I’d thought about the black women. I’d gotten a few, but very few large comments.

I’d thought about the white women. 50/50- sometimes a comment, sometimes not.

Black women, as a rule, are taller and bigger than white women, who are taller and bigger than Asian women. This is just fact. And just a generalization. Thus, the vaginas are likely proportional to their size. And yes, I’m sure I just offended eighty billion people, but facts are facts.

Then I thought about other factors that may affect how small or large one’s vagina might appear to be:

1) if a woman is super turned on, she is likely to be more engorged with blood and a little larger- just as when a man is super rock hard, he gets a little more girth.

2) If the woman is the type whose vagina is all juicy and watery like a slip n slide, then there is less friction to be felt, thus giving the allusion of it being larger than it is

3) If the woman has pushed out a 6-8 pound human out of her vagina at any point in her life, it is likely that it is a little larger than it was pre-human making.

So, any of those above factors can throw off my theory just a bit, they can distort the impression of the actual size, so those factors must be accounted for, but as a rule, I do think my theory applies.

A woman’s vagina size is proportional to the size of her body- much in the same way a man’s penis is proportional to his.

WHY am I stating all this?

Maybe to get a RISE out of you… Talking about the size of one’s vagina is sort of messed up-it doesn’t freaking matter. Making generalizations about the size of one’s unit in comparison to their ethnicity is just stupid.

So why do we do it concerning men and their pee-pees? Why is that acceptable?

It’s bull-shit that we men get bashed for adoring breasts, for looking at breasts, and for seeking women with breasts, and getting labeled as “objectifying women”. We aren’t- we are following our biology, and most of us, after spotting the boobs, look for many other quality characteristics in a woman, before we decide that we want to be with her. However, physical attraction is the first animalistic thing that grabs us, and it’s the first thing we learn about any stranger.

So, men, the next time you hear women discussing penis size of any man, stand up for that man, for you are standing up for all of us. Whether you are large or small in breadbox is not the point- the point is that we can tolerate this hypocrisy no more!

When you hear a woman commenting on the size of a man she has been with- go right back at her- do what I did, and blame it on her vagina. If you get fired, you get fired, but you will be a martyr for mankind. Let it be known that it’s not that his penis was too big, or too small, it’s that her vagina was the wrong size.

Sex is just sex. It’s not that big a deal. It feels good and is supposed to feel good. However, insults are insults, and we don’t need them. We also don’t need to be making generalizations, because even if they are true, they are not the rule, and there are exceptions. So lets all stop with that bullshit.

And now, I am starting a movement. When women speak of cock size, I’m going at them about their vagina size.

Who’s with me?

But basically, the whole world, especially America, needs to calm down a little bit about sex in general. We make too big a deal out of it. It’s just one piece of flesh going into another person’s flesh. It’s a function of the body… like farting… or burping… only it feels better.

So lighten up everyone.

Let the hate mail roll in.

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After seeing the Costa Rica pictures of myself I realized that I needed to either start going to the gym again, or submit to the fact that I was entering middle age and would never again be physically attractive to the female counterpart of our species.

Rea and I joined a gym and have been hitting it hard. I’ve started to once again feel confident about the way I look.

Today, the bride stayed behind when I went for the Sunday workout

Typically, I’ll hit the weights for 30 minutes, followed by 30 minutes in the pool.

Today, a sunny beach day, only two other people were in the pool… two lovely, perfectly shaped, identical twins, no younger than 22, no older than 25.

My inner male monkey began to take over.

I strapped on my goggles and dove in, ready to sprint my first lap, and be a shining example of speed, athleticism, grace, and male machismo.

There is a “no-diving” rule, but to attain maximum speed, you’ve got to dive. I wouldn’t say that I was purposely trying to impress the young ladies, but like I said, the inner male monkey was in charge at this point. When a pretty young thing comes around, this instinct sometimes overrides common sense.

So, I’m diving in. I will emerge, and I will fly down to the other end of the pool in record time. However, today I’m wearing a different bathing suit. My two best suits are still wet and out on the balcony, so I’m wearing one I haven’t worn to the gym before.

I’ve lost a couple inches in the waist since I’d purchased these trunks- so I’m sure you can picture what happened.

The fact that my pants came down wasn’t so bad- I’m not shy about people seeing my buttocks or yang-yang. What was embarrassing was that they came all the way down, around my ankles, and I nearly drowned as a result. I was in only five or six feet of water, but with my shorts around my ankles I couldn’t keep myself afloat and get a hand on my trunks at the same time. Had I just taken a second to slow down and concentrate I probably could have amended the situation in about two seconds just by standing on my tip toes and then reaching down for my short. But I didn’t slow down and think, I panicked instead. What resulted was about a forty-five second struggle of thrashing, gasping, and twisting, trying not to drown. I finally won the battle with my shorts, pulled them up, got to the side of the pool, caught my breath, and then, only after gathering myself, I tried to look over at the twins, casually, to see if they had noticed.

They were losing their shit.

Now, had I seen the twins in the predicament they had found me in, first I would have relished in the bathing suit around the ankles part, but then, when I saw the struggle, I probably would have dove in to try to save them.

They didn’t.

But they sure as fuck had a good laugh… for probably a solid five minutes.

Luckily, I’ve learned over the years, that male machismo, followed by doing something idiotic, can play to a man’s advantage if he acknowledges his douche-baggery rather than getting defensive about it or pretending it didn’t happen. So, I joined them in their laugh- I mean it was pretty funny. Almost dying is a hoot. I laughed for about a minute, I thought that was sufficient to acknowledge the situation.

“That was funny girls,” I said, confessing, while laughing.

I thought that’d be the end of it.

I put my face in the water and swam a lap, up and back, and when I emerged, they were still laughing at me.

Now they were just being insensitive bitches.

I swam for another 15 minutes or so, and then got in the hot tub. The twins followed.

I figured this would be a good time to work on my social skills, since it had been a while, and I’d need these skills in the event that the bride ever dumps me, which is growing more likely by the day.

We struck up conversation. I made sure not to say anything inappropriate, not flirt, not compliment them, just converse. We talked about ten minutes and I learned that these smoking hot identical twins were indeed 22, and they had names, but I don’t remember them.

They were also both aspiring writers.

And I love that shit.

So, we chatted.

And after 10 minutes or so, I decided that I should be on my way.

“It’s getting kinda hot for me, I’m gonna get going,” I said, then I stood up. As I did so, one of the twins covered her eyes.

“Just in case you dropped trout again,” she said.

I thought that was pretty witty of her. Score another point for the twins.

“I’m probably gonna go too,” she said, lifting herself, in her perfect bikini body, out of the hot tub.

“Nice meeting you,” I said.

“You too,” she said.

“Bye.”

“You should take my number,” she offered.

SCORE! This was exactly what my ego had needed for the past few months- Costa Rica and my fat white belly now had official confirmation of a comeback.

“I’m expecting,” I said, like a nitwit.

“Expecting what?”

“Ohh, umm, I mean, my bride and I are expecting.”

Anyway, that ended that. And though the twins were smoking hot, they were not nearly as smoking hot as my bride. The bride and I later went bra shopping. This pregnancy has made her boobs grow out of control. She hasn’t worn a bra in two weeks because nothing fits. She’s now a 36C… the perfect size… I was so proud.

But that isn’t the point.

The point is that I still got it- girls still like me. And sometimes a man needs that ego boost.

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As we become more desperate for sex, our standards lower… Desperation can even push one into homosexual activities.

Today, the bride and I were taking a walk.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Her,” I said, and pointed. “She’s pretty hot.”

“Matt,” says the bride. “That girl is so not attractive.”

“Really?” I asked. “What about her? She’s hot, right?”

“No. Not even close,” the bride said.

The bride would not lie about such things. She doesn’t care if I look at other women so long as I don’t touch. Often, when we are out we point out the hotties to each other. So I know she wasn’t messing with me when she told me the girls whom I found attractive, we not.

“What about her?” I asked, pointing at a lovely 20-something blond sipping a beer on the patio at Sharkeez.

“Not in the least, Matt. You’re standards are really dropping.”

And then it hit me. My standards are dropping. It isn’t because I’m attracted to less attractive women now, its because my bride is preggers and sore everywhere and we aren’t having a ton of sex. My biological need for sex is not being met at the moment, and probably won’t be until about four months after the baby is born. Thus, my brain is playing tricks on me. Willing to settle.

This is exactly why guys with no personality, no job, and no attractive physical quality, as well as girls who are massively overweight are willing to sleep with those of the opposite sex who seem less than desirable to most of us. Now, your jobless, ugly, personality-less buddy may tell you that he’s dating and liking so and so because “she’s really nice and I like her.” – while that may be true, and while she may be really nice, and he may really like her, he didn’t know that the first time he slept with her. He slept with her because he was desperate and could do no better. He settled. We all settle to a certain degree. This is the nature of sex and love. We need sex and if we can’t get it from the super hot, super smart, super fun Brazilian super model, then we will get it from the fat and dumb girl with no sense of humor. One way or another, we are all going to satisfy those needs.

The ultimate example of this is prison. Men, brutally testosterone fueled manly men, the kind of men who you’d be afraid of in a dark alley, the kind of men who beat you up and high school and lost their virginity when they were twelve to a girl in the grade above who wore a C-cup bra- these same men, in prison, will be reduced to homosexuality if they are in there long enough. We can all find our need for sex to some degree, but you put a man in prison for 50 years, and he’s going to have to find a way to get relief. This is not opinion- this is fact. There are studies on this shit. And if you think you above the fray on this one, you are not. If you were convicted of murder and sent to prison for life, before your tenth year you’d be so horny and in need of sex that you’d do anything and anyone to get relief. Just fact.

Why am I talking about this disturbing point? Well, for one, I’m trying to stay true to the motto (honest, naked discussion), and two, it entered my brain when the bride told me my standards dropped, and I found it interesting. Plus, not much else is going on today to talk about.

But still, I think it’s a pretty interesting thing to think about it.

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Will we ever evolve, as a society, to the point where we are able to realize and actualize that love and sex are not mutually exclusive and maybe not even directly correlated?

I doubt it.

But we should. It’s time for us to grow up. Time to evolve. Time to realize that our bodies are mere vessels for our minds, and that this is where emotions, such as love, come from.

In argument, people will say: “love is the ultimate way to express your love for someone.”

Bullshit.

I can think of about a hundred ways that more definitively express love-

Off the top of my head:

- giving someone a kidney. Surely that shows love more than touching your pee pee to their wah wah.

- taking a bullet to save someone else’s life. Surely that is more expressive of your love for them, than giving them a little cunnilingus.

- giving rather than taking. Surely this better displays the emotion of love than tickling their special spot.

IF you love someone, surely you will make love to them.

But just because you make love to someone, doesn’t mean you love them.

I guess, my larger point, is that we, as Americans, need to pull the stick out of our assess about sex and our bodies.

They are just orifices people. Why is farting funny, but sex is sacred? They are both just necessary biological functions that we need to do for the health of our physical bodies.
We need to stop treating sex like it is the most sacred thing in the world.

It isn’t.

But maybe love is.

And maybe once we get the difference, we can be more adult about how we practice the two.

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Recently, at the Manhattan Beach six man volleyball (the best weekend of the year- Google it) tournament with the bride, I feel two things:

1. Jipped.
2. Uncomfortable

Why?

I’ve seen at least three girls wearing their bathing suits so low that frontal crack was exposed. I remember just a few years ago when butt crack became the trendy sexy thing. Now, that is totally conservative. You need frontal crack to wow them.

How am I not to stare at frontal crack? It’s impossible. The bride, eight months preggers and not super confident about her body right now, gets a little irritated with my vagina gazing, and I cant say I blame her. And the women who sport the vag crack roll their eyes at me as I stare, as if saying, “Stop starring at my cooch you perv.”

If you don’t want me starring at your little lady, then don’t put it on display.

That is why I feel uncomfortable. Why do I feel jipped?

Because I want to know where this sexual freedom when I was in my twenties?

Men in my generation got completely ripped off in the sex category. The sixties were all about marijuana and free love. The seventies about cocaine, group sex parties, and disco. The eighties about glam bands, hard partying on the Sunset Strip and reckless behavior.

Then came the 90’s, my generation’s youthful decade. In the 90-‘s we got slammed with “just say no” and “HIV”. Abstinence made a come back, as did monogamy. Now, monogamy is great. I’m a married man now, and I’m fine with it; however, this isn’t exactly the lifestyle we want in our twenties as young men.

I didn’t let the times stop me. I was essentially a man-whore on my college campus… Well, not really, not by today’s standards, or the standards of the 60’s. However, by the standards of the 90’s, I was, and everyone on my college campus made sure to let everyone else know about it. On a campus of 4,000 students, most girls knew my name… I’m not bragging, I merely stating that I had a reputation as being a man-whore… in the 60’s I may have been seen as an evolved “free thinker/free lover”, but not in the 90’s.

That sucked.

Anyway, we were blessed with grunge music, which I will still argue, was the best period of rock that America has seen since its glory days of the Stones and Rush.

I don’t want to come off as whining about growing old and a lost youth or anything. And being the owner of NAKEDWORDSURFING I have to support this vag crack movement (America is way too uptight about its sexuality). However, this is new for us, we Americans are not yet conditioned to seeing frontal crack in normal societal situations. So, if you catch me starring you have two legit options:

1. be flattered that your bathing suit is drawing attention… or
2. If uncomfortable with it, don’t show the frontal crack. Give it a few years; I’m sure it will become just as common as the butt crack…

Then again, there’s always the possibility of a holy roller getting in office and killing our fun.

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Before I even get started on this one, let me state, for the record- I am incredibly happy to be having a child and wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

But I wouldn’t have minded having another year of baby making practice first.

My married buddies for years used to joke that “marriage ruins your sex life.”  I got married, and it didn’t ruin it at all, just maybe cock blocked me a couple times.  So, when the bride became pregnant one of those same buddies told me, “Matt, all the sex you’ve had up to this point in your life will double the amount that you have for the rest of your life.”- It didn’t really scare me.  I knew it couldn’t be true.

I didn’t know shit.

We’re six and a half months into this thing, and if it weren’t for the fact that I pee about eight times a day, I’d forget where my penis was.

But its okay- I’m fine with it.  Sacrificing my sex life in order to bring new life into the world is well worth it.

Still- I’m a man, and as only we men know, sex is not just something we enjoy, it is a necessary bodily function and if we aren’t regular with it we get all stopped up and cranky.

And yes, I just compared the lack of sex to constipation- because that analogy, more than any other, makes sense.

And here’s the deal- women are allowed their hormonal mood swings.  We men are taught that they have no control over this that it is part of the nature of being a woman, and we are just to deal with it, accept it, and learn to appreciate them in all their womanlyhoodness.  We men are taught that women have needs- they need to be cuddled and coddled and told emphatically over and over and over that their ass absolutely positively does not look fat in those jeans that they can no longer button without sucking in their stomachs and holding their breath.

Fine.

But I’m here to tell you, that we men have needs as well.  You see, we aren’t like you- we’re made differently, and that is fact.  The nature of our biology, which is necessary to keep the human race alive, is for us to run around sticking our Willy Wonka into anything that will have it, and release our little Willies into it so that babies can be created and the human race will continue.

This is not gross.  This is not sexist.  This is fact.  This is science.

Women are designed, by nature, by evolution, by survival of the fittest, to attract a man to get her pregnant, and then use her magic power of the vagina to get him to stick around and help raise the little ones.

And because they are smarter than us, in the ways of mating, we do exactly that.

And that’s fine.  Because most of the time… or actually, about 50% of the time, we’re happy in this arrangement.  (The other 50% get divorced).  We willingly sacrifice our freedom to roam the earth throwing our Putzo around, in order to have exclusive rights to a singular Pootie-poo for the rest of our lives.  It’s a basic, primal negotiation.  We stick around in one place, to help bring up the little monkeys, and they let us see their vagina whenever we want.

That first year of marriage is phenomenal.  It’s like living in Fantasy Island… the X-rated version.  There’s role playing and costumes and dirty talk and tender moments and food product and all other kinds of experimentation.  You’re rockin out with your cock out 24/7. Total hedonism.

But then you get her pregnant.

And you’re as excited as you’ve ever been.  You can’t wait to meet that little guy.  He’s going to be the coolest mother fucker to ever live.  (And he is).

But I’ll-be-God-Damned if that little embryonic fucker didn’t cock block the shit out of me!

But you’re in love and you love that woman.  Pregnant or not, she’s still the most beautiful creature you’ve ever laid your eyes on.  And you know she’s never comfortable anymore- I mean, she’s got a human growing in her belly and big head-ism runs in her family, so you know this little human must really be uncomfortable for her.  Obviously she’s not in the mood for sex anymore, and you can’t bitch because that woman is going through hell in order to bring your baby into the world.  Rumor has it that during the last month or two that she may get super horny, but that doesn’t do much for you now.

So what do you do?

Do you cheat?

-not if you love her.

Do you just suck it up and cleanse your mind of sexual thoughts?

-not if you have balls you don’t.

So what do you do?

You find a sex substitute.  You do what boys start doing at the age of 12 (or some of us- much much younger), and don’t stop until a priest reads them their last rights.  You abuse your penis.

Yes, ladies- when you are pregnant, and unable to meet our manly needs, we must care for ourselves.

While you are sitting on the couch, knitting your first born his first little blankie, we are in a cool dark room, looking at porn, and making love to ourselves.  Over and over and over.  In the past few months I’ve broken out techniques, just to mix it up, that I haven’t used in decades… and I’ve invented a couple brand new ones, which, if I can figure out how to set the automatic timer on this camera, I may make a how to video for all those other blocked up married and expecting men.

So, baby, my beautiful bride, the mother of my child, my very best friend.  I love you.  I love making love to you.  I love the baby you are incubating in your cute round belly.  But know this- and all women- please take note… If you are not sleeping with your man at least three times a week, then his biological needs are not being met.  He is going to become cranky and irritable and my snap at you once in a while.  You don’t want that.  We don’t want that.  Thus, there is only one solution.  Allow your man to make love to himself- with porn, without porn, whatever it takes to make him happy and alleviate the bowels of his balls.

Luckily for me, I have a bride who totally gets this.  She not only accepts it, but she encourages it, and sometimes she even helps.

I am blessed.

I have friends who are not so blessed.  They get yelled at if they get caught looking at porn.

This is silly.

But baby, my darling bride, you need to understand that there was no earthquake last night, nor the night before that.  There is no need to wake up alarmed and ask me if there is one.  The answer was no and the answer tonight will again be no.  What you have is a man who really loves himself, and who loves his bride, and is willing to do anything necessary in order to keep a happy home- even if that means making love to himself at four in the morning.  I will do whatever it takes.  I love you.

Ladies- and I’m speaking to two of you directly (you know who you are) – back off your man!

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