Finally, men talk about their penises.

Poor kid.

I'll butt out, anyway. I 'spect it's a lot more fun for women to talk about penises than men.

Go Kings.

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OK, here are the stories. I am a Premium subscriber to Salon and this story might only be available to those subscribers.
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Horacio, my pretty flower
Pedro is an intake clerk for the California Department of Motor Vehicles. He's 31 years old, a small man, very dark-skinned, who wears tinted eyeglasses and a suit and tie every day to work. He does not care for the sloppiness of the contemporary workplace.
No, I don't like the way people seem not to care about themselves anymore. The way they dress at work, they look like bums! My grandfather wouldn't have stood for it, and I feel the same way. So I try to look sharp every day at work. I remember him, although he was very old when I was a kid here in San Jose. My grandmother told me a lot about him. He was from Guadalajara, a furniture salesman. They met in Guadalajara and, you know, in the early 20s he didn't just go out with my grandmother. You didn't do that. He'd ask her to go for a walk on the ramblas on Sunday afternoon, and her mother'd go with them. Or he'd come over for a visit some evening, and they'd sit in the parlor while her mother sat in the living room, which was right next to the parlor, knitting or something but really just watching them. No touch. No making out. None of that.
But, you know, my grandmother, she loved that man! She always told me how beautiful he was, and formal. How he treated her like a lady, a woman! Which meant that he treated her in a manly way, brought her flowers, respected her wishes and always, always greeted her mother and father with real feeling, real respect.
So when I'm at work, I try to be the same way. And I'm that way with my wife, too. She even calls me "Horacio" sometimes, which was my grandfather's name. But, I mean, you know, you asked me about my penis? My wife calls it "mi linda flor," my pretty flower. I like that. But I like it just as much when she calls it "Horacio."


"Please take me to bed"
Clifford is a marketing executive in San Francisco in his late 50s. He was married for 23 years and has one adult son. He is a fallen-away Catholic, an avid reader of South American novels, and loves his social life.
When I was a little boy, my father instructed me to keep my arms and hands outside the covers when I slept. When he tucked me in, he would arrange the blanket and sheet over me, with my Lone Ranger pajama arms resting above the blanket, my hands folded together over my stomach.
"Keep them that way, Cliffie," he would smile, tousling my hair before moving toward the light switch. "And sleep tight!" I didn't succeed. His admonitions reminded me of the similar instructions he gave on those occasions on which I had to wear a coat and tie somewhere -- Christmas mass, Easter service, a funeral -- and I felt similarly restricted, similarly tightened.
For me, one of the lovely pleasures of sleep has always been to become immersed in the sheets and blankets and to allow their dreamy warmth to steal over me like a warm fog, quickly. So as soon as my father left the bedroom, I'd bring my hands beneath the blankets, roll over on my side and go to sleep.
I did not do what he was worried I would do, which was to masturbate. I didn't question why he wished me to be so formal in my sleeping. But the answer became very clear, like lightning, one remarkable night when I was 17 and a freshman at the University of California, alone in bed with a sudden erection. I took it in hand and, well, the rest is history!
For me, onanism came late in life. By 17, most men have become expert in the practice. So I was a late bloomer. But once I did discover it, I recalled my father's loving -- and now suddenly failed -- advice. I had never asked him about it. I never spoke to my father about sex in any way. My mother was the source of all such information as, later, friends were and, much later, some generous, kindhearted and barely contained women. After my discovery in Berkeley, I knew why he had been so careful.
But now, given the pleasure I had found, I wondered why he had cared about it so negatively. Before then, I had thought of my penis as an odd sort of tube to have flopping around before me. What god would have invented that? It was convenient in that toilets were perfectly situated to receive the liquid that periodically ran from it. But what was the point of it otherwise? There were moments, of course, when it got big, and I knew why it got big. (My mother had explained it to me.) But I really didn't understand the consequences of its getting big -- that is, the immediate consequences and the immediate solutions.
I had a severe case of what my friends called "lover's nuts"
I had this vague understanding that lovemaking -- which at the time I really didn't understand -- was intended for making babies. I had been told so by Jesuit priests during Catholic Church retreats in junior high school, and as far as they were concerned that was the only thing for which lovemaking was intended. But the priests had said this in a tone of voice that implied that, in the case of boys, the penis could be put to other quite dastardly purposes as well. Even though they didn't describe masturbation or ******* or the well-intended, perfumed caress. None of that.

I almost discovered one of those purposes when I was 16 and making out on the beach in front of my high school girlfriend's house (I'll call her Mary Jo) on the Balboa Peninsula of Newport Beach, Calif. I had just learned how to make out, and Mary Jo was really enjoying what we were doing. I wasn't feeling her up or anything, although I had been told how to do it by some friends of mine. As a good Catholic boy, I knew that feeling Mary Jo up would be a sin. So we were just kissing. But my penis was very taut, very strained against the jockey underpants I was wearing. I occasionally had to adjust it so that it could avoid rubbing against the zipper of my pants. The underpants provided some protection against the zipper, but not much.

Mary Jo whispered into my ear, "Oh Cliffie, please, please take me to bed."

I stood up and helped her to her feet. She lived with her parents and sister in a second-story flat that looked out on the beach. None of them was home that evening, and I escorted Mary Jo up the stairs and into the apartment. Ever the gentleman, I tucked her into her bed, kissed her good night, and left, thinking I had obliged her every wish.

Mary Jo's affection for me waned after that. She soon started going out with the high school quarterback. But as I drove home that night, I noticed the transformation that my penis had undergone. All for Mary Jo. For one, it was messy with pre-ejaculate liquid and clotted pubic hair. It felt quite sensitive to the touch, rubbed raw here and there by its confrontation with my underpants and zipper. Also I had a severe case of what my friends called "lover's nuts," the dull, even agonizing ache that takes over your scrotum sack when you've been very excited but have not had a proper orgasm. I didn't know what a proper orgasm was.

When I got up the next morning, the lover's nuts had subsided. I kept from my parents what Mary Jo and I had been doing on the beach, and what she had said to me in so frenzied a tone of voice. But I marveled in private at the transformations my penis had been through. Radical size shifts. The surface of its skin, changed from loose to taut to slick to sticky. Its color, now in places quite red, as though it had been sunburned. It had had a personality when Mary Jo and I were together. It had sought release. It had been disappointed. It had grumbled in pain. It had complained. But -- it had not succumbed to the ecstatic purpose to which it had been tempted. I was not to understand that purpose -- and all the subsequent others -- until I got to Berkeley and beat off that night.

Now, after long marriage, a grown son, divorce and 10 years of being single again and being taught, again, by even more gracious women, I see how full a life a penis can have. I mean, it now delivers itself of opinions. It rests, content that it need not bestir itself right this minute, but that it surely could if it wanted to. It is calm, assured, maybe a little too settled and self-congratulatory. It has found capabilities for subtlety of action, the giving of pleasure, thrilling moments of sudden change, surrender and release that, lying on the beach with Mary Jo, I would not have even possibly imagined.

I only wish that my father were still alive, so that I could tell him.



I always loved me mickey

Liam is a poet from County Galway in the west of Ireland who now lives in New York City. He is 35 years old. He dresses poorly, in jeans, cowboy boots and secondhand shirts. He has very little money, because he insists he will be a poet and nothing else. His hair is frequently dirty. He refuses to work for a living, and his income comes from his writing and from welfare.

Well, you know that, despite the common myth about Catholics, we don't **** much in Ireland. But I'm ever vigilant and I always loved me mickey. I almost hate to use the term because it sounds so disrespectful. I really feel that he's my friend, and I don't want to use him for bad purposes. I care a lot for my mother and sisters and, you know, the truth is I love myself. So I wasn't going to allow my penis to be some kind of warrior that I'd use to defeat women. I don't view women as though they're the English.

So I was reading the Chilean Pablo Neruda the other day, one of his "One Hundred Love Sonnets." There's a relationship, you know, a famous one, between the Spanish and the Irish. Irish soldiers were forever fighting for the Spanish against the English. Regiments of them! I think there's a political reason there. As they say, "England's troubles are Ireland's gain." But I also have this vision of the poor surviving sailors of the Spanish Armada coming ashore in the north of Ireland in 1588, cold and smothered with seawater and Triton's cold weeds, dying, and the first thing they see is a group of Irish girls standing on the beach, barefoot, smiling, surprised by these handsome dark men floating on the waves, red-haired girls and gorgeous, you know. Can you blame the Spanish for feeling saved?

Anyway, I was reading Pablo Neruda. And he has this poem, it's No. 12 in that book of sonnets. He's writing the poem to his wife Matilde. All of them are written to this woman, and, Jesus, he must have loved her. To distraction, I mean, because few women have been written about the way Neruda writes about her. He calls her a "meaty apple"! He calls her a "hot moon." And then he says: "I cover over your small infinities, kiss by kiss, your edges, your rivers, your diminutive villages, and the genital fire, transformed to a delicacy, runs up the narrow lanes of the blood until it spills itself ... a carnation nocturne flower, until it is and is nothing, save a glimmer in the shadow."

Now what's that? That's his mickey he's talking about. And he's coming! Isn't he? Fire and delicacy! Lord help us. "The narrow lanes of the blood ..." Can you imagine anything as beautiful as that? His penis is a deliverer! It brings her such a gift! A flower! A glimmer! A shadow! Sure you'd have to go a long way to find a mickey as glorious as that.

Tomorrow: A grand lover of women

(Stay tuned)........
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About the writer
Terence Clarke is a novelist and screenwriter in San Francisco.

I love this:
It had had a personality when Mary Jo and I were together. It had sought release. It had been disappointed. It had grumbled in pain. It had complained. But -- it had not succumbed to the ecstatic purpose to which it had been tempted. I was not to understand that purpose -- and all the subsequent others -- until I got to Berkeley and beat off that night.

Well, maybe it's better not to know each other too well. One of the things that makes a2k such a great place is visiting anonymously. Just think, one of you guys might really open up and then we would all get together at one of the many a2k gatherings and, Ooops! Guess where everyone would look first. Not at your face.

I hope you do read the stories. These men were wonderfully honest.

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Penis = Joy Stick

You see? That is the difference between men and women.
Women like to talk.
Men prefer to act.

It is our role in life, our biological imperative. In a discussion group, what shall we do?

Well my friends ... I will give the CodePrincess something to talk about! Good night.




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Ahem...

Holy mackeral....question for the guys about the stories: They did the interviews on the off hope that lots of chicks would get interested in their dicks, am I wrong?

Also, does anyone else out there have two penises? I am trying to share here...

Last year in the UK, one of the national TV channels, I think it was channel 4, broadcast 3 progs. where people of different ages talked openly about sex and their bodies and experieces they had gone thru.
Men talked about their penis
Women about their breasts and clitoris
It was all very relaxed and people spoke freely. There was a lot of nudity but no sexual actvity shown.
The progs were aired at 10pm and drew little attention in the press.

Some time ago, I saw a documentary involving women talking about their breasts as symbols, problems, etc, which was quite interesting actually. Does anyone remember what this was called? I have totally forgotten the title.

Holy mackerel Cav, I have enough problems copin with one, let alone 2

A good few years ago I was starting a new job and was sent off to have a full medical examination. The doctor turned out to be female, about my age and quite attractive. Being told to strip down completely didn't faze me and didn't arouse me when she prodded around my stomach and groin. Maybe the fact that she told me I was in danger of getting a hernia in that area concentrated my mind somewhat and cooled my loins.

A few years later the prophesied hernia arrived. I was duly booked in for surgery. The nurse who booked me in asked me if I had shaved. I said yes but she said she'd better check. On checking she said I could do with a bit of a tidying up. There was no major reaction on my part as she did the needful. Again my mind was somewhat concentraded on other matters.

In contrast of course, very often the mere act of undressing to go to bed with your lover can bring a quick responece. On one occasion a lover of mine asked me "where did that come from" as she nodded towards my loins. I replied "the nearness of you dear"

As I've said before, If it ain't in the head, it ain't anywhere else.

So true...oldandknew...if I wasn't mental, Mrs. cav wouldn't still be here by my side Strangely enough, that joke is pretty close to the truth...

Just a little Shel Silverstein song I thought might be appropriate for cav. The women's bits are in italics (like in ancient Rome).

Heh heh, that was great! Still no excuse for 'The Giving Tree' scarring so many male children for life Shel's 'blue' work was extensive and pretty funny...

I like his books. No glossing life for kids. The Giving Tree: "you better be greatful for what you get out of your rape of the land, 'cause one day you're going to have nothing to show for it but desolation." The Missing Piece: "sure, go ahead and fixate on finding someone else to complete you; then watch that fast roll toward death." Lafcadio: "success will turn you into an asshole."

Good morals, those.

The fear of sharing sexual details, a gift of my family upbringing, has stayed with me all the days of my life. Life and learning has alerted me that stories shared may reveal a bit of the hidden self, that carefully concealed creature of raw need. It has never, truely been visible.

In my life, the word is not penis, but dick. I don't think I have ever conversed with men and used the word penis. In fact, using the word would immediately put me on the defensive; it was unnatural.

Finally, men talk about their penises.
Puts me in mind of a story I was told by a friend. He was circumcised while in his late teens. A young and pretty nurse came into the room to clean "it". Unfortunately he rose to the occasion . She just smiled and gave it a little tap at which it promptly deflated not only the member but his ego.

Since when is this taboo? I talk to mine all the time.

Er....I mean...ABOUT...I talk ABOUT mine all the time.

Ah crap.