I have a hernia, I think. And my nuts hurt, too… or rather that muscle right under my nuts, the cremaster. I was about to take a piss at the office; there are three urinals– two normal ones and one short midget one– and I go for the one in the corner, and this agent walks in, short guy… and instead of going for the midget urinal on the other side like etiquette would dictate he has to go for the middle one right next to me. And normally I don’t get stage fright but this fucker looked at me just as I was taking my dick out of my shorts and made this sort of meaningful eye contact– not a homo thing but this weird kind of contemplative, philosophical look, and I had to really ponder this guy’s inchoate preverbal communication for a second while I was also very conscious of the smooth warm flesh of my penis in the other hand… and it weirded me out. Continue reading
STD Diary 2006: Tales from Non-Gonoccocal Urethrographic Oceans
20 JunI hope this is my last STD news until the warts show up. Negative for gonorrhea and chlamydia.
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Ooh— you little motherfucker. New job, new bathroom, new stage fright story. This disease makes me piss every fifteen minutes. My prostate is inflamed and it gets all swollen with urgency at these times. And so I go in there to take my piss and there’s a guy— nerdy, nebbishy looking guy, obviously a screenwriter, and again, I go in, give him a cursory head-nod, and he gives a subdued “hi.” Nothing wrong yet. Except now I’m about to piss and he starts going to town over at the sink, riding the fucking soap pump like it was a slot machine and activating— they have those stupid laser-activated sinks, and they give no hot water, and only this stingy one-second burst— and he’s waving his hands in front of it again and again. And then he grabs about fifteen c-fold paper-towels out of the dispenser and rubs them over every hand surface with great vigor, and then REPEATS the process— so at this point it’s clear that he’s an obsessive-compulsive. Continue reading
Stage Fright
28 FebWhen I was a kid in the 80’s, we used to go to ballgames at Fenway Park. And when you had to piss, it was– there were no urinals. There was one toilet and it always looked like a Dinty Moore™ beef stew grenade had exploded in it. No– you had to piss in a long communal cast-iron trough shaped like a bath tub with rusty, tetanus-y looking pipes feeding a trickle of water into it. I was like 8, and you had to stand around this thing with no less than a dozen middle aged men, all drunk, with their schlongs all out right near 8 year old eye level. And something about Boston– these were old world schlongs. The ungroomed old country schlongs of rough and brutal men. Somehow no man born of pure immigrant stock ever has anything less than a giant winking sea worm, ascending back into a tangle of salt and pepper pubes that have never once been trimmed. Men of this time and place never fucked with their pubes once, in their entire lifetime. Irish guys with flame orange thickets. Swarthy, suspicious men, with Bin Laden dickbeards and brown snakey uncut sausage three shades darker than the rest of them.
I don’t know if you’ve seen a lot of underage wang, but the penis of an 8 year old white child is like a doll’s pinky finger, and beholding these veiny, hideous anacondas was terrifying. I couldn’t pee.
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New Book
delicioustacos 