That night he asked, “What’s the biggest penis you’ve ever seen?” We were all sitting at IHOP, which serves the best food in the world at 2 am. Five or six of us took over a booth. We were shattered. Not kidding. One of us had drunk hiccups. It wasn’t me, promise.
What I’m trying to say, the group was anti-hiccup-mate.
Clearly, nobody was getting laid tonight. But if you can’t have sex, you can at least have omelettes. The very next best thing.
Anyway, one of the guys in our group felt insecure. Obviously, when you’re down and drunk you should voice it. I don’t know if I’m being sarcastic or not. Anyway, he’d burned through four chicks in a row. First, they dug him hard. After a few weeks, not so much. Ghosted.
A haunted penis.
He wanted to know why. Was it his penis? Specifically, size. He asked if his penis scared girls away, and wanted opinions.
A haunted penis, I thought. Do go on…
No, and yes. You see, I’m a Buddhist. We know that false expectations hurt guys and girls alike. Some of us lose sleep over stupid sh*t like thigh gap. Others over waist size. Girth. So on.
Guys stay awake at night worrying about their junk. Their abs. Their pecks. Their alpha male persona.
Hey, work on your health. Your fitness. Your diet. Your whatever. None of that has to with with getting laid. Sure, you’ll come closer to the current ideal. But I know that I love spinach and kale with feta, washed down with bourbon. It’s a feeling all unto its own.
No magazine on earth cares about whether you find a satisfying relationship.
Women have dealt with this shit for ages. Too thin. Not thin enough. Not tall enough, too tall. Goth. Not edgy enough. Text this or that in order to excite your man at work. Uh, not my man.
Especially these days, he only wants texts as emergencies. Or vital information. Agree. Shit, we both have careers.
Is that repressed? No, but feeling guilty is.
No matter what, you’ve got to develop some confidence to accept yourself. Because I’ll see you this. No magazine on earth cares about whether you find a satisfying relationship. None.
I’ve been “married” for five years. I only use quotes because the modern institution of marriage is a farce. Any institution that regulates who you can love doesn’t care about you at all.
Just love. That might start out as mind-blowing sex. But mind-blowing sex doesn’t last forever. Which means a huge penis doesn’t always matter. A smaller penis and a fair amount of technique does just as well. So don’t sweat the small stuff, even if it’s yours.
When a girl’s smitten, she doesn’t care. Not really.
The best sex doesn’t matter.
The perfect wedding doesn’t fix anything. Neither does the best sex in your life. Been, there. When you measure the best sex against the best meal, where do you come up? Torn. Because they’re both just stimuli.
Look up some of your favorite porn stars. They deal with the same shit you do. Doubting their looks. Wondering if they should have kids. Trying to decide if it all matters. Getting their body back.
The poet Philip Marlowe once wrote, “Sex is too good to share with anyone.” He was halfway right. I think his main point is that we highly over-idealize sex. We confuse it with other things. Like happiness.
So, your penis size doesn’t matter. Your sex life doesn’t have to matter, either. And neither does your thigh gap. Or d-cup?
Why on earth would anyone think the perfect genitalia solves everything? Oh, that’s right. Mass media.
And because #FOMO, I guess. Social media finally produced a universal truth. We’re afraid of missing whatever.
Newsflash: I haven’t had actual coitus for a few months now. Baby and everything. It happens. We’re figuring things out. Bottom line, we’re both overwhelmed right now. But also happy.
Both of us have baggage. It was hard enough managing pleasurable sex on our own. Now we have this cute little demon to deal with.
Guy math: immeasurable increase in adrenaline.
Adrenaline = boner poison.
Your boner poison doesn’t have to involve a kid. Maybe a recent promotion, which you thought would make you happy but just buries you with new expectations and responsibilities.
But there’s no choice. Wanna be happy? Stop trying to label it. You’ll never have the perfect mix. Adjust your mind instead.
Youth doesn’t matter.
Imagine new parents. They have everything they want, but they hunger for their 20s. Mainly, the sex from that decade.
We forget how much our 20s sucked. No steady income. No respect. A completely unpredictable future.
Booze and sex were the only things we had.
You don’t even really know if you want kids. F*ck, you don’t even have a washer and dryer yet. But everyone keeps asking about your biological clock. You come home from the laundromat, and there’s your dad on FaceTime. “So, make me a grandpa.” He laughs, but he ain’t joking.
To me, that’s torture. Consider baaaam, you have a kid.
Surprisingly, less stress.
Sometimes my spouse and I get into these little arguments about whose turn it is to rescue our baby from her nightly possessions — the baby that arose from, admittedly, the best string of sex either of us have ever had.
It doesn’t matter who wins. Whoever goes in the nursery immediately falls apart and says, “Hey, girl.”
And we realize. Great sex often leads to a kid.
Point? The things you wanted most (like a kid) might hurt your sex life. Figure it out. Understand that sex isn’t a given. During times of transition, your sex life is gonna take a plunge. Kid, or no kid.
That matters if you’re single. Sure, you read some online news post about how Kate Beckinsale maintains her body positive image.
She’s 44. Had her first daughter 18 years ago. That blows my mind. Because I remember watching Underworld in my teens. Thinking about how I’d never have kids. I was a vampire, dammit. But it turns out the vampire was a parent the whole time, just playing the part. Like us all.
Everyone deals with sexual insecurity.
Flashforward a few years, one of my friends stood up in the middle of a drunk game of Settlers of Kataan. She said, “I think I have thigh gap. It depends on the angle. Right?”
So we started playing a different game. We played, “Can I slide my palm through there?” Yes, we could. Congratulations, Steph. You officially have thigh gap. You can sit down.
That doesn’t guarantee your ideal mate has a huge penis.
Thigh gap’s not a coupon to great sex.
Everyone’s afraid that deviating a little from the ideal of the day dooms them to a life of solitude. Sure, almost nobody wants to have sex with Jabba the Hut. (I say almost because I know some people, and it’s a big world.) But there’s good news. No human being alive looks like that.
Let’s get literary. In A Moveable Feast, F. Scott Fitzgerald shows his junk to Earnest Hemingway. Why?
He wants to know, “Is it too small?”
You see, the architect of the great American novel was having some problems at home. To be diplomatic.
Hemingway said, “It’s pretty small.” Then he paused. “But don’t worry, just shove a pillow against her ass. That should work.”
To be clear, this does work. Don’t shove the pillow directly under her butt. Aim for just above, near the small of her back.
You’re trying to increase the arch. Ah, if only high school geometry textbooks used better examples…
These two were talking before the days of supplements and pharma pills. The same logic applies. You see, the secret’s out. Erectile function drugs aren’t magic. They just help most of the time.
These days, performance anxiety does as much harm as porn abuse. Consider our doctor, who says he hears a hundred guys a year come in with junk problems. He prescribes ED drugs.
But they’re a band-aid. They don’t even work all the time. Especially not if your boss is hounding you about those reports.
Get comfortable with yourself. First, understand that a woman feels attracted to you before you ever unzip your pants. Same goes for girls. He’s not going to suddenly discover your lack of thigh gap and run.
Stop focusing on your pleasure. Focus on hers. And his. You both have hands. They’re not a metaphor for something else. Use them. Secret: a lot of girls like your hands down there. And guys, yes.
Plus, you can visit almost any sex toy store online and find literally anything you need. That’s right, strap ons designed for guys.
Mainstream porn, combined with our hyper puritan culture, has done some damage. Guys see the Iron Man package and think it’s normal. No, it’s not. No more normal than the girls’ thigh gap or perfect B-cups.
Those couples on PornHub? Bless them. They have truly impressive bodies. Don’t forget, they’re (often) surgically altered.
So stop worrying about the size of your junk. Or your tits, or thighs. Focus on your technique. Plenty of websites exist for that. You don’t need me.
Just google it.
My key point is that you can’t ignore your problems. You have to work through them, without giving into the stereotypes.
Above all, stop blaming your dick or your elusive thigh gap for your problems. When you break it down, the penis is just like a thermometer. The messenger. Likewise, your thigh gap all depends on the width of your hips, not the health of your diet or your Instagram pose.
Yes, read about sexual health. But not from the crap you pick up at the checkout aisle. Go to Barnes & Noble while they’re still in business. Learn how to do actual research in databases. Try stuff. Just not horny goat weed at the gas station. Uh, sketchy.