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On the surface she led a quiet and conventional life, at least conventional for a woman in the 1980s. Adding that qualifier meant that her mother disapproved, and that qualifier had been added to more than a few things in her life!
She was divorced, had just turned thirty-six, and shared her suburban townhouse with two cats, Cassidy (frequently called “Mama Cass”) and Jasper, an undemanding, affectionate gray tom. A sedate dark green Honda Accord sat in the two-stall garage, recently paid off after three years of payments. Her closet was full of conservative sweaters, blouses, and skirts, emphasizing her role as a serious-minded, gainfully-employed professional. She was still a practicing Catholic – earning her mother’s approval for at least one thing! – and attended mass on most Sundays. Her freezer contained a carton of single-serving cheese pizzas for a quick-to-grab lunch or supper for those remaining Fridays during the current Lenten season. Until a couple of months ago, she had been a member of a Catholic Singles group which met on Wednesday evenings. The topic of annulment came up frequently at these functions, the only way a divorced Catholic could marry again and remain in good standing with the Church. Unless, of course, the ex-spouse had died. Hers hadn’t, the last she had heard. But, then again, she hadn’t spoken to the man in better than five years.
Peggy eased herself from underneath the covers and padded softly to the bathroom. She could sleep in a little this morning since she was not required to be at the clinic until 11:00. Unfortunately, her bladder didn’t like to sleep in much past 6:00! Jasper silently jumped off the bed and trotted behind her into the bathroom, knowing that enough weaving between her feet and meowing would probably secure his breakfast before his human companion returned to bed.
This had been part of her unchanging routine for a number of years. She facilitated a group therapy session every Tuesday evening and had for most of her years as a nurse-psychotherapist at Franklin Behavioral Health Center. She was almost never home before 10:00 on those evenings, and a later start on Wednesday was compensation for the late night before.
She made a quick trip to the kitchen to pour a cupful of kibble into Jasper’s empty bowl (the one with Psycho Kitty printed on the side, although it had been purchased with “Mama Cass” in mind) and then returned to the bedroom.
”‘Morning, love,” Randy murmured, reaching out to her as she slid in beside him.
It was still dark, wouldn’t be full light outside for almost another two hours, and the house was cool. The bed was comforting with the warmth of his body next to hers. She molded herself against him as he drew her close, pressing her buttocks into that perfect “chair” made by his hips and slightly-flexed thighs as they spooned on their sides. He tightened his embrace as she settled in, and she felt him begin to swell and lengthen, the growing firmness nuzzling her backside. She knew that this Wednesday morning would begin as so many had in the past: drowsy cuddling and whispers, warm fondling and caresses, his expert knowledge of her body bringing her to several effortless climaxes before he finally allowed his own.
All so conventional. All so routine.
But just on the surface.
Her mother didn’t know about Randy in spite of their longstanding relationship, and perhaps never would. Her pastor had been introduced to him as a “friend” after an Ash Wednesday mass several years earlier, a morning service that they had attended together before departing in separate cars to drive to the same office building to begin their workday. Randy, in fact, had co-facilitated that Tuesday evening therapy group with her for quite some time, and they functioned well as a team, consulting on cases with each other and acting as co-therapists in family counseling sessions. Their mutual coworkers realized that they shared a warm friendship, but given the nature of their jobs, that was hardly a surprise. It was not fodder for clinic gossip, and they were not considered a couple in the personal sense, just a well-tuned and sensitive professional team.
Mainly because Randy was gay. Openly gay. Out and proud! as the saying went.
She had encouraged his honesty when he came to work for the clinic as a young man with the ink still wet on his Master’s thesis. She respected him for his courage, his intelligence, his insight. Everyone there had accepted and liked him.
Likewise, he had supported her when she made the decision at about that same time to end her nine-year marriage. That had been a very tough time, and he had been there for her, with a joke, a funny card tucked in her desk drawer, pieces of her favorite candy planted in her coat pockets. Sometimes it was just his caring silence and the warmth of his hand in hers that comforted her. Unlike so many of her friends, he wasn’t afraid to just shut up and be with her!
He was different from the other guys she knew. He was different from the other friends she had. A part of her had attributed this difference, this breath of fresh air, to his gayness. She had never felt so open, so honest, so completely herself as she did when they were debating an issue, winding down after a late Tuesday night group over a chili-burger and a beer at Hinkel’s Grill, or improvising an upbeat piano duet at a coworker’s holiday party.
A gay man had become her closest friend. It was as simple as that.
Or was it?
(Continued here but password-protected to prevent sensitive individuals from unwanted exposure to adult situations, nudity, and frank descriptions of sexuality.)
Tucson Sunset 2-11-09
Skyhigh Saguaro
Created by Disney?
Unique Saguaro
On May 9, 2008, a reader of this blog introduced herself. I began to read her blog and she remained a consistent reader of mine. We became friends since miles do not matter when one is using the internet to communicate. She asked if I’d want to consider getting away from a cold, Minnesota winter and come to visit her in Tucson sometime. Well, I decided that sooner was better than later and took her up on her offer this winter. I flew out to Tucson on the morning of February 11 and returned on Monday of this week. (A day later… but that’s another story!)
The Tucson Symphony Friday evening was delightful. Watching the sunset from “A Mountain” overlooking Tucson was inspiring. Magpie’s Gourmet Pizza was just about the best pizza I’ve ever had and deserves “The Best Pizza in Tucson” award it has gotten for 19 years in a row. I enjoyed authentic Mexican food, my friend’s cats, and eating chocolate cake while watching riftgirl videos on YouTube. I met new friends, gazed at a starlit Sonoran sky, and received a personal guided tour of both the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and the Amity Circle Tree Ranch by friends employed by each of these organizations.
But what I enjoyed most was the uninhibited joy of being accepted and loved for the unconventional, liberal woman I am. Those four days were the boost my soul needed.
In my day to day life here in the BiCities, I’m… well, my real name isn’t Kinsey. I’m in my early 50s, married for 35 years and happily so, and am professionally employed in a scientific, intellectually challenging field. I work with a bunch of other married ladies in a field comprised of at least 75% women, and they all know me as that coworker who has been married since forever, and they don’t know anything else about my personal life.
I leave it at that because bisexuality and polyfidelity are too complicated for most people to understand. In day to day interaction with people I work with, I don’t say, “Yes, I’m married, but I’ve also had female lovers throughout the years of my marriage, and I’d really, really like to have a long-term, intimate relationship with a woman.” No, no, I don’t go there, understandably! I’m out to two gay coworkers who know I’m far from straight and narrow, and that’s as far as that sharing of my personal life goes.
Other than those two gay coworkers, though, I’m just a conventional married woman to everyone else.
That IS part of me. The married part, the part that finds men attractive (well, okay, an occasional one now and then!), the part of me who has been in a long-term heterosexual relationship for most of my life now is a valid and recognized component of who I am. I’m not playing a role. I’m not cleverly disguised as someone I’m not. I’ve found fulfillment and pleasure in my marriage and I will continue to do so.
However, I am so very attracted to women as well. I love my friendships with them. I derive energy and emotional fulfillment from their laughter, their beauty, their gentleness and wise insights into the world, their valuing of relationships. I take strength from their resiliency. Physical intimacy with a woman takes me to places of exquisite joy. All of this is an important and vital part of me, intricately linked within the tapestry of who I am.
Can I bring this out for the world to see in the course of my daily life? Not too often! Perhaps if I’m out for an evening on the town with a LGBT friend. Then, certainly. If I’m at a meeting or a conference pertaining to a GLBT topic, then of course. If I’m at our Pride event in June, I’m OUT. Day to day, though, with people I work with, with straight friends who know only what I’ve told them, with family… no, not OUT so much. I’m that married woman, presumably straight.
But then there are these interludes: Pride, the BECAUSE Conference, a vacation away with GLBT friends and their allies; hell, a trip away to stay with my lesbian cousin in Pennsylvania! All these things bring out a sense of well-being, if not downright euphoria, because it’s acknowledging and embracing the part of me that doesn’t get much recognition and acceptance. It’s a bringing together of the pieces, a unifying of the whole. Exilarating?
Ya, you betcha.
Much love to my Tucson friends. Don’t forget about me now, you hear?
First of all, I would like to publically (at least “publically” within the limited scope of this readership) acknowledge that I am following the blogs of some very incredible, courageous, and insightful women. Most of these blogs chronicle their journeys of living in the male role to transitioning to living as the women they have always felt they were. Gender Identity Disorder (GID) is a complex and multi-layered entity, and I won’t even attempt to discuss any of its facets with my limited background and education in the matter. I just know that these are people who have been given a complicated set of circumstances to deal with to the best of their abilities. I have appreciated the depth of these challenges and the painful decisions that have often been required for these individuals to move forward with their lives and nurture their sense of selves.
In reading some entries in these chapters of life, I have compared and contrasted some of my own experiences with my physical development as a woman and my psychological and emotional composition as a woman. My mind wandered down an interesting path the other evening as I read about one trans woman experiencing the changes in her body after she had begun estrogen therapy: the breast development, the redistribution of body fat, the softening of the skin, and the diminishing of body hair. I found myself envying that last change brought about by estrogen’s magic!
You see, I am a genetic woman, a cis woman, a person with XX chromosomes. I saw an endocrinologist when I was 14-years-old to evaluate my uneven breast development. I certainly didn’t need an endocrinologist to evaluate the problem of one young boob being bigger than the other. The fact that they started developing when I was 10-years-old and I got my first period a year later was evidence enough that my basic female hormones were present and doing what they were suppose to do. What this endocrinologist did note when examining me was the male distribution of hair on my lower abdomen. He seemed to think that that indicated a need to evaluate some hormone levels, including adrenal function. All that came back normal, and I never visited an endocrinologist again.
My attention at that point in my life was drawn to my excess of body hair, however. There was no question about it. I was a very hairy woman! I had all that dark, coarse hair on my lower abdomen where most women were smooth and hairless with perhaps just a bit of pale “peach fuzz” at best. The bush that grew beneath this “male hair distribution pattern” was also thick and unruly. My arms were hairy. My legs had a covering of dark, coarse hair from my thighs to my ankles. If allowed to grow, I had as much armpit hair as my boyfriend. Another fact that only I and those most intimate with me have ever known is that my clitoris is also on the “well hung” side, not this tiny nubbin that most women have. I mean, you positively can’t miss mine! In my early 20s, I had some hormone levels drawn to evaluate some menstrual irregularities and I really wasn’t at all surprised to find out that my testosterone level was right there at the top of the normal range for an adult woman. 80 was the cut-off. I was at 78. Still, everything else checked out satisfactorily and I was never diagnosed with any metabolic or hormone problems.
I’m a genetic woman but I don’t feel like a soft, smooth woman, either physically or psychologically. My preparations for becoming “soft and smooth” take me quite a bit of time. I pluck a lot of coarse hairs out of my chin, jawline, and upper lip every two or three days. My tweezers and I are intimate friends. I’m still shying away from facial electrolysis because I’m a sissy at heart. (I’d do it in a heartbeat if it didn’t hurt!) I shave the area around each areola because that area, too, sprouts a lot of dark hair. (Fortunately, I only have a couple of wispy stray hairs on my chest that don’t pose a problem.) I shave my lower arms. I don’t think my pits have ever really appeared silky and bare because I have such a heavy growth of dark hair that I have 5:00 shadow just some hours out of the shower. I shave my abdomen. I shave my legs from groin to ankle, a smooth condition that lasts me only until the next day when I’d have to do it all over again if my propensity to folliculitis didn’t discourage shaving that frequently.
I would give anything to have my own female hormones make me smooth, soft, and hairless but that has never happened for me. In my late teens and early 20s, my gynecologist prescribed a high estrogen birth control pill for me in hopes of “toning down” the body hair, but it didn’t really do all that much towards that objective. And then those pills were taken off the market due to health risks. Higher levels of estrogen cause a woman’s blood to clot more easily, putting her at higher risk for heart attacks, strokes, and deep vein thrombosis. Due to that risk and the increased risk of breast cancer, I can barely get a doctor to write out a prescription for estrogen to control my menopausal symptoms now. I’m taking a measley 0.3 mg every other day which is enough to control my hot flashes, and my doctor would like to see me off of that soon.
So, women come in all flavors, don’t they? We’re not all soft, smooth, and silky! There have been a lot of times when I have felt like a hybrid, an androgenous blend of male and female, outwardly female but aware of my coarser edges. It was the way I was made by whatever mix of genes controls these things.
Okay, I’m starting to feel ready for my company to arrive tomorrow. My husband’s sister is flying in from the West Coast tomorrow afternoon, accompanied by her two young adult daughters. Sis comes most every summer or fall for a few days, but this is the first time in ten years that the two daughters have come along for the trip. The special occasion this summer is Sis’s milestone birthday.
I will have a houseful. At least, it will seem like a houseful considering that our normal household consists of my husband and me and two 14-year-old cats — and the husband is gone on business a lot! We have a large master bedroom. We have a guest bedroom that has turned into a junk room, and we have an upstairs study which is even too small to be a decent sized bedroom. It, too, has gotten pretty trashy. I’ve been cleaning all weekend to carve out suitable places to put these three extra people.
In the guest room, all the bedding was washed this past weekend. The lingerie and silk scarves laying on the bed from the last time I unpacked from a trip with my husband were put away. I took the satchel full of sex toys, lubes, and nitrile gloves from the closet and relocated it to the master bedroom closet. There is a stack of books on the bookshelf that have not been properly put away, and I didn’t bother with finding the right spots for them, but I did make sure that Polyamory: The New Love Without Limits by Dr. Deborah M. Anapol, The Ethical Slut by Dossie Easton and Catherine Liszt, and Married Women Who Love Women by Carren Strock (all three of those volumes unread as of yet, by the way) were buried further down in the pile with the spines of that pile of books turned to the side and up against the stereo speaker. If my guests were of a mind to dig deeper, they would find all the really good stuff shelved behind the row of Stephen King books. It is a very deep bookcase in more ways than one!
I found a g-string, my “pack n play” prize that I won during the transgendered round of Dildo Bingo in May, some batteries, and yet more lube in the nightstand drawer, which I removed and put in my dresser in the master bedroom. I glanced around, satisfied that the room was sanitized enough for whomever may end up sleeping there. I left my stained glass rainbow sun-catcher out.
While looking for the air mattress to put in the study, my husband found a stash of books on the floor shoved behind my clothes in the master bedroom closet. He wanted to know if I knew they were there. Yeah, yeah, I was vaguely aware that there are stashes of gay male and kinky pornographic collections of short stories hidden around here and there. When I have a housesitter staying here when we’re gone on vacations, I have hidden the most potentially “offensive” of the pornographic stories. I leave the milder, run-of-the-mill stuff out in more conspicuous places, like the nightstand drawer, where she’ll think she’s really found something and quit looking! Likewise, I usually leave my Wahl ”massager” in one nightstand drawer and my Flicker vibe in the other, figuring that these are pretty damn tame sex toys. Let her find them! (My Hitachi Magic Wand is the favorite by far, however, and goes where I go!) Then she’ll think she knows my secrets but won’t have a clue about the dildoes and butt plugs that are locked in the tool chest in the garage while I’m gone!
Okay, I’m ready. Bring on the company!
Years ago — about nine, to be exact — my girlfriend at the time started shaving her pubic hair because the man she was engaged to marry also shaved his pubic hair and they both liked the way it felt. That got me to thinking about it, too, and so I tried it. You know, they were right: it’s an incredible feeling! Shaving my labia smooth from my perineum to just above my clitoral area allows a whole different level of sensitivity by exposing all that tender, erogenous skin. (An aside: shaving my mons completely would make me feel like an eight-year-old, and I don’t like that! Some trimmed hair on my mons always stays, even if the labia majora is smooth and bare.)
I don’t always keep up with this hygienic ritual because it is labor-intensive. In order to keep that skin silky-smooth, shaving needs to be done daily or it gets stubbly and abrasive — yes, just like a man’s beard! I hate the feel of that, and if anyone else were to come into contact with it, it wouldn’t be pleasant, either, so it’s either do it everyday or let it grow out, perhaps only trimming it now and then.
When I’m in a sexual mood and anticipating a nice encounter, I will often shave carefully to make my entire bottom very soft and smooth. I find it arousing just to do it, let alone what may follow!
Now, for my dilemma: my husband and I have our wedding anniversary coming up in about ten days. We are going away for a long weekend to a luxurious Bed & Breakfast. With any luck, there will be sex — hopefully some very GOOD sex — in commemoration of the occasion.
He left a couple of weeks ago on an international trip, and just before he left, I arranged a nice encounter and shaved myself smooth. I’ve been maintaining the smooth effect these past two weeks because sometimes it’s easier to maintain than start over. I would like to keep the smooth, silky condition of a shaved vulva at least through our wedding anniversary weekend.
I probably wasn’t thinking when I did this but I have the appointment for my annual checkup the day after we get back from this trip. I NEED to get in because I’ll need medications refilled. It’s too late to reschedule such an appointment in a timely manner now. So what’s the problem? Well…..some folks think that a shaved pubic thatch falls within the realm of “kinky.” I’m seeing a new doctor this time around. Do I want her to think that I’m ”kinky” by exposing her to my shaved pudendum? Or do I really care what she thinks? She’s probably seen more outlandish things, such as piercings and tatoos, so that a simply shorn beaver probably isn’t going to impress her much. Still…..
I need to decide what I want my new doctor to witness soon, one way or the other. If my husband and I are going to have enjoyable sex at all on our anniversary weekend, I need to either let it grow well past the stubble length or keep on shaving it smooth daily.
Oh, the big decisions in life!
The role of sexual fantasy has always been important in my life. My imagination is rich and diverse and travels many colorful, interesting paths. In my younger years, I could fantasize for hours, maintaining an incredible arousal as I visualized the imaginary participants in my scenarios. These fantasies were so vivid and real to me that it was more like directing a movie in my mind. The “movie” would be completely improvisational, though, aside from a rough sketch of the situation. I would literally say to myself, “Here is the outline of scene. Here are the people involved. Take it from there.” And I would watch it unfold and act it out.
This is the basis for the erotic stories I’ve written in the past. I have watched my fantasy actors play out a scenario in my mind, and later, I’ve written it down, coloring in the details. (Usually I have to stop and masturbate while I’m trying to write my story, which sometimes makes for a long process in trying to get a story in tangible form!)
I used to be able to immerse myself in a complex, realistic fantasy fairly effortlessly. Now, unfortunately, it doesn’t happen very often. The levels of hormones have dropped off from what they were in my teens, twenties and thirties. Make no mistake about it, I was heavily influenced by circulating levels of sex hormones then, particularly at the start of my period and when I was ovulating. My body at both of those times was at a hypersensitive level of sexual awareness. I had some of my best sexual fantasies then and wrote some of my best stories at that time.
Now…. not so much. I’ll be 53 in two months, and my ovaries don’t do much anymore. I’m on a minimal level of hormone replacement therapy to control hot flashes and depression. My brain often feels fairly sluggish and apathetic about sexual matters.
Imagine my surprise when a genuine stretch of heightened sexual awareness came my way recently. I even have suspicions that I ovulated last month, judging from the five days of pain I had in my belly that didn’t seem to have any other explanation.
I was home alone over the weekend and I took advantage of the privacy to see where my mind would go if I encouraged it. I took a long, warm bath, shaved myself smooth from pits to ankles, and then stretched out on the bed. I found some body lotion in the nightstand drawer that I had forgotten about. I bought it a year ago at a boutique. It’s a sensuous scent, a mixture of sandalwood and citrus, and I love it. I smoothed it over my entire body, breathing deeply of the heady aroma. I let my mind go….
Randy and Peggy came out to play. Briefly, Randy is a man who professes to be gay and has lived with his male partner for a dozen years. However, he and Peggy love each other and have a dynamic, imaginative sex life! As their relationship matured and deepened, Peggy became a part of Randy and Vince’s life together, and she witnessed and shared Randy’s intense pleasure as he welcomed Vince into his body in that way that two men can. (I’m being somewhat discreet! I don’t want this blog censored!)
Later, she shared with Randy that she would like to experience what he experienced that night with Vince, that it would be a way of knowing what it felt like to be in his skin, to feel what he felt when he accepted his man into his body. She wanted Randy to do the very same thing with her.
And for an hour, I watched in my mind as Randy guided her down that earthy, unexplored path…
I reveled in my creativity, my sensuality, my vitality, excited and aroused as I felt what Randy felt, as I felt what Peggy felt. I love my sexual fluidity at times like that!
I must appreciate the occasions when this still happens rather than lament that those times are all too few and far between!
I think I’ve probably run my course on this last topic of interest: penis size and how it should be irrelevant in a sexual relationship. I think I’ve milked it for all it’s worth now. That’s too bad in a way because I’ve gotten many more hits on my blog in the last few days than I have in quite awhile. I used the tag “penis size” on those blog entries. People apparently use that a lot as a search term and I’m getting hits on my blog. That’s quite amusing, actually, and just a further symptom of this size preoccupation I’ve discussed. Perhaps I’ll just put “penis size” as a tag on all of my posts, regardless of whether it’s about home mortgages, travel plans, or work-related stresses and enjoy more traffic on my blog!
“I have always considered myself as having an average ‘package..’ This statement was rendered by my long-time email correspondent, a man of Italian descent who could give any porn star a run for his money in terms of size of his “package” (provided that the porn star’s anatomy is not in the freak size range!) My friend gives the expression ”hiding the salami” a whole new meaning! He’s as well-hung as the proverbial “circus pony,” although probably not as well-trained!
I mentioned to my husband, the email correspondent’s college housemate from the 70s, that The Italian Circus Pony expressed this opinion about having an “average package.” I asked Dave if he thought that our friend was sincerely this ignorant about his own size. Dave made choking noises and answered in the negative.
My correspondent is not alone in either this false modesty or plain ignorance of size. There is one man in my sexual history who I would have to say probaby trumps The Italian Circus Pony by an inch at least in circumference — which in my estimation is what a woman really senses inside her vagina rather than length. This was so damn funny in a way because this guy was a scrawny little guy. Probably 5′6″ or 5′7″ inches in height and 125 pounds soaking wet. He had a concave chest and actually a rather frail, sickly appearance. Yet, when he attained an erection, it was this fat sucker about as big around as a pop can. (Okay, I’m exaggerating a little….) You know what he said to me when my eyes got huge upon that revelation? “I’m about average, I guess.”
On the other hand, one man whose cock I had a nodding acquaintance with and who was almost as big as The ICP was worried that it wasn’t big enough! He voiced his concern that it was too small on the night he, his wife, and I celebrated their 5th wedding anniversary and I saw what he had. His wife told me that he has always been worried about that and no amount of reassurance on her part — and he’s her third husband! – has convinced him that he’s “just fine” in the size deparment. And I thought, “My god, you’ve got to be kidding me! What’s WITH this guy?” He was 47-years-old — no adolescent anymore! — and was perfectly normal to above-average on the scale and was worried about being too small! Pure craziness!
One guy from my late teens and early 20s whom I thought was pretty damn nice in the size department — probably the same size as the insecure guy above — actually agreed with me. He had his measurements recorded, both length and circumference, and knew exactly what they were. (A lot of guys do, I think, although they won’t admit it.) He wasn’t too proud to say, “Yeah, I think I’m a cut above average. Here are my stats!” Aside from his brief foray into “bisexuality” as a teen, he was gay. My personal opinion is that most guys sort of really know where they measure up with their peers, but to admit that you’re “well hung” is to admit that you notice male genitalia, and you wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re queer for that! Better to shrug and say, “I’m just average…” even if you know better. That way, you don’t have to be accused of being either arrogant or gay — unless you’re truly either or both!
Are men really as ignorant about all this as they act? Do they develop distorted perceptions from getting most of their size comparisons from pornography? This could be when it comes to heterosexual men. I would venture a guess when it comes to straight men, they don’t actually see a lot of erect penises from your Average Joe. They’ve seen their own erections, most have seen a porn flick or two where the actors are actually chosen for their large size, and the rest of what they’ve seen are flaccid penises in Physical Education showers and locker rooms and health clubs. Flaccid penises are not a true indicator of size because erection can change those dimensions a great deal. There is not enough good “education” out there for your average straight guy to know what is actually “normal” and what isn’t!
It might be nice if guys had a realistic perspective on this matter. Do you think we need a new “reality” TV show? Who’s the Biggest Dick? Hosted by Peter Johnson….
In the post, “He Said…She Said,” I was forced to fill in my own comment for the last “He Said” entry. As of yesterday afternoon, it can now officially be replaced with this:
He: You are quite right that many men have an anxiety about their penis size. I assure you that I am not one of them. I have what I have and I am content with the fact. I hope this is oil on the water for you and calms you down. I didn’t attack you, but merely asserted that I am not one those penis anxious men. I don’t think of myself as large or small. I’m just ME. WYSIWYG.
Me: I never insinuated that you were one of those insecure males in anything I said. I never said any personally directed towards you at all regarding the size obsession discussion. I was discussing the situation in general terms, inspired by some recent comments by both of us, and yes, there are many, many men who are concerned and obsessed about their size. I didn’t “miss the mark a bit” on that at all in my “diatribe.” You missed the mark if you thought that any of it was personally directed towards you.
Why should you be one of those men concerned about his size? You know you’re “well hung.” You’ve known that since you were a boy, since you were an adolescent, since you were a college student at the student house, flouncing down the stairs in only a t-shirt and no pants, forcing Morris The “Housemother” to admonish, “Man, cover yourself up! We don’t need to be seeing your weiner bouncing around!” To worry about being too small in your case would be the same severity of body image distortion as what an anorexic, starving-at-her-own-hands woman has when she sees herself as too fat. You know full well where you measure up. We both know that.
[End of email excerpts]
This is just another form of male insecurity at play. I write a discourse about penis size and how men should quit playing this game and learn what really counts and this well-hung man immediately jumps to the conclusion that it’s all about him! He gets defensive and jumps in right away with “assertive” assurances that he’s NOT one of THOSE men who are concerned with his penis size!
Well, duh. Why should he be?
Men…. [sadly shakes head]
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