I’ll just come right out with it- I don’t understand boys. More specifically- the penis.
It might be true that there is no way I’ll ever step foot outside the front door of my house without wearing makeup unless I’m being carried on a gurney and perhaps it’s true that on frequent occasions you may hear me refer to just about everything as “so cute!”– but aside from those two things, if you attempted to make the argument that I am a “girly girl” you would lose miserably. Though I’m not sure that after meeting me, anyone would even try.
I belch- I can even belch on command. And louder than any man you’ve ever heard. I love potty humor- and I can talk about poop while eating without it bothering me. I’m a messy eater; NO one wants to see me eat a piece of toast… but I’m truthfully not sure there is a way to do that without being a fucking slob. I’ve never been to a spa and in no way shape or form interested in ever doing so. I’ve never read a romance book, never seen the Twilight movies or read the books- and 50 shades sounds like torture.
No, I don’t want to. No, you can’t change my mind.
Some folks might be inclined to blame the fact that I have only one sibling- an older brother (less than 2 years apart) that I wanted to be just like during my formative years, or that I had a bad-ass mom and not the manliest of fathers (sorry Dad, I love you, but truth is truth!) I’m more inclined to blame the fact that the only fairies that visited me during puberty were the Nose Fairy and the Hip Fairy. The boob and butt fairies appear to have taken the night off when they were supposed to bless me with “womanly” things- so I have never experienced appreciation for a part that is often referred to and categorized by its size.
The truth- I think- is somewhere in between the two. I don’t have a penis.
You know how guys always say if they had boobs they’d play with them all day, and while we ladies do occasionally give the twins a lift or a scratch or a casual grab or adjustment- we know that not to be true at all. That’s how I think it is when females try to understand having an appendage swinging between your legs. You can’t fully get it unless you have it- and aside from undergoing a sex-change operation or finding yourself in a Freaky Friday scenario- that’s simply not going to happen.
Obviously I knew with two boys (three including the husband, and four including the dog) there would be talk of things of the penisy nature- but these boys- it’s ALL they talk about. Even all the dinner-time poop talk could not prepare me for One Eyed Bill. He just walked into town and took the fuck over. My sweet little Parker (don’t laugh!)- uncorrupted by the world- pure and true who doesn’t object to things because “That’s for girls!” like Holden does- has been tinkering with his doodle, which he calls a pecker, which he pronounces “peckoo”- and no, it does not make talking about it cute.
Tinkering with it, talking about it- of course, at the worst times possible.
For months now, the he has been asking when he can ride this rollercoaster called Volcano. The reality of it is that he probably won’t be able to for about 10 years because the height restrictions on it are absolutely ridiculous- but every time he asks I tell him that he needs to eat his meals and grow big and tall so he can ride Volcano. Manipulation? Don’t mind if I do! The last thing I expected to hear during lunch, out of nowhere, was this:
“Is my pecker big enough for me to ride Volcano?”
I spit water. Out of my nose. When you don’t have a penis, you just NEVER get used to how often it gets brought up- and if you have boys- you know it is all mortifying to hear.
Is my pecker big? Daddy has a pecker! Do you have a pecker? Why don’t you have a pecker? Why is my pecker so big right now? Daddy’s pecker has a beard! Do I have hair on my pecker? When will I get hair on my pecker? My pecker doesn’t have any pee in it, my pecker is empty!
Their penises have almost become completely separate identities from themselves.
I don’t recall ever discussing my vagina as a child as much as these kids peckoo-talk. I might have jammed out with my clam out before I learned things like privacy and shame- but I didn’t go around telling people my vagina was empty or asking if my vagina was big enough to ride a rollercoaster.
Al Bundy with a hand down his pants can only prepare one so much for the overwhelming amount of penis. It sounds like an x-rated film, but it’s just life with boys. All I know is I don’t understand it, and I’m just glad I don’t have one. I could never devote that much time to something so weird looking.
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