A Brazen Display of Cockiness
Let's dispense with the obvious, before I get into the content of that which I wish to write today. Firstly, yes, I know, it's been approximately forever and seven and a half years since I've actually posted here. (More accurately, just under seven months, but what's a relative eternity among friends?) I could spend a whole long series of posts explaining why my absence was so prolonged, but I have my reasons not to; namely:
Well, that's not entirely true. I have written, much more than I'd like to admit, and on topics I was hopelessly uninterested in. This past semester was essentially an exercise in futility and endurance: how long could I survive focusing on a topic about which all the passion had been viciously eaten out of my soul much like the relentless appetite of a Langolier insatiably devouring the past? It was almost enough to make me not want to write anything anymore, something that surely would not have flown considering I have a thesis due in less than three months and three more classes to take before graduating.
So the solution, at least in my mind, is to get back to writing things that interest me or amuse me, even if they don't interest or amuse anyone else and especially if they're not interesting or amusing at all on a purely objective level.
Which brings me to today's installment of my awkward on-campus observations.
It's been a while since I've been a real "student," per se, strolling from class to class and really taking in the campus environment, so I tried my damnedest to be productive today, and part of that productivity meant hitting the gym to start what I continually claim to be my new weight loss regimen -- that, and to burn off some of the ridiculously unhealthy burger and cheese fries (mmm...) I had for lunch today (on, yes, the first day of my new weight loss regimen -- so far, off to a great start).
There was nothing especially noteworthy about my workout, which consisted of 35 minutes on the bike to try and regain some of my hopeless cardiovascular health. But what interested me were my two trips to the locker room to change into and out of my gym attire. While I try to make it a habit to not specifically look in this general direction, I couldn't help but notice that during my two brief interludes, there was an inordinately high amount of guys walking around with absolutely zero clothes on. And not just in the corridors formed by the lockers, where it is perfectly reasonable to see people disrobing to change clothes or to venture, towelled, to the shower after a workout. I'm talking about the guys who are just strolling along au naturel in the main area of the locker room, hanging out for all the rest of us males to see.
Now, I feel I must preface this next part of the conversation with an awkward but (as you'll see) necessary confession: I do not possess that which one might refer to as a "monster cock." That's not to say that Cherry Forever's assessment of Pee-Wee's package -- "needledick," for the unschooled -- applies to me; but then, neither does the jaw-dropping, "Oh my God, the boy's deformed," that aptly describes the presentation of the appropriately-nicknamed Anthony "Meat" Tuperello. Fact is, I, like most guys, fall into that nice category of average. But there's this strange perception in the male world that average is small and big is (or should be) average.
Which is, of course, wholly inaccurate. Think about how many times the six- or seven-incher been proclaimed as the standard -- then consider that the average penis is actually a hair (no pun intended) under five inches. Not that this statistic matters, because we as men put a huge stock (again, no pun intended) in our manhood. It's like a private little calling card that we alone hold and use at the appropriate times in moments of intimacy, and we want that calling card to have as many minutes (okay, yeah, I might have intended that one) as possible thereon.
And, of course, the response to this belief -- in the form of numerous polls of women -- suggests that, no, size does not really matter that much. Which is rebutted by another very common male reaction: not listening and obsessing over that very matter anyway.
That's why I have a great deal of respect for those guys that can, in fact, let it all hang out and not care what the thoughts of carelessly wandering eyes might think. I mean, I probably speak for most guys when I say that if I ran into said gentleman again (clothed, I hope), I'd think no more highly or lowly of him because I know what he's packing downstairs. But it does say a lot about his confidence, particularly if his presentation doesn't exactly conform to the male perception of how big one's wang should be.
Consider, for instance, an incident in which I was passed down a staircase in a state of undress. Those carrying me were somewhat intoxicated, and probably disgusted at the prospect of looking at and touching my naked body -- for plentiful reason. But at the end of the day, the aspect of the ordeal that made me most self-conscious was the cock. I was drunk, they were drunk, it was unlikely details would really be remembered. Yet, I still strolled out there cupping the boys with two hands and refusing to let them see the light of day if I could help it. Sure, all the other guys went out there with dangling arms (and other dangles as well), and sure, I was comparable to the rest of those brave souls that dared to bare all, but that innate sense of what I guess I'll call "nude confidence" was just missing, and no amount of alcohol could instill enough liquid nude confidence to make me drop my arms after dropping my drawers.
And it doesn't make any sense, either. Let's face it: I'm in a long-term, serious relationship, so at the end of the day, my cock only has to satisfy two people: myself, and my girlfriend. As long as it gets the job done in all the required ways, I have no beef with it, and she's never lodged a complaint either -- so, mission accomplished, right? So why then do men put so much prominence on what people think of something that 99% of the population won't ever see in a lifetime? Why do men lie about their size or brag about their prowess to impress?
(And oh yes, they do lie. True story: back in high school, some guys were all having a talk about penis size when one person was asked about his length. He responded, straight-faced, seven inches, and was promptly laughed at. He defended himself mightily, but at the end of the day, I had once dated his girlfriend-at-the-time, and with a quick inquiry, I was informed that mine was, in fact, bigger than his. And I am no seven-incher, not that that bothers me all that much.)
I suppose there's no real rhyme or reason to this rant, except to note how much dick I saw at the gym today, but the observation has really made me think about where people develop the kind of confidence required to transcend personal esteem issues, societal constructs, and the general male misconception and walk around unabashedly showing all they have to offer. In a strange way, it concerns me that so many guys in the gym felt free enough to do that, but I must also tip my cap to them, for they possess a depth of confidence that I'm not really sure I ever could hope to attain.
Not that I'm really banking on gaining it someday, or investing the hopes of my future vision of self-worth on attaining said confidence, but hey, isn't it sometimes just nice to know it's there?
- the circumstances, specifically my emotional and psychological issues during those times, are extremely personal and not really ones I'd like to share with just anyone who happens to stroll along this little Internet road (the road less traveled, as one Robert Frost might say);
- those who would actually be interested in said events and issues have already been made privy to them (ad nauseam, over many cups of coffee and other mood-altering beverages) and my appreciation for their open ears has been expressed repeatedly -- and will, with a hearty "thank you," be expressed again;
- while I'm not one to say that what's in the past should stay in the past (shocker, right?), I have become a very different person in the last six months, and I'm much happier with that person than with the person I once was -- so let's not dwell upon those dark days and instead allow the words of the new Dave to provide insight on what I've become.
Well, that's not entirely true. I have written, much more than I'd like to admit, and on topics I was hopelessly uninterested in. This past semester was essentially an exercise in futility and endurance: how long could I survive focusing on a topic about which all the passion had been viciously eaten out of my soul much like the relentless appetite of a Langolier insatiably devouring the past? It was almost enough to make me not want to write anything anymore, something that surely would not have flown considering I have a thesis due in less than three months and three more classes to take before graduating.
So the solution, at least in my mind, is to get back to writing things that interest me or amuse me, even if they don't interest or amuse anyone else and especially if they're not interesting or amusing at all on a purely objective level.
Which brings me to today's installment of my awkward on-campus observations.
It's been a while since I've been a real "student," per se, strolling from class to class and really taking in the campus environment, so I tried my damnedest to be productive today, and part of that productivity meant hitting the gym to start what I continually claim to be my new weight loss regimen -- that, and to burn off some of the ridiculously unhealthy burger and cheese fries (mmm...) I had for lunch today (on, yes, the first day of my new weight loss regimen -- so far, off to a great start).
There was nothing especially noteworthy about my workout, which consisted of 35 minutes on the bike to try and regain some of my hopeless cardiovascular health. But what interested me were my two trips to the locker room to change into and out of my gym attire. While I try to make it a habit to not specifically look in this general direction, I couldn't help but notice that during my two brief interludes, there was an inordinately high amount of guys walking around with absolutely zero clothes on. And not just in the corridors formed by the lockers, where it is perfectly reasonable to see people disrobing to change clothes or to venture, towelled, to the shower after a workout. I'm talking about the guys who are just strolling along au naturel in the main area of the locker room, hanging out for all the rest of us males to see.
Now, I feel I must preface this next part of the conversation with an awkward but (as you'll see) necessary confession: I do not possess that which one might refer to as a "monster cock." That's not to say that Cherry Forever's assessment of Pee-Wee's package -- "needledick," for the unschooled -- applies to me; but then, neither does the jaw-dropping, "Oh my God, the boy's deformed," that aptly describes the presentation of the appropriately-nicknamed Anthony "Meat" Tuperello. Fact is, I, like most guys, fall into that nice category of average. But there's this strange perception in the male world that average is small and big is (or should be) average.
Which is, of course, wholly inaccurate. Think about how many times the six- or seven-incher been proclaimed as the standard -- then consider that the average penis is actually a hair (no pun intended) under five inches. Not that this statistic matters, because we as men put a huge stock (again, no pun intended) in our manhood. It's like a private little calling card that we alone hold and use at the appropriate times in moments of intimacy, and we want that calling card to have as many minutes (okay, yeah, I might have intended that one) as possible thereon.
And, of course, the response to this belief -- in the form of numerous polls of women -- suggests that, no, size does not really matter that much. Which is rebutted by another very common male reaction: not listening and obsessing over that very matter anyway.
That's why I have a great deal of respect for those guys that can, in fact, let it all hang out and not care what the thoughts of carelessly wandering eyes might think. I mean, I probably speak for most guys when I say that if I ran into said gentleman again (clothed, I hope), I'd think no more highly or lowly of him because I know what he's packing downstairs. But it does say a lot about his confidence, particularly if his presentation doesn't exactly conform to the male perception of how big one's wang should be.
Consider, for instance, an incident in which I was passed down a staircase in a state of undress. Those carrying me were somewhat intoxicated, and probably disgusted at the prospect of looking at and touching my naked body -- for plentiful reason. But at the end of the day, the aspect of the ordeal that made me most self-conscious was the cock. I was drunk, they were drunk, it was unlikely details would really be remembered. Yet, I still strolled out there cupping the boys with two hands and refusing to let them see the light of day if I could help it. Sure, all the other guys went out there with dangling arms (and other dangles as well), and sure, I was comparable to the rest of those brave souls that dared to bare all, but that innate sense of what I guess I'll call "nude confidence" was just missing, and no amount of alcohol could instill enough liquid nude confidence to make me drop my arms after dropping my drawers.
And it doesn't make any sense, either. Let's face it: I'm in a long-term, serious relationship, so at the end of the day, my cock only has to satisfy two people: myself, and my girlfriend. As long as it gets the job done in all the required ways, I have no beef with it, and she's never lodged a complaint either -- so, mission accomplished, right? So why then do men put so much prominence on what people think of something that 99% of the population won't ever see in a lifetime? Why do men lie about their size or brag about their prowess to impress?
(And oh yes, they do lie. True story: back in high school, some guys were all having a talk about penis size when one person was asked about his length. He responded, straight-faced, seven inches, and was promptly laughed at. He defended himself mightily, but at the end of the day, I had once dated his girlfriend-at-the-time, and with a quick inquiry, I was informed that mine was, in fact, bigger than his. And I am no seven-incher, not that that bothers me all that much.)
I suppose there's no real rhyme or reason to this rant, except to note how much dick I saw at the gym today, but the observation has really made me think about where people develop the kind of confidence required to transcend personal esteem issues, societal constructs, and the general male misconception and walk around unabashedly showing all they have to offer. In a strange way, it concerns me that so many guys in the gym felt free enough to do that, but I must also tip my cap to them, for they possess a depth of confidence that I'm not really sure I ever could hope to attain.
Not that I'm really banking on gaining it someday, or investing the hopes of my future vision of self-worth on attaining said confidence, but hey, isn't it sometimes just nice to know it's there?
posted by Dave at 2/05/2007 05:33:00 PM
4 Comments:
I think a lot of that confidence thing has to do with what we view/discuss when we're first discovering that people are different. And I know that back home most people were very open with talking about sex and genitals, so we tend to think about details like that a lot, and therefore talk about it more.
I actually happened to be thinking yesterday about why I never had issues with my body -- I was pretty much born with a skater body, and my favorite "celebs" and my friends during puberty were all skaters. The ones in my group who were self-conscious were the ones whose chests grew fast and those whose legs stayed very thin...the exact opposite of the "normal" world. We could see exactly what each other's key parts of the body looked like, and there was no mystery. Even my height wasn't a problem since I had my niche in the sport. My body is in no way normal (small shirts and the largest size pants they sell in regular stores - plus I have an extra mini-rib :)), but it's sufficient for what I do, and I've been able to see that and know that for sure since I was young.
For boys however, there's talk, but no certainty of what the truth is until you're a little older and read facts and studies. However, at that point there's already an ingrained sense of what's "normal" that you can't shake. In some places people just don't talk about this stuff until they're in high school, when you have a better sense about what's realistic. If guys start talking about things in junior high when everyone is a little more susceptible to believing stretched (no pun int.) stories, the talk makes guys feel they are different from normal, so everyone continues to lie to make others think they are normal. Guys don't know if their penis will be sufficient for what it has to do at some point, which makes them think about it more.
Just what I think...age when you start discussing this stuff makes a difference. But, as a sex ed teacher I should just say this is the way it is and sound smart. I know I'm not a guy, but I've talked to enough of them to extrapolate those thoughts.
And no, I'm not obsessed with your blog, checking it every day, waiting, holding my breath, for a new entry. I just happened to notice your profile was updated :-P Nice entry.
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Well, holy shit, someone actually does read my blog on a regular basis! Who'd have thunk it?
I agree with a lot of your points, and I definitely believe that a lot of pressure is put on guys to "measure up" to what society expects of them -- that being, six inches plus. But also remember that there's a bit of a double standard there, because girls don't really have much to hide. It's very hard to conceal a pair of tits, and in fact, most girls who have a lot in the chest make it a point to show that off. And what's going on down south is of even less consequence because tightness is a much tougher barometer to measure than penis length.
I guess I think the whole thing is absurd, but I'm somewhat confused because I refuse to totally give in to that absurdity and truly not give a fuck how big my cock is. Somehow, that still is a concern (even if it's only a small, insignificant one) to me, and I'm sure it's a concern to millions of other guys who aren't as well endowed as porn stars but by no means have equipment that would qualify as insubstantial.
I guess I just wonder what the big deal is -- I mean, at the end of the day, it's really is more about the motion of the ocean than the size of the boat, right?
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