Let’s Compare Our Penises
Denounce toxic masculinity by celebrating diversity and self-acceptance
For a few months, I’ve been corresponding with another Medium writer. Our relationship builds itself on the trust we gradually share — and I’m not an easy person when it comes to sharing parts of me. Thankfully, he cares and respects my rhythms and boundaries.
Our discussions have always revolved around masculinity. About how it can be toxic and depriving men of their vulnerabilities. How its current norm causes us distress and insecurities. How it affects the relationship we have with ourselves and our bodies.
At some point, I posted Self-Nudes, Self-Discovery, Self-Acceptance. In that piece, I wrote about how taking photos of my genitalia turned out to be a liberating and empowering experience. One that propelled me towards accepting my body and healing wounds of doubt and shame. I didn’t show those photos to anybody. It was the mere act of taking them that made the difference.
Right after reading that article, my pen pal confided he has been doing the same thing for years, to embrace the size and form of his own member.
Then, he suggested we exchange some of our pictures.
I politely refused. I had only done such a thing with girlfriends — never with strangers and never with another man. Was it supposed to be sexual? If it weren’t sexual, what was it supposed to be? I struggled for some definition.
A few days later, though, I said, “fuck it, let’s do this,” with a rush of excitement. I was scared, but I had a feeling it would do me good.
So, a few hours later, in my inbox, there it was, in extreme close-up: another man’s penis.
A meaningful act of mutual support
It felt surprisingly natural. I can’t say there was nothing sexual about it, but that’s not the point. The context of the exchange was not to flirt. Neither to shock. It certainly wasn’t to brag, intimidate, or antagonise.
The point of the exchange was to denounce all the usual toxic references regarding two men comparing their penises. Who’s got it bigger. Whose is crooked. Who’s got big balls. Small balls. Hanging balls. Who’s got hair. Who’s got a shave.
Instead, we chose to use this exchange as a means of mutual support. To help each other accept our own bodies within a world of diversity.
Moreover, we silently agreed to share the feeling of being vulnerable.
Because that’s what we are. All of us.
In obscurity
In the western world, penises spend most of their lives hidden behind not only fabric, but also myths and legends about what they are supposed to look like and be capable of doing.
According to one of the most toxic ways of thinking, a man is defined by his size. In Boiler Room, Ben Affleck’s character teaches his subordinates to act as if their status is higher than it actually is. Guess what he uses as an example:
“Act as if you are the fucking president of this firm. Act as if you got a nine-inch cock.” — Boiler Room (2000)
We know well what that means.
We are used to associating penis size with male status and pecking order.
Alpha males are important, successful, powerful — and have a nine-inch cock.
Well, I don’t.
I’ve never felt like an Alpha, due to several parts of my appearance. My balding head is one. My average penis size is another. I spent my adolescence feeling insecure and ashamed that I wasn’t more of a shower. Other boys in summer camp would jokingly and confidently flash their big dicks, but I never felt confident to strip in front of others.
One thing that helped me gain confidence was nudism. Nudist beaches and communities have a diversity of bodies to mingle with. You will occasionally find chiselled models, but they are not the rule — as they are in movies or porn. Men are of various sizes and not just a collection of the longest cocks. Exposing myself among other exposed ones has helped heal some insecurities.
The second thing that helped me build confidence was my sex life. As I grew older and became sexually active, I also grew increasingly confident and grateful for the fact that my penis did the job. I saw what a loyal and loving member I have. It has always been there for me, given me pleasure — and even made some women happy, too.
There is a common element between nudism and sex: other people get to see your naked body. Just as with sharing pictures. You get out of the obscurity and expose yourself.
The healing light
Fear and shame are like vampires. They thrive in obscurity and fall apart when the sun comes out. Keeping penis discussions wrapped in a hush-hush, mythological context confuses us, men, undermines our self-esteem, and perpetuates toxic masculinity.
On the contrary, facing, displaying, and openly talking about our members can heal our insecurities and help us accept our bodies and selves.
I am talking of course about a context where both the talking and the displaying happen with everyone’s consent — as was the case with my fellow writer and me.
We shared similar insecurities, but we chose to shed light on them and bravely face them. With the other person as an ally, each of us shared some pictures and some stories. We exposed ourselves, inside out, in the process. That’s what made all the difference.
We have kept the masculinity myth going for far too long. It doesn’t serve anybody. On the contrary, it only means trouble and everyone suffers from it. Everyone, regardless of their gender and the nature of their insecurities.
It’s time we stopped all that nonsense.
Epilogue
When men antagonise each other to establish a pecking order, we often use the metaphor, “they compare dicks.”
It’s time we shifted this specific comparison, from the angle of toxic masculinity to that of camaraderie and respect. We can give that expression any meaning we want. It doesn’t have to be a fame-or-shame struggle towards an animalistic pecking order.
Let’s compare dicks to celebrate diversity. To accept the different. To embrace the familiar. To remind ourselves:
The ultimate goal is to accept our bodies and be happy in a world where everyone is different.
Being open and talking about the things that scare us — our self-image being one of them — is always a healing experience.
I can choose to “act as if.” Or I can choose not to care about pecking orders and focus on stuff that make more sense. I can certainly choose to accept my average-sized penis and not apologise for it.
And this is what this experience left me with. Much more comfort with my body and more freedom to share myself. My image, my body, my thoughts, my writing, every side of me.
My fellow writer knows what I’m talking about. And I thank him for that.
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