9th June 2018
Universally, it’s a known fact that we look like our dogs. I can’t count the times I’ve seen the coincidence. I’ve seen a pudgy old woman walking her pudgy purebred Shar Pei. I’ve seen young, grizzled up stockmen with their Kelpies to match. I’ve seen little girls with their pink bow donned Maltese Terriers, and gym buff men in their late thirties with testicle donning American Staffies.
This apparent universal fact doesn’t only apply to just physical, or facial, features either. It’s also very much a character thing. And I think it’s quite normal for us to become, or be like, the things that are most important to us. It’s this part of human behaviour, an innate need to belong and to empathise, that drives us to embody the things we love the most. I’ve noticed it in families, relationships, and friendships: where the people slowly but surely begin to mimic each other’s behaviours in order to love and be loved.
I’ve also noticed this unique bond between men and their dicks.
I’m not saying this to be true of all willies and their boys, but I am sure I’ve handled a large enough sample size to state that a guy, more or less, is a lot like his penis.
The revelation came to me when my best friend revealed the nitty-gritty of her boring sex life post semi-brutal breakup. She confided, “I’d have to tease it out, then do all the work, and it kind of just disappeared when we were done.” Not dissimilar to the everyday man he was, and very much like a tortoise: whilst quite cute and funny to look at, constantly in need to be urged out of his shell, manually maneuvered in whatever direction you needed him to go, and easily frightened by a bit of confrontation.
Obviously, said revelation led to an in depth analysis of all of the men, and their dicks, we’ve been blessed enough to encounter throughout our budding womanhoods. You could say this is perhaps a little mean; but, honestly, you blokes didn’t make it hard for us.
Take the first boy I ever sexually encountered: he was a somebody you couldn’t quite call a prick until you’d dealt with them personally; he was the somebody who’d invite you over for dinner, and be confused about why you didn’t want to touch his sausage. A somebody who is astute in mannerism, shorter in height than he is thick in stature: a somebody who is, most classically, gentlemanly. Without the gentlemanly.
Another boy in my line of boys, was was the man of your mother’s dreams. And his mother’s dreams. And probably every other mother’s dreams. Seemingly perfectly tailored in his presentation, and pragmatic in his approaches, each moment in his life formulated to a T. He’s the boy who was more than happy to do whatever it took to make you happy, he’d then dish out a couple of Dad jokes, and compliantly do the dishes. He was the whole package, with the package to match.
Since the discovery of online dating, and the lure of navigating a sexual liberation, the phallic array has extended erectly and beyond.
There’s been the enthusiastically clueless with no clue what to do with themselves; although whatever is performed is always done enthusiastically. I’m unsure of their levels of education, but I am almost certain that their life resources have been limited to either porn, or the Bible. Let’s just say both. Those good Christian boys are led by two things, it seems: God, and their dicks. Neither of which seem to be giving much guidance.
I’ve met the skinny white boy with his skinny white toy; he’s the one who gives you well-intending poetry, but you can’t really feel the substance.
And I’ve met the maimed man with his maimed manhood. I can’t really explain this one properly, but he blamed his ailments (physical and mental) on his “crazy” ex-girlfriends. I do my best not to victim-blame, but, I mean, even if he did have to ward off these “crazy” women, I doubt he was doing a very good job of it. The sad sod didn’t even know how to put on a condom.
There’s also been the tradie. An attractive man who takes great pride in how shiny his tools are, although quite protective when it comes to his handiwork. Which is fair enough, I suppose. Nobody likes to be told what to do when they think they’re hot-shit, especially not by someone who doesn’t even have the appropriate bits ’n’ pieces of their own, my goodness.
And then there’s been the gentle stallion. The dreamiest man you could ever lay your eyes upon. I have nothing witty to say about this one, except: damn. As someone who has an eye for design, I love it when good things match up.
And with that good note, I’m going to wrap it up. I could mention the quiet, 5’7” guy with an absolute cracker of a donger, but that would go against my original premise. Men are a lot like their dicks, in the same way that we are all like our dogs. You fellas might be offended, but please, you must understand that I’m just a writer with a knack for character analysis. If anything, this is an opportunity for your own self-reflection. In fact, this may well be the new Meyers-Briggs personality profile. I could be the next Carl Jung. “What does your knob say about you?” How exciting would it be to discover that you like your private parts, and therefore your private world? Alternatively, if you don’t like being the dick that your dick is; gentlemen, you have the power to change that. You can tame it like you would a Great Dane. Or a Chihuahua (depends on what you’re working with). And you can trust that they will be obedient, because after all: they are man’s best friend.