To Pee Or Not To Pee: That's Not The Only Question

The old adage says a boy's should be like his father's. With homogeneity questions about difference should be less frequent.

Daddy, why does mine have a little turtle neck and yours doesn't?

Because your mother is a godless bitch who's hung up on her first goy boyfriend, that's why!

No one wants to have that discussion. Rather, I want to have that conversation, but maybe some people don't. Perhaps some should.

In high school one of my friend's didn't know if he'd been cut, saying yes, his tentacle had been chopped off. Another brave friend to stepped forward to inform the questioner that he was indeed circumcised. This was actually common knowledge, as So-and-so was well-endowed and had a proclivity for popping out of his fly while we were hanging out in our knickers.



Which leads to today's topic of conversation.

My father goes over the fence, as a result for more than twenty years, más o ménos, I went over the fence too. I don't recall when he showed me how to urinate standing up without exposing myself to the neighbor, your mother, the school janitor, that dude in the bathroom who wants to talk to you, a peg legged pirate and his puritanical parrot, like some men in airports do, and only in airports, but I'm sure he did, because it's easier for my peace of mind to imagine that my father demonstrated and my mother did not, Dearest Darling Mother that she is.

OK, now spread your legs, You're doing great!

Conjecturedly, this decision may stem from the universal childhood experience of wearing tighty whities, a garment designed for containment, not easy access, and for revealing speed stains. In this confining clothing, going over the fence is easier than unpacking through the fly.

I got a ton of the other kind if you'd rather.

By the time male adolescents have transitioned to boxer's it may be too late to have this conversation with pops.

Boy, I wanna tell you. It's time to pee outta yer fly. And we need to put Yeller down.

Yeller, is he playing with it or shaking? Yeller? Yeller, NOOOOOO!

A certain bipolarity arises though. Cut or uncut? Republican or Democrat? Over the fence or through the gate? Chunky or smooth?

If you eat chunky, you're an idiot. It's called peanut BUTTER. You wanna eat chunky milk butter? NO! It'll kill you! It'll kill you anyway! You're lactose intolerant! Don't eat chunky peanut butter!

Excuse me, and this ritual practice takes on other dimensions.

I'd watch my friends make use of their flies at the pissoir and would think 'How gay!' Not as in lighthearted and carefree, but more literally Gay.

The act of going over the fence seems to connote domination. An item is hefted over a barrier. Bulk must be felt, it's a masculine weight. It drops down, as if to say 'Here, I am." It's brutal, evident, never coy.

And conversely going through the gate marks a sly act. It does not call any attention to itself. Only a bit of the apparatus is exposed, compared to going over the gate, an act that openly demonstrate the masculinity in its entirety. This abashed male act takes on a resulting feminine or emasculating qualities, as the nature of the penis as a protrusion is not subtle, and nuanced, unlike it's female counterpart, the armpit. Thus the fly is like a widdle penis hijab, mostly concealing it away. The condom, a chadoor, that belongs to your roommate that you've poked a hole through, for the lulz.

Isn't Islam easy?

That's what I used to think of the little girly men going through the boxers.

But as I've discussed before, the machinery of my body has slowed. I used to be able to just rely on the power of my prostate to expel the urine and a shakey shakey to do the job.

Another proverb says if you shake it more than twice you're playing with it.

Clearly, someone's girlfriend made that bullshit up. Twice? Twice? C'mon two strokes, you're hardly even getting to know the prick. 53r10u51y! You're only playing with it if it's tumescent or that's the intent; otherwise, you may be fiddling, adjusting, tinkering, examining, or comforting yourself. There, there, my sweet meats, I feel your pain too. You're certainly not playing with it because you can't play when you're crying.

However, there comes a point when you can only shake it so many times before people interpret such thrash/thrash/thrash as having more than a utilitarian in function. I could try to rationalize such thrashing, but after 15 times, I no longer felt comfortable using public bathrooms.

In lieu of the violent panning of the river of its old gold, I allowed physics and experimentation to open new opportunities for me.

I've created some handy though crude diagrams (no double entendre intended) to illustrate my point.



As shown here, the boxers are holding the ol' menitalia up against gravity. (the boxers are not rendered in this diagram: just use your imagination.) Truly, what could be more manly than going against gravity? Conversely, what could be less manly then peeing in your dress slacks at your sister's bat miztvah in a borrowed suit because you were thinking about your hair and not meticulousness? Hmm? Childbirth? Menstruation? Poor control of emotion? C-section scars?

Perhaps.

It's called a trouser snake for a reason. Probably for several reasons, including for letting it slip out of the old snake hole. The latter diagram using the fly allows for a more natural albeit furtive maneuver, that allows for greater efficacy and less spillage.



Until I was tall enough to see over the urinal divider, I didn't think the fly was for peeing at all but instead strictly for better access to play with the old pocket tiger, leaving me without an alibi when Mummy Dear asked me why I had cut a slit into my pajamas, and all I could say was that it hadn't been the one to make it, but my babysitter.

I liked that baby sitter.

Until the next,


M. Rampage.