I came home from work and Kate and the baby were in the kitchen listening to the Joe Rogan. A fleece blanket has been permanently stationed across half the kitchen floor, strewn with toys. The baby was smiling. Mom sitting next to her making to-to-to-to sounds.
A few hours earlier, I texted Kate and said the Joe Rogan/Ben Greenfield podcast is a “must listen for all athletes and nutrition junkies.” Arriving home to Joe audio, I was pleased.
I said, you listened?
She said, yep.
I said, woah, the whole thing?
She said, yep.
Super fascinating, right?
She said, I mean… the first half is about dicks.
I laughed, and said, yeah, I’d forgotten about that. But what about the second half?
The second half is good, she said.
The first half of the podcast was about dicks. Ben Greenfield appears to be something of a living science experiment for cutting-edge performance hacks of all kinds—mostly athletic performance, but apparently also sexual performance. But yeah, the first half of the show is about his trial of every pioneering dick enhancer. He undergoes PRP injections, stem cell injections, acoustic sound wave therapy, infrared light, gas station dick pills, and experiments with commando. None of his trials were controlled studies, so he can’t pinpoint which therapy worked. But, he said something worked, because he has increased vascularity (blood flow), better size, and better orgasms.
I want increased vascularity, better size, and better orgasms.
For me, dick size is a small thing of great importance.
It’s complicated. Why do all the naked Roman men sculpted into statutes have tiny, itty bitty penises? Was that the anatomical norm? When I went to the korean spa a few weeks ago, I took note of varying dick size. Not because I’m inherently interested in the length of the male member, but because I’m comparing. Where do I stack up? Am I a little guy?
One of my greatest fears, I think, is that I’m a little dick guy. It’s a fear partially because it’s unknown. Like am I? What does everybody else have? Does size vary by skin color?
In college I took Women’s Sexuality class. Figured it was a good thing for a heterosexual male to study. I remember learning that most straight women are indifferent to the size of a man’s penis. Which befuddled me, because I thought bigger dick = better sex. But studies show that few women orgasm from phallic penetration alone. Since that’s the case, I guess it makes some sense that dicks are irrelevant. The clitoris prefers fingers and tongue equally. Maybe this is why Kate was wholly uninterested in the first half of the podcast.
But I was fascinated. Like, oooh maybe I should go commando every once in a while. Increase blood flow, you know? Because I hate hating a part of myself, I thought about where the hell all this body shame is coming from. In college, I discovered and used porn. Not frequently. But here and there. Universally, the men in the videos had much longer dicks than me. That set up comparison, and comparison silently planted the seeds of shame.
The yoga part of me is like nah, whatever, accept, accept, accept. Embrace the natural. Embrace what you’re born with. Fuck the gas station dick pills—which are basically tons of caffeine and cheap Viagra.
Better dick size, better orgasm. Another quote health hack. But is it healthy to be perpetually unsatisfied with the present? Especially as it relates to your body? I mean the whole podcast was like a high level how to. How to get more muscle mass, how to sleep more, how to get a bigger dick, how to recover faster, how to feel more alert. At a certain point, you’re living your life, you have to realize that while you’re striving striving striving, you hate your present self. Your drinking your low-glycemic-index smoothie with kale, arugula spirulina and all these added plant extractions and supplements….but you’re a zombie, corrupted by the idea of attaining perfection. I say corrupted. But I mean deadened. Or maybe I mean roboticized. Or both.
Anyway, last night I pulled on a pair of cotton boxers—mmmmm so spacious and airy. I haven’t worn them in a few months, maybe a year. Instead I’ve been opting for the dri-fit athletic boxer briefs. Tight spandex, keeps everything snug as a bug.
This morning? It is what it is. I am what I am. Big, small, somewhere in between. Existential crisis is still there, of course. I mean in here. Nothing really resolved. But I will say it feels rather good to let everything hang—unrestrained, free, approaching sloppy. Especially after being so tightly bound for the last year.
>>>DEAR READER: whew. today was tough to crank out. but thanks for sticking with me. want to keep the real talk rolling? take a hot minute and become a monthly alt dad supporter. sign up in less than 30 seconds at patreon.com/altdaddiary. even one dollar a month is a super helpful contribution. i promise you'll feel so good afterward. i'll certainly feel good. which means i bet you'll feel good. alrighty bye.