june 7 2000
thankfully, the new york city dmv is far from the nightmare i imagined it to be. well that's not true. everybody smells. especially the guy standing at the pen desk—the pen desk that's ostensibly used to fill out various questions about one's address and voting preferences, but was far too tantalizing a casual oputpost for philip roth's odoriferous lookalike to ignore. but hey, they gave me a license without making me demonstrate any type of mechanical aptitude. and you can't beat that with a bat. oh, i tried. i even made up letters for the eye chart, but apparently "f-l-a-p-l-i-c-k" has come into its own as a diagnostic standard. whatever it means. sounds nasty, though, don't it.
i don't want to talk about the dmv, though. it doesn't interest you, and it doesn't indulge my increasing fascination with laying myself bare. me! bare! not so fast, ladies.
editor's note: mom, you may not want to read the rest of this entry. it's about my wee-wee.
that being said, today we're going to focus on, well, the j the i the m the m the y the j the i the m it's jimmy. i received an email early this morning from a trusted longtime reader who wondered why i referred to my "private member" as "a lovely latina shortie." emasculating aspersions aside, such a reference reminded me of a similar question i was asked a week ago: did i name myself? well, while i'm flattered that women apparently want to know such things, i can't say i have a name. i have known people in the past who professed to having names such as "captain juicy" and "the prowler," but such genital nomenclature seems to me to detract from the whole affair—to infantilizes sex, if you will, much in the way parents turn strained-pea-laden spoons into swooping messerschmidts in order to fool their kids into eating. i don't ever want to turn down the lights and whisper "are you ready for the artist formerly known as flaccid?" christ, just thinking about it gives me a facial tic.
the other penile code matter i want to talk about is the fact that i can no longer function at a urinal when there's someone next to me. some call it stage fright, but since i like to gird my ego with overwrought writerly posturing, i'll coin the phrase public micturative anxiety. i don't know when this happened, exactly, because i have no problems with what sisqo would call my dong da-dong dong dong. more than one woman has told me that i happen to have a very attractive penis, and i happen to like it very much. the penis, not the praise. well, the praise too. in fact, probably the praise more than the penis. not that i'd give up the penis for the praise, because hey, you can't have penile praise without the penis posing prominently in the picture. pa-pow.
but anyway. i'm walking to the restroom today, and around the corner comes a guy who works in advertising on the other side of the floor. you probably know him; he's the one who's worn a bow tie ever since paul simon ran for president in 1988. also, i'm sure you can could spot him walking across the town commons in a seersucker suit and a flat-brimmed hat, parasol in hand. so it looks like turn-of-the-century man and i are both heading for the same place, which isn't a problem because there's plenty of porcelain for everyone. three urinals, four stalls, including the big 'handicapped' one with the hand rail and the raised seat that makes me feel like a small child. i walked in immediately ahead of bowtie mcseersucker and headed for a urinal. so did he. this, i guess, is okay, but if i walked into an empty corporate-type restroom directly behind someone else, i'd give them a little berth. after years of giving hand jobs in penn station, you get to know people's personal space.
now, on the short walk to the urinals, i did a quick subtraction of the "3 urinals divided by 2 people = adequate urinal comfort!" variety, and realized that we could each go about our bidness with a median urinal in between--a social buffer. so i naturally headed to one of the polar urinals, expecting him to establish a launch site at the other polar urinal. he did not do this. apparently he felt slighted by the implicit relegation to the "junior" urinal (note for women: there is generally a smallish urinal in any row for children to use. in oz or chuck e. cheese, they are all like this.), and as such took up position at the center urinal. scant inches from me. oh, man. to be honest, i felt as though sergio leone had wheeled his camera crew into position. i unzipped. he unzipped. a brief pause for to let the tumbleweed roll by and the whistle resonate. we each sighed that small ritualistic sigh that comes with the sphinctral loosening. and as i stood stock still, cursing my momentary clenching, he did what we all do a half-dozen times a day, give or take a factor governed by fluid intake and nervousness. christ. he was done and i hadn't even started yet. i was obviously less of a man than he. as soon as he flushed and walked to the sink, i was able to resume activities, but the damage, i fear, had already been done. pride dashed, i slunk back to my desk.
but then i went to get lunch and the cute cashier continued to flirt with me. i still got it.
to recap: dong da-dong dong dong. bowtie mcseersucker. thank you.
p.
and yo. my full-on venture kneejerk.net is up and running, though not nearly full. go and getcha read on. for me.
props to darkcounter.com
and sitemeter