For most some men, the penis is the top-priority, most important organ they have. That one appendage that they would just die if they became parted with. Which is odd because the two main uses for the penis are sex and pissing. Both of which, when combined, might take up as much as half an hour a day on average. After that... It's just there. Not doing much at all.

And for this it sits on The Throne Of All Organs. But, hey, here's a thought. What about all those other body bits that put in a full days work every day of the week? The arms for example. Lose the arms and you've lost 75% of the penis's usage in one fell swoop (snigger ;). Not only that, no arms, no noding. Nightmare, right?

The eyes. They look, they see, say, the ample charms of a scantily-clad lady, bouncing playfully with her every step in the midsummer heat and pass a message up to the brain. The brain, getting straight on the case, drops everything and immediately faxes the penis: "Hey! Get a look at this!". The penis then does one of the two things things it's useful for, usually in one of the many millions of places it really isn't wanted.

Pph. Don't talk to me about the penis. It's a part-timer. Stop giving it the damn Employee Of The Week award.

I stand naked in front of the mirror. I stretch, arms reaching for the ceiling...

And it bobs in front of me. It doesn't really belong, you know. Following the smooth line of my body downward, and then suddenly, this interruption.

Tenting my jeans at inconvenient moments. Finding all of the open bits in my boxers. Crying out for attention and a bit of a massage when I have much better things to be doing.

It whines. It bitches. It's this parasite strapped between my legs that yodels almost constantly for attention, but brings me more trouble than anything.

I dunno. Having a polyorgasmic body sounds pretty damn cool, despite all of the other downfalls. But hey, here I am, forever cursed to be the brunt of Phallic worship jokes, neh?

I'm a guy. I've got a penis. But hey, I've also got a brain, and a heart, and a number of other things, which are rather important.

I know that my cock is earnestly looking for the kind of girl who would bend me over a table and fuck me. It's kind of subletting, I suppose. I'll be over here with my books and my music and my poetry and my art, I'm sure you can have scintillating conversations with my cock about phallically focused living. But me, I'm sorry, I have a life outside of it, much as it may not always appear that way. I'm even considering getting a restraining order against the bobbing bastard.

I am your stereotype, but I live in such a way as to defy it, with every fiber of my being. But he's calling me back, in that desperate little voice of his.

"Hey there, won't you give us a hand?"

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