Stories About My Penis, Vol. I

There is much phallic humor on this blog. Pop psychoanalyze all you want. I am a prurient, coarse, deviant male, and, as a result, much of my humor is thusly themed. This will be one of many stories about my penis. Because, I'll be frank, I'm really just a penis with a man attached, a glorious penis delivery system of sorts.

How I Got My Pornstar Nickname

One night, in a state of UltraDrunk (a post is forthcoming on this wondrous phenomenon), I found myself on the lower east side. After drunkenly spilling the larger part of a beer all over a kindly black gentleman (kindly because he was within his full rights to beat the shit out of me but did not) I decided to pull my standard move, which is to leave without telling anyone, and stumble drunkenly into the cool mist. However, instead of merely fading into the night, in my stumblings I came upon a hot dog stand. It should be noted that I have yet to recall where this place is and have been unable to locate it. It consisted of a bench, a counter, several stools, and the kitchen in back. The list of toppings was compendious. I was drunk, and boy howdy, I was hungry. I also noticed that they had spicy peppers.

"Hey buddy, I want a large hot dog with mustard, cheese, relish, and, oh yeah, make it unreasonably spicy."
The guy behind the counter laughs.
"Unreasonably?"
"Unreasonably."
"Sure thing boss, but only on one condition, I get to watch you eat it."
"Hell yes."

So a few minutes later he hands me a hot dog gloriously piled with an entire canon of toppings, but, most sensuously, several ounces worth of chopped up hot peppers. It was nearly as much hot pepper as anything else. And the good, greasy, super spicy type of hot pepper. And believe me when I tell you, I can eat spicy food with the best of them. Like most things that I enjoy doing, I push the limit, I binge, I take it to the extreme. I can down a colonblowing vindaloo like I was born in madras and put out the fire with a half bottle of bourbon. So trust me: this hotdog was fucking spicy. Tears of joy ran down my face as a magnificent symphony of relish, pig lips and spicy peppers danced the lambada on my taste buds. I was in drunk munch heaven. The gentleman behind the counter laughed heartily as he saw me attack his pepper laden concoction, and there was much laughing in that small hotdog shop. I gave him a good tip, daps, flashed the peace sign, and I was out into the night.

Naturally, I needed to piss. It being near 4 A.M. on the L.E.S., I took no shame in producing and pulling a stray dog (read: pissing on a firehydrant while swaying back and forth, oblivious to the world, marveling at the uncanny resemblance in odor between your own urine and the High Life). My work done, I went on my way, walking (read: staggering) toward the subway.

Then, suddenly, deeply, shockingly, profoundly, the same sort of realization a 17 year old boy has at the "holy shit I am about to get laid for the first time" moment, the identical sensation a man has when he is caught pouring water into a mailbox to extinguish the cigarette he accidentally threw in there in a botched attempt to mail a power bill and a cop's hand comes down on his shoulder and you look, pleadingly, into his eyes, and say "let me explain," it hit me like Mike Tyson at a traffic stop: Holy shit my dick is on fire.

I panicked. I had no idea what to do. When one is drunk, one thinks with one's dick, this being doubly true in my case, and all my dick was thinking is "get ye to a source of water, for I am in unbearable pain." I had never had hotsauce on the brain before, so I ran down my options:

1. Grind dick onto nearest available surface, in the hopes that this godawful pepper seed oil will be removed. ... Bad idea.
2. Go home. Go home. Just... go home. Done. Done and Done.

You must realize, reader, that "Going home" is the drunk's response for a plethora of situations. "Friends in a fight?" "Going home." "This chick is actually quite ugly?" "Going home." "Apartment's on fire?" "Going home." "I have just been knifed several times by a large man named 'Mosquito' and he seems to want my money." "Going home."

So. I made that decision. I immediately dashed to the nearest subway and leapt halfway down the staircase before I realized "there is no way in sweet fuck I am standing on this goddamn platform for half an hour," so I ran back up the stairs and hailed a cab.

"Where to buddy?"
"Head to the Brooklyn Bridge RIGHT NOW AND I WILL TELL YOU THE REST ON THE WAY."

Cold sweat was pouring down my face and I was shivering as I instructed the driver on my exact address. All I could do was to assume the identity of my power animal, the marmoset, and enter my cave, in attempt to stem the pain.

Finally I reach home. I throw a wad of bills at the driver and sprint inside, past the security guards, get my elevator, head upstairs, kick the door in to my apartment, tear my pants off, run directly to the bathroom, and thrust my penis into the cool soothing tap water and begin to scrub vigorously with my volcanic pumice soap. Relief was finally mine. I do not recall peeing in my sink, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.

When telling this story to a friend the next day I got my newest nickname:
"Spicydick."