Yes, ok, this is what really goes on at book club. We get boozed and talk about your willies. So what. It’s just that they’re quite literally in our faces a lot of the time. What do us ladies think about your own fixation with your lads? (The way you name them; fondle them five hundred times a day just to check if they’re still there; that they seemingly make your important life decisions for you etc etc.) To answer these questions fairly, I conducted a little survey with a vast array of women, from very different moral backgrounds. But answers just dodged the questions.
Such as - why is the willy such a show off? I was eight years old, and scarred for life when my brother’s friend came charging through the house shouting “Johnny’s outta jail”. Years and years later, in high school, there was this boy who used to ask girls to check out his boil. Then he used to whip out his willy and virtually smack you in the eye with it. It was quite a big boil, if memory serves me right.
Which brings me to question number two:
Does it matter if your balls are bigger than your banger? Newsflash: A great big whopper that ain’t a mover and a shaker is about as useful as a chocolate fireguard.
I’ll give you two examples.
a) Best friend goes off with boring boy she met in a club. He claimed to have an elephantine attachment. She was curious. Of course.
He proudly presented it, gleaming, (as if he had cooked it as a gourmet meal) and said, “It’s big, hey?” Although it was indeed the largest lad she’d ever seen, or possibly might ever see again, in the face of his arrogance she was unyielding. She said, “I’ve seen bigger”.
b) Best friend meets funky friendly guy. Chemistry.
She tells us when they had sex she wasn’t even sure if it was in or not, but not to dent his clearly fragile ego any further she screamed like a banshee (in a good way).
This was possibly the smallest um, worm, in Cape Town, maybe South Africa. In fact, she could have picked her teeth with it.
I asked the girls to define size:
Small: Penlight battery. Cocktail sausage. Tampon.
Average: Makes you want more.
Large: A hot dog roll from Pick and Pay. A lung piercer. No fun for oral!
I suppose the one that should stick out here is AVERAGE. We’d much rather have a sweet, funny, kind, sincere man in our lives with an average willy, than a rude, selfish wanker with a bazooka. Why on earth do you expect your manhood to be moulded on a colossal cock attached to the buffed body of the first male porn star you ever saw sticking it into every pained orifice on that …oh never mind…
You surely don’t expect our breasts to be modelled on your cars’ airbags, do you?
Your personality is more important than your penis. Truly.
There will come a time when you and your willy just want to nap all day and then you’ll realize that you should have worked on your conversation skills.
While it’s still got a shelf life, here are some vital do’s and don’ts to help you get (a)head.
If you have a close personal relationship with it, don’t, for the love of God, EVER slap us on the forehead with it.
Don’t rub it up against strange girls at a bar. That’s pervy.
If it smells like ageing Roquefort cheese, the only place you’ll toss it is in a salad.
If you have exceedingly hairy balls, get them attended to. Professionally.
If it has funny bumps on it, it’s about to fall off. Don’t even think about it.
Stop calling it by name. It is not a dog.
Contrary to popular belief, your penis cannot talk, and it does not possess the power to propel the earth on its axis either.
But do we want to have a dick for a day? Definitely!
Despite being as demanding as a Maltese poodle when it yaps to be let in, we really are, on a whole, quite fond of your member. It is sometimes cute. Yes, cute. Get over it. We like looking at it nap in its furry little bed. We’re also amazed by its powers of persuasion and it’s magic tricks. It grows and shrinks in a matter of seconds! And to quote Berkhof - “when it comes, it could wallpaper the dining room”.
At this stage of life, the girls and I realise we’re probably not going to meet that charming bloke called Olaf from a Danielle Steel paperback, with chiselled features, built like a brick shithouse and an alarming whopper to boot. We’ll settle for sincerity, a sense of humour, someone who can spell, and an average willy. You see, fairy tales always told us our prince would come. They never said with what exactly.
Have a fabulous weekend darlings.
Sam xoxo
