A Man and His Wiener

So I’m a man…and I’ve lived with my wiener for 34 years and over that time I feel comfortable in saying I’ve gotten to know it pretty well. I can’t say I’ve ever laid in a field, smoking a pipe, with a serious look on my face and reflected on my life together with the little fella. But when you have a son…you’re sort of forced into trotting down memory lane.

Many a morning I’ll be shaving as the boy walks in the bathroom in his little skibbies to take a wiz. The pants drop and there’s his little pecker standing tall and proud unleashing a child-sized stream of pee all over the toilet, floor, walls…. Ahhh morning wood at its best.

Woodies are just a fact of life as a kid – well, shit…actually throughout life. It happens, you don’t know why, and it doesn’t even enter your brain to care as a kid.

I remember when I was little and on the swim team, I was called “boner” by some of the older kids. I was all, “Hell yeah they like me. I’ve got a nickname and shit!!” Then I realized they always laughed after they called me Boner.

“Hey mom….what’s a boner?” Oh I remember asking that question to my mom like it was yesterday…..

Pubic hair was something I wanted desperately as a kid. I spent days praying at night that I would wake up in the morning with a virtual afro of pubic hair shrouding my man-wand, thus completing my journey into becoming Magnum PI (I always assumed he had a virtual forest down there cause…well cause it was Magnum P-fucking-I).

Over the summer I was taking a shower and heard the boy come in to pee. He finished, but I never heard him flush. As I opened the curtain to yell for him to come back and flush his stuff, I noticed he was still there, naked, looking down at his little pecker and pulling on a tiny little hair on his coin purse. “I didn’t know that,” he whispered.

Being the asshole that I am, I couldn’t resist scaring and embarrassing the shit out of him by saying, “Whatcha got goin’ on there sailor?”

“Daddy!!!!” he screamed as he ran off.

Then comes the touching. The constant rubbing of the package, I guess to make sure it’s still there. I remember after soccer games on the way home, my mom saying, “honey, you really need to try and stop touching it. Seriously…it’s not going anywhere and you’re embarrassing yourself.”

The boy is going through an introductory stage of that now….unlucky bastard.

But the part I’m not looking forward to….the masturbation. I remember giving it a try a couple of times and after a few minutes giving up cause nothing happened. But then the gift of having an older brother reared its head and the glorious day finally arrived where he one day said,

“You’re a fucking idiot. You have to use lotion moron.”

It was like the clouds broke, a rainbow came out, birds chirped a bit louder and crisper, and I was alive!!! For the next few years, I could not put my dick down. I was a man on a mission….and I can only imagine how many times my parents had wished they could shroud themselves in plastic when walking in my bedroom, or worse, my bathroom.

A man’s wiener is like an imaginary friend you have your whole life. It knows all your secrets, it grows with you, changes as you change, listens when you need a friend, reacts to all your emotions, talks you into things you probably shouldn’t do, and is by your side through thick and thin. High fives to my tiny little guy….thanks for being there bud.

Oh…and don’t forget, we’ve got our first therapy session at 5 p.m. today to deal with your separation anxiety from the wifey’s whoo-ha!