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INTERVIEW WITH A PENIS

A WORD FROM THE CO-WRITER OF RICHARD – MY LIFE AS A PENIS OR DON’T CALL ME DICK, JONJO POWERS: 

One morning, in the year of our Lord, 2009, I awoke in the early morning hours to see a medium-built bald figure standing toward the foot of my bed.  As my aging eyes tried to adjust in the blue-gray light, I heard the figure’s message:  “Write my story.”  I was about a hundred pages into a biography of Bruce Willis when I thought, “What the hell was Bruce Willis doing in my bedroom?”

After some reflection, I realized the subject was not, in fact, Mr. Willis, but a figure of even greater fame.  It was a penis.  This particular penis called himself Richard the Third.

We began our collaboration, which mostly consisted of me typing as he told his story (penises can’t type – no thumbs).   The resultant book, “RICHARD – My Life as a Penis” or “Don’t Call Me Dick,” is available on Kindle or in paperback through the link above.  I only mention it because I want you to buy a copy.

Following are some excerpts from the conversation we had:

Let’s begin with the obvious question:  Why do you call yourself Richard the Third?

It only makes sense.  I have one good eye, a hump on my back, and a keen desire to rule the world.

Besides, I had to come up with something.  I didn’t care at all for the names the humanoids gave me.  Obviously, “penis” was out, as there apparently exists an agreement between all humans never to use the proper clinical name for their sexual anatomy.  For as much talking as they do about sex, you’d think they would grow comfortable with the terminology.  But, alas, the mere mention of “penis,” “vagina,” and “intercourse” produces more stifled laughter than O.J. Simpson asserting that he’s still looking for the real killers.

What was birth like?

It was like a bus pulling out of the station, if the bus were being squeezed through a toothpaste tube.

What were your first impressions of the boy you were attached to?

At first, I thought it was a birth defect, or perhaps a massive tumor. It was a hideous thing, with two runny eyes, separated by a small bump with two air holes, a toothless grimace, and appendages that flailed about. The doctor pronounced it a “bouncing baby boy,” although, in fact, it wasn’t bouncing at all, but lying there like a lump of molten protoplasm. Everyone called it “Joey.”

I called it “Hump.”

They weighed us and the nurse had the temerity to shout out “Eight pounds, ten ounces!” in front of God and everybody. In my defense, I would have weighed considerably less without Hump hanging all over me. 

That rather unfortunate episode notwithstanding, the group there was uniformly courteous. They wrapped Hump in a soft cloth blanket and passed him around like dinner rolls at Thanksgiving and everyone ooohed and aahhed over him, but naturally, I assumed they were referring to me. I basked in the warm glow of admiration, all the while thinking, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet!” In short order, I had grown rather fond of all of them…or, at least, tolerant.

And then some sonofabitch pulled a knife on me.

Honest to God, I was just hanging there, minding my own business, when some guy, wearing a mask to prevent identification, came at me with a gleaming silver knife. He was wearing gloves as well, so he wouldn’t leave fingerprints. Just as I was trying to evaluate my capabilities for fighting back, I felt a quick, sharp stick and a numbness flood through me. The bastards had drugged me! Was this any way to treat a newcomer?

What was that all about?

I had arrived in their world wearing a rather fashionable cowl neck, which could pull up all the way over my head. Very handy for those blustery days, rather like a snorkel parka.  And, to be honest, there were times when I just felt like being alone, like just retreating inside myself, if you’ll forgive the expression. My little hood afforded me that luxury. But, Dr. Mack the Knife, in a fit of designer whimsy, put an end to that. Paralyzed as I was by his insidious drugs, I was helpless to stop him as he hacked away my foreskin with all the finesse of Stevie Wonder trimming the hedges. Instead of having my luxurious collar to pull up as I pleased, my head was exposed to all the world, without covering, without mystery. Without even hair. I looked like Mr. Clean with a blowhole.

What’s the toughest thing about being a penis?

The most difficult part of a penis’s quest is to find someone who is willing. It makes my work so much easier. I don’t have to get everyone else involved to try to seduce her.

The Heart is easy; all it needs is to feel that romantic glow and it will move heaven and earth. The Mind, however, wants to analyze everything, to consider and, by the time it’s done running the figures, the moment of ripe opportunity is past.  Which means, of course, that I’m high and dry. That’s what makes the “go signal” so vital. A smile, a wink – even better, a kiss – anything to relate that she is willing.

What’s your morning routine?

Each morning, when Hump wakes up, I’m waiting for him, standing at attention, staring at him with my solitary, unblinking eye.

And I say:  “Good morning, Mr. Hump. Your mission for today, if you should choose to accept it – and if you don’t, I’m not responsible for the inappropriate erections - is the same as it was yesterday: Get laid. And, since you failed yesterday, you have to do it twice today.”

You talk a lot about being in control of Hump.  How did you let him know you were in charge?

I stood up.

Standing is a way of asserting my readiness. “Be prepared” was my motto. (The Boy Scouts hate it when I say that!) Up until I was about eleven years old, I had successfully presented myself as a benign appendage, there solely in the service of the bladder. Then one day, I took the first step toward my goal of domination – I stood up. On my own. After eleven years of laying down, confined in contorted positions that even the world’s greatest Yogis would find inhumane, I had had enough.  There, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary math lesson, I started adding…inches. Not to mention girth and rigidity. I had declared my independence from the host body. I expressed my uniqueness, for no other part of Hump acted autonomously, save perhaps, his anus, which, at the odd moment, might make a funny noise.

You do a lot of standing, don’t you?

Less now but, till Hump turned forty, quite a lot, yes.

I am nothing, if not courteous. Therefore, each time a pretty girl came near Hump, I stood up. Actually, she didn’t even need to be that pretty – just female and breathing. (Breathing was assumed to prerequisite, as there didn’t seem to be any females around who weren’t.) Standing up felt so invigorating that I didn’t just wait for the presence of females to do it. I stood at other random times – in the swimming pool, in the shower, during any movie starring Ann-Margaret, and once, during a birthday party for Hump’s Aunt Chrissy, just for laughs. Also, I stood when the leaves began to fall, when it snowed or rained, on the occasion of the first bud on the lilac bush, when an American car passed by, or a foreign one for that matter, and for a while each night before retiring.

How did Hump react?

Not quickly enough, I can tell you that!  I was always pointing the way and he was always ignoring me.  But, I guess it was like that for all the boys of that age.

None of the boys looked at each other. It is an unwritten law that you never look another male in the eyes when you’re sporting a throbbing erection. But, I wanted out! I wanted to join the party! I needed to be held, to be touched, to be loved. However, there was yet another of the suppressive unwritten laws of life among the homo sapiens: Touching oneself in the presence of others was discouraged.  All I kept thinking was:  “Oh, this is going to be a fun life!”

Do you ever have a chance to get together with your fellow penises?

It’s not my fellow penises I’m trying to get together with!

But to answer your question, hardly ever.  Mostly when Hump was in his high school gym class. It was good to finally meet some of my colleagues, to put a head with a name, so to speak. It was so seldom that we had the opportunity to compare notes. The notes of comparison were mostly a matter of length and girth. It may be counterintuitive, but no one is looking at first to see who’s the biggest; we were all trying to find the smallest. No matter what happens, you have someone to whom you can divert attention. Unless, of course, you happen to be the smallest. Then it’s just going to be a very long semester.

Certainly, none of the comparisons were definitive at any rate, all of us being, as it were, in our relaxed state. If I may be allowed to brag, I believe one of the greatest traits of my fraternity is that we are so…retractable. No one has to bother trying to find a place to store us when we’re not in use. We do what needs doing and then we withdraw until we’re needed again. Two commands: “Attention” or “At ease.” Simple. In the boy’s locker room, the standing order was “At ease.” Snapping to attention in there was regarded as conduct unbecoming.

You seemed a little defensive with that last question.  Is there a big difference between a heterosexual and a homosexual penis?

In truth, there is virtually no difference between a heterosexual penis and a homosexual penis. It’s just that we’re worlds apart in terms of what we stand for. Our only possible point of agreement might be George Clooney -- lets face it, he’s a beautiful man.

What was your first meaningful interaction with Hump?

One late afternoon, alone in the house, just he, me, and a lingerie ad from his mother’s “Redbook,” he decided to take matters with me in hand.  And so he did.

Four and a half minutes later, Hump had made a new best friend.  And I had acquired a slave.

Can you remember the first time you saw porn?

It was called “Afternoon Delight.” It was the custom then to wrap pornographic imagery in a storyline, therefore giving it “socially redeeming value.” It wasn’t porn, it was a story. Just like “The Tale of Two Cities” or “Tom Sawyer,” but with more screwing. There it was, in somewhat less than glorious living color, the point of it all. All of man’s endeavors since first he crawled from the primordial ooze have ultimately been motivated by this. Forget money, forget land, forget stocks and bonds and wine and song, this is what made the world go round. The fact that it had been photographed made it even more thrilling. After all, who actually did it right out in the open? Where everyone could watch? What sort of girl would do it with a guy when there’s another guy taking pictures? 

As it turned out, the answer was : a very ugly girl. The man looked sort of like David Soul from “Starsky and Hutch.”  But, the girl looked more like the guy who played Eb on “Green Acres.”  Still, she was naked, and the fact that she was willing to be photographed in any number of positions and acts went a long way in compensating for her saggy breasts and flat butt.

I was, of course, taking in the visual stimuli with relish. Hell, I was hoping the story ended with her address. I don’t care about her face. I’ve got any number of options that would preclude me having to look her in the face. She was naked, she was willing, and, evidently, you could even take home a nice photo afterward as a souvenir. Count me in!

Things really didn’t seem to go so well until Hump – and, by association, you – got into college.

College changed the game. In the first place, and this cannot be stressed enough, there were no parents around. The only time parents were allowed was during pre-scheduled events. That left plenty of time to conceal any incriminating evidence. And there was plenty of evidence that could be accumulated, if a student were so inclined. The local businessmen had the vision and the foresight to provide to the student population an endless supply of everything their little demented hearts could desire. They followed the same business plan as the Mafia: Give the people what they want.  Within a half-mile of the campus were retail establishments in which students could acquire beer, condoms, porn magazines, more beer, and an assortment of harder libations. That may seem like a short list, but the average college student, especially a freshman, was only interested in getting drunk and having sex.

College was the first time you had sex, wasn’t it?

With someone other than Hump, yes.  It was with a glorious girl named Beth.

Beth was like the common cold – there was scarcely a guy on campus that didn’t have her at least once a semester. Even some girls caught her, too. She was, in short, a campus slut. Of course, every young man knows what a slut is - it’s the girl guys are looking for, until they’re looking for a girlfriend. Then they ask the Virgin Mary if she has a sister.

What else can you tell us about Beth?

There were essentially three levels of male fascination regarding Beth:

·  Been there, done her, and it was great.

· Waiting patiently until I’m the last man on Earth and she has to do me.

·  I’m into Star Trek ; I have no chance.

Beth was really the first great love of Hump’s life, wasn’t she?

Ugh, don’t remind me!

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against love. Per se. Love can be nice. When a girl first falls in love, she is so willing. She gets to know what I like and gives it to me on a regular basis without being asked. It’s very efficient. And, as long as she understands that, from time to time, I may want to see what some other girl has to offer, merely in the interest of keeping up with the market, so to speak, then love can make things cozier. Hump had certainly struck sexual gold with Beth. It’s just that you never know when you might strike platinum.

So, you were against their marriage?

I was against it – the whole institution of marriage, not just the one into which I was being forced.

Sure, Beth took excellent care of me. If any single woman had a chance at completely satiating my desires, surely it was she. But, it wasn’t possible. No one woman could ever meet my demands. I required a team, working around the clock, in shifts, to keep pace with my needs. It may seem extreme, this constant longing. But, I am a penis; it’s what I do. It isn’t simply a desire for sex; it’s a hunger for variety. It’s an insatiable curiosity about the various ways in which the female population expresses its sexuality. See? It’s analysis. It’s research. It’s a good thing.

What do you remember most from the bridal shower?

Fondue sets.

Fondue sets?

In the 70s, there was a general belief that one could not have too many fondue sets. Fondue sets were, for a time, thought to be the long-sought “perfect gift for any occasion.” It’s estimated that, for a period of about five years, in the mid- to late-seventies, a fondue set was owned by every man, woman, and child in the United States. In Switzerland, everyone owned two. Fondue is a Swiss development, but they gave it a French name. They wanted someone else to blame in case the whole idea went horribly wrong. Essentially a saucepan held above a can of Sterno, the fondue sprung from the philosophy, not entirely erroneous, that everything tastes better when it’s covered with molten cheese or chocolate. Every newlywed couple, between 1974 and 1985, hosted a fondue party. Once. After a solitary night of having friends gather around pots of bubbling cheese, chocolates, and sundry sauces, spearing pieces of fruit, vegetables, bread, as well as the occasional house pet, dunking it into the pan, popping it into their mouths and getting a rough estimate of the melting temperature of chocolate, the pots were scrubbed (with no little effort), dried, stored in the uppermost kitchen cabinet and only removed again when it was time for a yard sale. So, Hump and Beth became the proud owners of a quartet of fondue sets of various quality. I didn’t care, as long as they didn’t dunk me in cheese!  Chocolate maybe – Beth loved chocolate.

What do you remember about the bachelor party?

They cheered as we entered, like they were hailing Caesar. They took turns slapping Hump on the back and laughing and teasing him about getting married. The celebration lasted about 75 seconds. Then the room got quiet. There was a long awkward pause, during which all the men just looked at each other.

You see, this is where women come in handy. There had been no awkward silences at Beth’s shower. Things had run like a military operation. Greetings, drinks, lunch, gifts, cake and coffee, and out. But, guys can’t plan parties. The most commonly heard sentence at a party planned by guys is, “What do you want to do now?”

Did they have a stripper there?

Yes. This woman had more miles on her than Route 66. It wasn’t that she wasn’t…semi-attractive. She was that, sort of. But, frankly, if it wasn’t understood that she was about to get naked, no one would have given her a second look, except for Gary’s brother, who had the definitive lack of standards.

Up close, her face looked like a resurfacing project. A thick layer of foundation lay across a veritable field of pockmarks, scars, and blemishes. The blue eye shadow was caked on her heavy lids. Her lips were cracked under the red lipstick. Her breath smelled of mints and marijuana. And she reeked of rose perfume.  In fact, it was not so much “rose” fragrance, as it was “rose” fragrance as reimagined by the folks who brought you Air Wick.

I, of course, was standing straight up. I always do when there is a pending exhibition of female body parts. Penises rarely discriminate. We have the tremendous ability to block out the less attractive features and concentrate solely on the good parts.

Anyway, she pushed Hump back into a chair and handed Gary an eight-track tape of Lalo Schfrin funky jazz music. As soon as it began to play, she started a series of undulations and gyrations that, in the company of legitimate dancers would almost certainly be misconstrued as the start of an epileptic seizure.  She was just getting into an enjoyable rhythm when the tape jammed.

You want to know why there are CDs? Are you young men at all curious as to how they came about? They were undoubtedly invented by some ingenious man who was in the middle of a lap dance when the goddamned eight-track tape jammed!!

What about the wedding?

I sat the wedding day out. Let’s face it, weddings are all about the bride and that’s never going to change. I knew better than to lead Hump close to any of the bridesmaids or the sexier guests. I took no chances with Beth’s bloodhound-like olfactory gifts. Besides, I had every reason to believe that the sex that night was going to be of a rarified grade. It was going to be Wedding Night Sex and, legend had it, that sex of that nature was had only once in a great while. Far from the sex a woman has when she’s trying to seal the deal, this is sex when a woman has achieved her goal. She is victorious and, therefore, can do whatever she wants. She can be as debauched and depraved as her little heart desires and, if she goes too far, say the handcuffs are just a little too tight and they start to cut off his circulation, it doesn’t matter, because getting out of the relationship then requires a great deal of paperwork and some hefty legal fees. Of course, with Beth unleashed, there may also be some corrective surgery involved.

Well, did it live up the hype?

Everything I had heard about Wedding Night Sex proved true. For Beth, it was a personal best and had there been Olympic judges present, I had no doubt she would have been standing on the center podium with a gold medal around her neck and the “Star Spangled Banner” playing. I know that I’ve made it painfully clear that I’m no fan of monogamy but, after four hours of Wedding Night Sex, I was thinking that I was a lucky penis that Hump had married Beth. After all, he could have married the stripper.

I know that you’ve been part of a ménage a trios.  What did you learn from that?

Two heads are better than one.

No, seriously.  This is the great irony of the ménage a trios: Men dream of it from the moment they become sexually aware. It’s simple math. It stands to reason if one naked girl is fun, then two naked girls will be twice as much fun. But, what should have been the greatest sexual development since…well, sex itself, instead becomes a threat, for, if the man is wildly attracted to the two women, doesn’t it follow that they would be attracted to each other? That could mean that they would become more attracted to one another than they are to the man.  Maybe they wouldn’t need the man at all!

Unacceptable!

That’s sort of what happened, isn’t it?  Didn’t Rain and Anna run off together?

Yes.  I still miss the dynamic duo.

The whole episode taught me an important lesson, that I will share with you, but you must promise not to let it get around: In a fair fight, Miss Kitty can take me. It’s something I’m loath to admit, but it is, nonetheless, the truth. On the face of it, so to speak, it doesn’t seem possible. The penis, after all is sturdy and straight and stiff – and, if not, there are pills for that now. Miss Kitty, on the other hand, is all pink and delicate and open and vulnerable. It’s so susceptible to so many things:  rips, tears, dryness, itchiness, yeast…you’ve seen the commercials. But, in head to head competition, the vagina will win more times than not. The penis wants it now; the vagina makes us wait. We’re always ready; they have to get into the mood. They always refuse at first; we give in immediately. It’s no wonder, really, that Anna chose Rain over me. I would have done the same thing! I’ll take a vagina over a penis any day.

Is that what motivated the move to Chicago?

Among other things, yes.

After commuting for awhile back and forth from his parents’ home in the suburbs to the downtown station, Hump finally found a place to live on the North Side –it’s where the cool people lived. He had entertained notions of moving to the Southwest Side, around the airport, where the rents are lower, but, thankfully, someone explained to him that the only way he would get laid on the Southwest Side is if a girl from the North Side accidentally fell out of the car and her friends drove off, leaving her there and she had no money for cab fare and she took her eyeliner pencil and scrawled on a discarded paper bag that she fished out of the trash can, “Will screw for a ride,” and held it up at the exact moment that Hump was passing by. Translated, it meant that single guys should live on the North Side, unless they were entering the priesthood.

Tell us about the North Side Girl.

The North Side Girl, as Hump was to quickly learn, was a subject of Chicago mythology. She was like no other girl in the tri-state area. She possessed a style that made her look polished even in sweat pants and tee-shirt, which she frequently wore as she jogged along the lakefront. She was always accessorized perfectly with the most current version of the latest things. She didn’t ride the curve, she was ahead of it. What she was wearing, using or carrying would go out of style by the time the girls in the suburbs acquired it.

But, what really set the North Side Girl apart, was sex. Nothing shy about this girl, she regarded sex as a necessary social activity, like going to the theatre or the latest club.  Her standards for sexual accessorizing were as high as they were for fashion. She had the latest vibrators, the latest lubricating gels, and she knew the latest positions. Her choice of partners was based on two criteria: Looks and technique. A partner who may not be in the best shape could win a spot on his ability in bed. If he wasn’t the best lover, he’d better be a male model. But, one overriding rule persisted: He can never be prettier than she. Good sex, good looks, and a sense of style; it’s what kept the North Side Girl happy. The North Side Girl is what kept the North Side Boy happy.

What was the big difference between the small town girls and the North Side girls?

In fifteen years, I had never heard a girl having sex in Bloomington shout the phrase, “Smack my ass, you bastard!” I heard it several times that first night in Chicago. She was good. She was also angry.   This girl wanted welts. She shouted the word “harder” like it was her mantra. It was the first sexual encounter that we ever had in which there was the possibility Hump would lose some teeth. I was grateful our apartment was only on the second floor, in case she, in the throes of passion, threw him out the window.

It continued to be that way, for the most part. There were some gentler couplings, but they were with small-town girls who had just arrived in Chicago and were waitresses and

receptionists. The rest of the girls were on the corporate ladder, where the competition was fierce, or they were in theatre, where it was brutal. They were competitive. They were tough.  They liked the taste of blood. It was not so much sex as it was a death match. There was ass-slapping and hair-pulling and an incredible amount of name-calling, remarkably self-referential.  If you were to call a woman any of these things in the street, she’d pull your lower lip over your head. They wanted to be tied up, strapped down and, once, suspended. On several occasions, Hump was slammed against the wall, thrown to the floor and mounted. He kept a supply of ice packs in the freezer

to treat his bruises. It was cool.

Why did that end?

Hump ran into Patti, a girl he knew in high school.  He got all dewy-eyed and fell in love.  Not only did he cut all the other women out of his life, the woman he went for was frigid.  She had the core temperature of a Fudgesicle!  I never knew that frostbite could be a sexually transmitted disease!

But, ever the romantic, Hump decided to give intimacy priority over sex, the rantings of a madman if ever I’ve heard them.  He was sure that things would improve spontaneously, which is a little like saying, “Keep driving, I’m sure the gas tank will fill up on its own.”

What happened after Patti?

For six years, the selfish sonofabitch practiced – can I say the “C-word?” – celibacy! That’s right, no sex. What was I attached to, a monk? Priests have more sex than I did for six years. It was the 90s, for Godsakes! The Clinton years!  Everybody was getting laid. Even Clinton. Well, not Hillary, but Bill, oh hell yeah!

But, not Hump. Hump was on a voyage of self-discovery that, quite frankly, I thought he took when he started buying Playboy . He took to reading a library of self-help books with obnoxiously catchy titles, like “Men Who Love Women Who Can’t Love Enough Too Much.”

I told him, “Hey, Deepak, you’re going to get eye-strain. I don’t want you going blind. Why don’t you shelf that jolly little tome and we’ll go out and share a glass of carrot juice with a naked nymphomaniac?”

I tried to convince him that screwing a lot (which is my definition of living well) is the best revenge, but it didn’t motivate him.

So, you lived for six years without sex?

It’s not like I didn’t have release. Between videotapes and Internet porn, I spent so much time in front of glowing screens, I was in danger of becoming radioactive.

You seem to have opinions on just about everything.  Let’s just go down the list.  What about mistresses?

Mistresses are a time-honored lot. They exist in Shakespeare and Miller and Neil Simon and even in soap operas. If they weren’t completely respectable, how could they possibly have gotten such notoriety? Ask any actress if she’d rather play the mistress or the long-suffering wife and she’ll pick the mistress every time. Mistresses are good; mistresses are our friends. They’re like nannies, only for much older children.

You also seem to have some reservations about Hump’s concern for others, especially women.

Any concern he has for others is less concern that he has for me.

But, there are other considerations.  You see, it’s the genuine concern that will get a fellow into trouble every time. It’s called “The Cinderella Syndrome,” in which the male tries to rescue the damsel in distress. In all history, the actual number of cases of a damsel being in genuine distress, requiring rescue by some man, can be counted on the fingers of one hand. All of the rest of the times, it was simply a matter of the damsel creating the illusion that he was rescuing her. She did that for any number of reasons: A stake in the kingdom, a nice castle, and sometimes just because she wanted to get laid.

But, it was all part of the game, the dance of seduction. The female recites all the classic things the male wants to hear and he dances. I recognized it, I saw it clearly.  But, the thing is, I’m a penis, and I dig it, man. Nothing gets me ready to go quite like a little Sir Lancelot role-playing.  That’s why I’m shaped like a lance, for Godsakes.

What’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard said by a woman?

Next to “Who’s your little friend?”  “I have to talk to you.” Have to talk to you. Not want to talk to you or it would be nice to talk to you. I have to talk to you. Nothing good ever came after that sentence. In all of time, not one piece of good news ever followed a woman saying, “I have to talk to you.”

What about love or romance?

Will you never learn? You know why they call people like you “incurable romantics?” Because it’s a terminal disease! 

You settled in Chicago.  Is there anywhere else in the world you would rather live?

I love Chicago.  Best city in North America.  But, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind at all living in France.

Why France?

I have a theory that the French may, in reality, be the master race. I base this on the fact that they seem to live their lives around wine, cheese, sex, nudity, and jazz. Come on, admit it, I’ve got a point. Hell, even the British would have to agree they’re doing something right.

Do you have a philosophy of life?

Life is a crapshoot. One can never be sure of anything. If you want a guarantee, buy a toaster, for goodness sakes! I never know when I encounter a woman, whether the sex will be good or bad; it’s just a matter of dumb luck. But, who cares? Sex is like pizza – it’s always good. Even when it’s bad pizza, it’s still pizza! You want to believe love lasts forever? Go ahead! You might as well. But, if it doesn’t work out that way, don’t complain. You knew the odds going in. At least you tried.

Maybe the problem is that you set your sights too high.  Take a tip from me (no pun intended, unless it gets a laugh):  Make your goals reasonable ones. Keep the list short and manageable. My list has one goal – have sex. I don’t want to learn to paint; I don’t need to know the secret to successful investing; I don’t want to go to Thailand and wash the elephants. I just want sex. When I get it, I’m happy; when I don’t, I’m not. Simple. Take a lesson.

RICHARD – My Life as a Penis or Don’t Call Me Dick is available on Kindle or in paperback through the link above, as well as Amazon and other online book dealers.

© Jonjo Powers, 2010, all rights reserved.