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April 15, 2013

Four Ruminations on My Cock





Is this a great country? Or what?


Exceedingly late to the scene, I only recently started watching Season One of Hung, the HBO buddy drama about a huge, extroverted cock and the clueless high school basketball coach it deigns to drag around with it.

One episode closed with a playing of a rap song titled “My Dick” by an august personage named Mickey Avalon, a choice stanza of which goes like this:

My dick - locked in a cage, right
Your dick suffer from stage fright
My dick - so hot, it's stolen
Your dick look like Gary Coleman


The series—and more personal events, which I will explain anon—led me to ruminate on my own cock, as if I needed any excuse to do that.*


Cock vs. Dick

Linguistics journals are choc-a-bloc with studies that seek to determine exactly where we can draw the geographic line between, say, the realm of “soda” and that of “pop.” But to my knowledge, no one has explored the much more explosive and, frankly, interesting question of what causes people to opt for “cock” or “dick.”

My ongoing research, largely internet-based, leads me to postulate that this line is more ethnic than geographic, with "unabashedly Caucasian" Americans opting for cock while dick predominates among Asian porn stars, African-American rappers, and Caucasians wishing to sound African-American (cf Avalon, Mickey).

My dick parts the seas
Your dick farts and queefs
My dick - rumble in the jungle
Your dick got touched by your uncle


Personally, I just can’t countenance addressing my favorite part by a name that conjures images of foul-mouthed Republican bullies. Not coincidentally, it is also a homonym for an unpleasant person. Cock generates a much higher Q score. I think I can state with confidence that there is no male in the English-speaking world named "Cock" or whose given name consists in any small part of "Cock," although in many regions it is customary for junior high school boys to try to persuade naïve substitute teachers that there is. **

And at the end of the day (which is probably when you would say such things, anyway), “Suck my dick” will always sound like a growled epithet, whereas “Suck my cooooock” is a whispered distillation of languid, consensual, shimmering hope. Advantage: Cock.


Cocks, Compulsive Drawing of

The movie Superbad ends with a gag about a species of OCD that causes a character to compulsively draw cocks on everything. It turns out that this is not a recognized psychological disorder, but you could have fooled me—or anyone else who has set foot in the boys’ room of a high school anywhere in the world, for that matter. How many janitors throughout history have spontaneously combusted in the midst of trying to scour the stalls on their beat cock-free? And yet, those cocks keep coming back, year after year, ever erect, often in the throes of joyful and bountiful orgasm.

In sophomore English back in '71, we used readers that were randomly doled out to us at the start of class and left in the room at the end. We spent a large chunk of the semester covering Julius Caesar. The script of the play was supplemented by numerous photos of obscure, toga-clad actors who looked like they all had hangovers—expressions which contrasted sharply with the ludicrously enormous boners that had been bestowed on them in one very special edition. Where Caesar ought to be warily informing Brutus that yon Cassius reads much and is therefore very dangerous, this rendition of the ancient scene has Caesar musing, improbably, “Beat my meat on the toilet seat, doo-dah, doo-dah” while ejaculating (with surprising vigor and range for a man of his years) into Cassius’s famously lean and hungry face.

At N. University, my former employer in Japan, there was an infamous blackboard that was removed from a large lecture hall and deposited in the passageway just outside its doors. Presumably, the thing had to be replaced because some vandal had painted cocks on it. Specifically, eight upward-pointing, disembodied cocks—from left to right, each one longer and skinnier than its neighbor, so that the effect was like a church pipe organ, except that all eight pipes were simultaneously hurling fountains of semen into the air.

I assumed that the blackboard was to be hauled off to the dump, but that there had been some miscommunication that resulted in its resting there in a very public place for days on end. And then the mystery deepened as the days turned to months. It just sat there, unremarked upon in any faculty meeting that I knew of, making a busy and naturally narrow pedestrian thoroughfare all that narrower, forcing passersby, most of them female, not only to notice the artwork but to pause beside it, however against their will. It became a landmark, a veritable Stonehenge of Perpetually Spewing Cocks.

At some point in the second year of its exhibition, when no one else was around, I leaned over and touched one of the members. I did this with no small amount of trepidation, for the "work" (as some had come to think of it) had achieved a veneer of veneration by then, as people and things who linger too long at universities are prone to do.The cock smeared at my touch.

I discovered that the phalli weren’t painted on the blackboard at all, but merely drawn thickly, with great determination, in chalk. Anyone at anytime could have obliterated the whole work in seconds with a damp cloth.

Personally, I can honestly say that I’ve never gotten into the swing of things, drawing-cocks-on-things-wise. However, I do take an inordinate amount of pleasure in saying “My cock” when alone. I’ll be puttering about the apartment or my office on a weekend, and just start muttering, “My cooooooooooock” without thinking.

Isn’t that the damnedest thing? I mean, isn’t that just the god-damnedest thing you ever heard?


My dick - been there done that
Your dick sits there with dunce cap
My dick - V.I.P.
Your shit needs I.D.



Our Local Cock Festival, Pictured Above

Think Americans are the most cock-obsessed people on earth? Check out this holy ritual not far from my neighborhood.

Everyone should have an annual cock-appreciating festival within easy driving distance. Everyone. I do feel strongly about this.


The Latest News in Cock (Mine)

Some weeks ago I began to feel a discomfort of sorts in the interior of my cock. It wasn’t severe enough to make me dread trips to the bathroom or keep me up at night, nor did any unseemly substances begin emerging from it—but too much time spent on the wrong websites convinced me that these unpleasantries were only a matter of time. This hard-to-describe vague symptom came and went, but served nicely to feed my paranoia, since I had carelessly indulged in a certain experience that might well have been the cause not all that long before.

Three negative test results later, the symptom has all but faded away, and I’ve been assured that its proximity in time to what I have heard someone on NPR describe as a “poor lifestyle choice” is entirely coincidental. So, yay. Lucked out again.

During the worrisome period, though, being unable—or at least, unwilling—to disturb my cock by asking it to perform anything but its urinary function, I had time to view it objectively for once, with a renewed appreciation.

It has served me superbly lo, these fifty-seven years—including forty-four ejaculatory years and thirty-nine sexually active ones—without complaint. According to one website, it has been spurting out ejaculate of the highest caliber in a most pleasing manner since before there were smoke detectors, digital music, or waffle-soled shoes. It once measured over eight inches when I mashed the end of the tape painfully into my pubic region and ran it along the long side of the curve.

It is one of the very few body parts that one can teach to do tricks. The pancreas does what it does, and God bless it for that, but you can't toss a tiddly-wink with it. Regarding its most pleasant function, as recently as last month my cock could perform it three times in a single night, so long as it is a night on Jupiter.

It has done all of this for me without a peep of protest, until this recent scare.

Old friend, enjoy the remaining down time. You’ve earned it. Henceforth, I vow to keep you well out of harm’s way. It is the least I can do for you.

Dear readers, it’s the least you can do for yours as well.

My dick need no introduction
Your dick don't even function
My dick served a whole lunch -in
Your dick - it look like a munchkin
...


April 19 Addendum

While not specifically relevant to my cock, all this cock-talk belatedly provoked the memory of this classic moment from Deadwood. Who even knew that "cock-breath" was a thing? Or that there could be more than one flavor of it?

If anyone out there is contemplating starting a band, I urge you to seize upon "Seven Kinds of Cock-Breath" before somebody else snags it.






* Some wag out there is aching to point out the fact that the verb “ruminate” comes from the root verb “to chew on.” So, just to clarify: No, I did not chew on my own cock. But I would if I could, and so would you, wag, if you have one.







** That’s not to say that there are no cocks in the phone book, though. Perpend:

* Courteney Cox
* Jay Cocks (critic)
* Olivia Cockburn (birthname of Olivia Wilde)
* John Hancock (Declaration signer and inducer of giggle-fits in countless generations of male social studies pupils)

How would it feel to hit it off with a beautiful young actress, and, just as things between you are warming up nicely, you discover that her name is Cockburn? No, no, let me shun that. That way, madness lies...