Blog Dis

Said the Vagina to the Penis, "I am the ear with an itch and you are the finger with a scratch and when you stick your finger into my ear and scratch, which feels better, the ear or the finger?" No argument here. The ear feels better than the finger, tho' the finger would no doubt contest this statement.

The world is a better place because of our sex organs. Me being in possession of a vagina means that my perspective is one-sided, as are all the men out there in possession of a penis. One of my readers had remarked a few weeks back that my mind must never sleep. True. I live in a perpetual state of contemplation. When I shut my brain down at the end of the work day, I think about every other subject under the sun, including the wonderful penis.

Yes, men and their penises. Some women would have you believe men's brains are located in this erogenous zone, that the brain and penis cannot be operated simultaneously and that the penis invariably wins out. Maybe this is true. If I had a penis, I'd more than likely want to touch my full package at every opportunity. And some of my platonic male friends, tell me that if they had a vagina they'd hoist their legs into the air all the day long, gazing at themselves in a mirror. Well, yeah... big time. Done that. Still do this. I've had many a good gander and I believe my piece of anatomy looks just dandy. It's no mystery that men name their penises. Same goes for women. We name ours too. I've called mine Virginia in the past, which I feel is a reasonably good name for a woman's second most essential body part - second to her brain. I dated a man who insisted I call his Seymour, so I happily played along with his name-game and more often than not, he showed me time and again that Seymour had my eye. To borrow an accepted, modern phrase: He was a grower, not a shower.

All this talk of the penis makes me think of probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my life in the business world. I was sitting in my office waiting on hold for a client to come back on line. My colleague entered my office and we began talking about an article I had digested on penile extension surgery. I forgot that I put the line on speaker, so I'd know when my caller would return. You guessed it. My colleague and I found the article enthralling and we discussed in great detail the machinations of the surgery, whereby the full shaft is not fully extended outside the pubic bone bcus in fact there's at least two inches of penis retracted inside. Surgeons cut into the bone and pull out the additional length, thereby turning a stubby into a Long John, or rather a longer Johnny, to make everyone happier (partner included no doubt). Little did I know that my client had returned to the call and kept his mouth shut, while I rambled on like an idiot about how fascinating this surgery is and how it could transform the life of a man. My client only finally announced his presence when he howled with laughter and then advised me that our dialogue was the most interesting conversation he'd ever eves-dropped on in his life. Sneaky bastard! 😅I turned fourteen shades of crimson but thankfully, the depth of my embarrassment couldn't be transmitted over the phone, as there was no video connection.

Currently, I don't have a steady SO in my life and I fear that I'm coming across as shallow in speaking about the opposite sex in this fashion, reducing them to a body part. But this post is about penises and their effect on life and, as much as men drive me bonkers with their consistently erratic, selfish and self-serving behaviour, I have to embrace truth: I sorely miss having a penis in my life... er, that is a sometimes man. Such are the drought periods that we each will invariably have to endure in our life. There will be times when you get more than you can handle, when you get just enough to handle, and when you hardly get any of the thing that you think you can handle. The pendulum swings back and forth, and back and forth. To make matters worse, we're not currently in the summer months, when as a pathetic consolation, I could suck on frozen popsicles to give me that false-sensation of performing high-wire tricks, all the while wondering to myself, do I still have it? Of course I do! Silly girl!

A woman of skill and imagination never loses her special touch in between the sheets. We just become a little out of practice, that's all, because desire is ever-present. Desire grows in intensity, enhanced when we face head on the absence of the very thing we desire most.... which is why I needed to write this blog post. 💃😘🌹

Wish me luck that my drought ends soon. And, if you're wondering why I didn't delve into the Trans male angle, as a corollary to this post, perhaps another time... or I could retort with a snarky reply, "Write your own penis-themed blog, 'cuz this one's mine."

We each are our own best friends and our own worst enemies. We each have within us the strength and power to heal ourselves, as well as the power to destroy our inner light. Basically, we are the giver and taker of our own happiness and sadness. And yet, our perspectives of our own image are often eschewed by negativity, forget about someone else coming along to throw mud at us. That's where the influence of psychology can lead us down a path of greater enlightenment, providing of course the psychologist isn't a lunatic, or rather to put this in less harsh terms, not altogether off-balance.


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The sculptured calves of cycling legs as they whiz by me at breakneck speeds... the soft underside of a muscled thigh as he turns over in front of me... the plush texture of full lips, glistening with the moisture from my long, wet kiss... the texture of a tongue dragging itself sensuously across my skin...

What turns your crank?


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He tells me, this man I know, that he has no time to read, that he has all of these "things" to take care of each day, which include children and animals and tractors and fences and practically everything else under the blazing hot sun, except maybe himself. "Take the time," I tell him, "because you're worth it." Take the time to read and watch what happens. When you read, your brain does this metamorphosis thing and it becomes a sponge, wanting more, becoming smarter, becoming something better and bigger.


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To judge and describe another writer's prose as skillfully boring is to say that as technicians in the writing craft, they are grammatically and functionally correct, in terms of how they construct their prose. However, the actual story doesn't necessarily mean that they've strung together a series of words that make one tasty hill of beans. I call these stories skillfully boring. As I read them, I find the writing is gifted in expressing him or herself but in no way does their prose make me feel anything and I mean feel absolutely nothing... not even indifference.


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From an early age, I was indoctrinated into the world of superstitions because my mother had been indoctrinated as a child, and passed it on. When my siblings and I lived under one roof, there were known rules of conduct that had to be observed. The worst breach was in refusing to recognize one superstition when passing my mother on a flight of stairs. If she was coming down, you were ordered to return to the bottom step and let her descend first, before we could go up. I was mystified by this, nor could I at the time realize the impact it would have on me.


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I own this monster-sized hardcover book that must way close to 3 pounds, called The Secret Language of Relationships, co-written by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers (copyright 1994). Their description in the prologue rang so true for me that I am compelled to share with you their three examples on defining what is a relationship, using analogues that deal with the physical and the metaphysical. So here it goes:

1. Physical vs. Chemical:

In a physical reaction, when two original elements are blended or ground together, they become one compound without being transformed, that is to say the newly created compound can still be separated back into its original elements. But with a chemical reaction, two elements are combined into one to create a whole new compound that cannot be broken back down into its original component elements. Relationships between two people are more like a chemical reaction in that the relationship has such a profound effect on both individuals, the partners almost become a newly formed compound.


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Worrying, that hopelessly stupid internal activity in our brains is a complete and total waste of time. Why then do we worry nonetheless? I've my own theories. The most logical explanation I can accept is that our brains are hard-wired to analyze and interpret and reflect and therefore our brains are incapable of remaining at rest continuously, unless we're dead. And if I broke down and categorized how much time was spent thinking and on what particular subjects, I'd not be shocked to learn that at least 10% of our time on this earth is spent worrying.


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Naturally, some posts compel me to digress into the nefarious areas of love and lust and all the in-between goodies that deal with delicious favours. It was an innocent conversation with another person that has inspired me to write this post. When do you blow your man's horn? More importantly, how often should you blow?


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