Spotted Dicks - Part I
Maybe happy isn’t the right word. Satisfied, I guess. I could be on my deathbed 60 years from now without having seen a single wiener in that timespan and tell my adult children I have no regrets in the dick department. Actually, that sounds awesome and I hope it happens just so I can see the looks on everyone’s faces when I say “dick department” right before I croak.
Part flesh and part digital, my collection of spotted dicks really covers the bases of what a penis can look like. It begins with my own and ends with the three I saw on my lunchbreak today courtesy of the hardworking whores over at Men.com. Like most little boys, the first penis I ever saw in the wild was my dad’s, which only seems fair because he saw my baby dick pretty much all the time I’m guessing. After that, I saw the penis of a fellow first-grader named Demetri Costich when he waved it at me from a neighboring urinal. The only reason I remember this is because the little fucker told our teacher I was looking at his wiener in the bathroom and then that bitch called my parents. That night, I was given a stern talking to about the dangers of looking at wieners, and I hated everyone involved for the injustice I was being served. That’s why I just used Demetri Costich’s real name. He got me in trouble when I was six years old and I hope he’s dead.
I didn’t see another dick until seven years later, and then it was like dicks were crawling out the woodwork to find me. Just poking their little heads out the woodwork and singing at me through their peeholes, “Ryannnnn. Look at meeeee…” That’s what high school was like: Dancing little singing-peehole wieners just cooing and squirming for my attention.
I went to an all-boys Catholic school and I was on the wrestling team, so my opportunity to see a dick or two was greater than most people’s by a cosmic margin. Not only were vaginas completely out of the mix from the get-go, but then I went ahead joined an athletic team, which meant two
things: a soul-crushing inadequacy complex that would leach itself onto me forever and mandatory group showers.
When I tell people I wrestled varsity in high school, their first response is something like, “Oh, I bet you liked that.” To which I’ll respond, “Yeah, practicing for three hours a day just to have my ass handed to me tournament-after-tournament was a fuggin blast. I’m really chubbing up right now just thinking about all the concussions I suffered, not to mention that one time a girl from a public school beat the shit out of me.” Let me be clear about something: my three years on the wrestling team were underscored by no gay motivations whatsoever. The guys were ruthless, psychotic, and always angry from cutting weight. Plus, they were mean to me because I sucked and I carried my inhaler with me everywhere. I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me, so I found it very difficult to find any of them sexually attractive. Sure, I had that fantasy of wanting one guy to “bully” me into “forced” sex, but that went away after a very tense game of British Bulldog where he cross-faced me — breaking my nose.
Over the course of three years, I saw a bunch of dicks in the locker room stolen through side-eye glances and flagrant ogling. But I wasn’t necessarily running home to melt pearls on my belly over it. These guys were my teammates. And although there was a rift between them and me, covertly using them to jack-off felt like betrayal. But, honestly, I didn’t need those guys anyway. Because when it came to spank bank material, I had a brand new perpetually replenishing source at home.
Just off the dining room was a small space we called “the computer room” because of the massive cherrywood armoire that housed a HP Pavilion, fully loaded with Windows 98, dial-up Internet, and the CompuServe web browser. And this was my gateway to a new frontier, covered in sweeping planes of dicks that bobbed on a mid-afternoon breeze before coming to rest in a collective sigh; a steady hum that sounded like someone calling my name.
Part flesh and part digital, my collection of spotted dicks really covers the bases of what a penis can look like. It begins with my own and ends with the three I saw on my lunchbreak today courtesy of the hardworking whores over at Men.com. Like most little boys, the first penis I ever saw in the wild was my dad’s, which only seems fair because he saw my baby dick pretty much all the time I’m guessing. After that, I saw the penis of a fellow first-grader named Demetri Costich when he waved it at me from a neighboring urinal. The only reason I remember this is because the little fucker told our teacher I was looking at his wiener in the bathroom and then that bitch called my parents. That night, I was given a stern talking to about the dangers of looking at wieners, and I hated everyone involved for the injustice I was being served. That’s why I just used Demetri Costich’s real name. He got me in trouble when I was six years old and I hope he’s dead.
I didn’t see another dick until seven years later, and then it was like dicks were crawling out the woodwork to find me. Just poking their little heads out the woodwork and singing at me through their peeholes, “Ryannnnn. Look at meeeee…” That’s what high school was like: Dancing little singing-peehole wieners just cooing and squirming for my attention.
I went to an all-boys Catholic school and I was on the wrestling team, so my opportunity to see a dick or two was greater than most people’s by a cosmic margin. Not only were vaginas completely out of the mix from the get-go, but then I went ahead joined an athletic team, which meant two
things: a soul-crushing inadequacy complex that would leach itself onto me forever and mandatory group showers.When I tell people I wrestled varsity in high school, their first response is something like, “Oh, I bet you liked that.” To which I’ll respond, “Yeah, practicing for three hours a day just to have my ass handed to me tournament-after-tournament was a fuggin blast. I’m really chubbing up right now just thinking about all the concussions I suffered, not to mention that one time a girl from a public school beat the shit out of me.” Let me be clear about something: my three years on the wrestling team were underscored by no gay motivations whatsoever. The guys were ruthless, psychotic, and always angry from cutting weight. Plus, they were mean to me because I sucked and I carried my inhaler with me everywhere. I didn’t like them and they didn’t like me, so I found it very difficult to find any of them sexually attractive. Sure, I had that fantasy of wanting one guy to “bully” me into “forced” sex, but that went away after a very tense game of British Bulldog where he cross-faced me — breaking my nose.
Over the course of three years, I saw a bunch of dicks in the locker room stolen through side-eye glances and flagrant ogling. But I wasn’t necessarily running home to melt pearls on my belly over it. These guys were my teammates. And although there was a rift between them and me, covertly using them to jack-off felt like betrayal. But, honestly, I didn’t need those guys anyway. Because when it came to spank bank material, I had a brand new perpetually replenishing source at home.
Just off the dining room was a small space we called “the computer room” because of the massive cherrywood armoire that housed a HP Pavilion, fully loaded with Windows 98, dial-up Internet, and the CompuServe web browser. And this was my gateway to a new frontier, covered in sweeping planes of dicks that bobbed on a mid-afternoon breeze before coming to rest in a collective sigh; a steady hum that sounded like someone calling my name.
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