A brave new world

Well, I spoke too soon, as is often the case. Had sex for the first time yesterday evening. It couldn’t wait any longer, despite the soreness and apprehension. Couldn’t inflate to full glory, dick was beyond tender, internally battered and crying out for mercy, for blessed convalescence. I put the poor bastard to work, drafted him and sent him out to brave the trenches, the sweet meat trenches, if you will. He performed like the valorous warrior he was always meant to be, wounded but spirited, indomitable and dogged. Let me tell you gentleman, it was incredible. It was the first time I had ever done anything sexy with my dick that didn’t involve some kind of failure, awkward explanation, or sense of inadequacy filling me like heavy sand in a burlap bag. I was free. I killed it.

My girlfriend and I had sex for about thirty minutes, at which point I had to cum because the soreness was becoming incapacitating. So, in a sense, I am still dealing with limitations to position, speed, tempo, technique, and duration, but this will fade as I continue to heal. What I have to remember is that my progress has so far been uncommonly rapid, as historically most men are not ready for sex at all until the 6 week mark, and I am only 3 and a half weeks out. There are two primary reasons for my alacritous recovery: the skill of my surgeon and the youthful health of my body. And I have so much more to gain. Over time I will regain my original size, and probably increase my girth beyond what I had in the past. Everything will feel natural and unbreakably sturdy. Even now I have a weapon to be reckoned with. My girlfriend came several times, commented on the hardness and thickness of my rod between gasps for breath and moans of pleasure.

I’m feeling much more positive about everything today compared to yesterday. All of the imperfections I noticed then just don’t seem to matter when I’m able to crush pussy the way I can now at such an early stage of recovery. And those imperfections will most likely resolve themselves, and I’ll be totally reconciled to carrying around a big, iron bar that I can use to my and my partner’s hearts content. The dawn has broken, dispelling the long dark night of self hatred and insecurity.

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I’ve lost my mojo

You’re sitting sideways, back to the wall, ceramic cappuccino cup, scribbling faster and faster with every sip. If you’re the type to write of your surroundings, to translate your observations into poetry, then maybe you’re writing a line or two about me. Maybe you’re writing about how yet another man is making you uncomfortable with his glances, of how it’s impossible to simply exist in a public place without being an object of unwanted sexual and romantic interest. How you’ve dreamed of an alternate reality where you can practice your craft among likeminded people without the inhibiting, predatory presence of yet another presumptuous male who treats a coffee shops like a meat market night club. Or maybe you’re interested, at least a little bit, in the dark stranger with striking features whose eyes have, on a couple of occasions, met yours. When the sun crested the tree line horizon, and its rays pierced through the window and began to blind me, we shared a moment, and you smiled that perfunctory, closed mouth smile that strangers always smile, a few coins of recognition thrown into the upturned hat of a social beggar. It was the acknowledgment of a semi comical disruption by nature’s hand.

And it could have formed a bridge to conversation, but it didn’t. Maybe this was exactly what you wanted, and another tense, uninvited encounter was narrowly avoided. Or maybe you were hoping I’d speak up, and we could talk about our writing, our early morning coffee and scribbling routine. If your feelings tended towards the latter rather than the former, send me a message, and let’s get together and talk in place where the sun doesn’t fry my eyeballs.

Dreaming of better days

Frigid morning, cutting cold air. Sadness stemming from early inflation trials. I’m having major ups and downs with my new bionic dick. One minute I feel good about it, and the next I’m regretting my decision. It’s a lot of extra weight to carry in my pants, and while many men dream of having a heavy penis to lug around, I can tell you, so far, it’s not that cool. Now I am much more of what they call a ‘shower’, and my penis doesn’t retract much because of all the material. My pants are on the tighter side, and I had a tasteful bulge in the past, present if you’re looking for it, but not glaring or offensive. It is large enough now that I wonder if I should even be wearing my normal pants anymore, and it’s uncomfortable to stuff everything in a tight space. Maybe the days of stylish slim fit jeans and chinos are over, superseded by a new era of loose slacks, wide waisted relaxed fit wranglers, and musty, unwashed sweat pants.

My dick might be harder now, but my body is softer, atrophying from inactivity. I need to get back into working out, even though I hate the gym. My hard man tit pecs are receding, melting into my chest, my butt is flattening out, returning to its white boy roots, deltoids are deflating, abs are liquefying, stomach is distending, and strength levels are in a headlong free fall. Eventually no one will make ambiguously complimentary/insulting comments about my physique or dedication to fitness anymore. Gay men, those ravenous beasts, or rather honest up front individuals, won’t be hitting on me. Well, the distasteful bulge will still attract their attention, so never mind that one. Nevertheless, I’m feeling less like the me of the past 3 years and more like the me of my teens and early twenties, the ‘skinny hipster’ rather than the much more elusive buff hipster. This can be changed, but at the moment it’s a discouraging place to be.

I wrote earlier that I was happy with the erection that my implant supplies. That was then, and I am more disappointed with it now. It seems thin at the top of the shaft, above the circumcision line. It is a little shorter still, and my vanity is raging at the moment, comparing the current dimensions to my peaks of the past. Rationally I know that my best measurements in the old days were ideal, vanishing moments desperately preserved with a tape measurer or a picture. What I was capable of using was always shrinking from that ideal. It’s still difficult to emotionally accept, especially when you are a long practiced, highly skilled, sophisticated self torturer. The head of my penis, when pumped up, is a little, well, droopy. Since the rods of the implant don’t inflate at the tips, the rigidity of the shaft is in stark, sharp contrast with the head, or glans, of the penis, which just kind of sadly, dopily hangs out, like it’s a tacked on afterthought. The head of my penis is now like the moping introvert at the party; everyone’s having a wild time around him, but he just can’t get over himself and liven up.

And finally, I still can’t actually use this thing yet. When I pump it up, it feels like I’m going to explode. The soreness is just too severe, even for a relaxed beat off session. I would be happy if I could jack off comfortably, but so far it’s more like a grueling, grinding workout than anything you would commonly associate with pleasure, and the prospect of sex at this point fills me with fear. If I can barely touch my penis without feeling pain, I imagine that sex would feel like repeated stabbings, a full bore assault and battery session on my poor member. I guess I am just feeling the exhaustion of three and a half weeks of pain, discomfort, and limitation brought on by this procedure. I have to keep the end game in mind, and remember why I went through with this, why I felt it was necessary. I am told that I am still at a very early point in recovery in the ol grand scheme, and that in six months things will be very different. Even a month from now things should be much better. But dammit, I want it now.

Becoming machine

I started inflating my dick a couple of days ago. Progress is slow, and I need to be patient. Right now it hurts, my traumatized tissues are probably not ready for stretching and expansion. Still, I can’t resist trying it out. Operating the pump, which sits in an awkward position in the middle of my nutsack, requires a lot of hand strength at this point. I’ve been told this will become easier, and that the pump will rest more comfortably at the bottom beneath my balls once the swelling is gone. I still have swelling, and a bit of bruising along the right side of the shaft. Every time I think that the swelling is gone, I just realize how much swelling I had before. Who knows how long it will take for me to be back to a normal size and color. It feels as though my body is beginning to adapt to the device, and I am no longer aware of its presence in every move I make. Long walks would be wonderful right now, but I’m currently entombed in my shanty, sheltered from the snowstorm of the century.

I can’t reach full inflation with this thing, but what I can achieve is pretty wild. It sticks straight out from my body, at about 90 degrees. It is harder, much harder, than any erection I’ve ever had in my life. I can see now even more that I just didn’t function well before, that what I was shoving into women all my life was a doughy facsimile of a boner, a soft simulacra of a proper meat missile. Not anymore. Once the stinging soreness of early inflation goes away, I’ll be able to impale anyone and anything. The pressure I’ll be able to apply to the “walls” of pussy and clit will be tremendous. And most importantly, the pressure to keep this erection, to find just the right position, just the right tempo, just the right supplemental scenario playing in my head, will be eliminated. The freedom to explore and enjoy another person’s body will finally be mine. The sight of a hard one that stands straight out, hands free, anxiety free, has already filled my heart with a joy I’ve never known, and I haven’t even been able to use it yet.

Men sometimes fret about losing size when undergoing implantation. So far, I’m maybe three quarters of an inch shorter, and about half an inch thinner. But I actually had a very large penis before, and I’m not saying this to sound cool. I’ve written extensively about how badly I functioned, how my entire life revolved around this inadequacy, so I have nothing to hide, no reason to falsely represent myself. The one thing that I always liked about my penis in the past was it’s large size, especially the thickness. My attitude now is that, even if I ended up losing a little, if I stayed the size I am right now, I would still be extremely happy. It’s still an above average dick, and most importantly, it gets rigid and stays that way for as long as I want. Well, it’s too sore right now, but that’s what I will have soon enough. And that, to me, at this point, is worth a lot more than a little extra size. With that being said, it is very likely that I will regain what I lost as I use the device, and my tissues stretch out and adapt. I cannot become longer than my original length, but one silver lining of this procedure is that I can actually gain girth. The cylinders can expand beyond any normal human dimensions, so they can, over time, stretch the tissues out circumferentially past my old natural limit.

If I can gain girth over what I used to have, I’ll be approaching very uncommon proportions, and that prospect, in the basement of my vain brain, is extremely appealing. But also unnecessary, and I’ll be happy either way. You guys who have never struggled with erectile dysfunction are blessed. I do not resent your health, and I am grateful I live in a time where I don’t have to suffer in silence without hope of a cure. Nevertheless, it is still difficult for me, even now, to stem the tide of self pity I could feel for having to go to these extreme lengths to recover a natural function. Surgery is a brutal affair, and the best life I can imagine has no place for such violent invasions of the body. Even more so is this the case with the penis, the most sensitive and symbolically freighted part of a man’s body. I would have loved to have never needed to do this, but then again, as it is often said, I probably wouldn’t have appreciated it anyway.

Every time you wake up in the morning, and your dick is hard and throbbing because nature is working the way it is supposed to, cherish it, think of your poor bonerless brothers, and thank the fictional entity that rules over the skies(of your choosing, of course) that you are not like them.

 

Let’s talk about it

When two people of opposing ideologies argue, they generally confront each other directly. Convinced of their own superior intelligence and prudence, armed with facts and arguments of dubious merit, each side batters the other in an effort to humiliate and silence. The problem with this style of confrontation is that it tends to strengthen the animosity and condescension each person has for the other. These arguments go back and forth, with studies, numbers, and reasons piling up alongside slander and amateur psychologizing. Everyone becomes increasingly bitter and hostile, and these exchanges usually end, not with greater understanding, or at least an openness to more thinking, but rather in mutual contempt. Where everyone would benefit from being a little more flexible in their own thoughts, the vitriolic form of argument tightens the vice grip of fixed ideas on the mind.

Even if we are concerned only with making the other person look stupid, there is another way, a subterranean path to heaping shame upon the foolish. Instead of assuming the direct counter position, and attacking the other person, aggressively, confidently, we should ask them seemingly sympathetic questions. The purpose of this is to gently coax the other person into revealing their own lack of understanding, the essential inconsistency or absurdity of their beliefs. I work on the assumption that most people are not consistent, rigorous thinkers, and as long as they have clearly drawn enemies, they will never question themselves and seek to broaden their thinking. As long as they are attacking and defending, they will never experience the vertigo of serious self doubt and skepticism. Now, let me also add here that most people simply are not, and never will be, made of the right stuff for serious questioning, a genuine examined life, if you will.

The art of turning a person against their own camp requires a delicate, congenial approach, a mode of questioning that defuses tension and placates anxieties. It is a kind of seduction, convincing the other person that it is they who have discovered their weaknesses and blind spots. In the same way that you want the girl to think that she is directing the show, that it was her idea all along to sleep with you, the other person in a conversation should be made to feel that they are uncovering something through their own sagacity and open mindedness. This can only be achieved if you don’t rush, attack directly, or lay your own cards on the table. Do not align yourself with a specific belief system, do not speak for a capital letter truth. Adopt the position of the naive child, the almost dumb skeptic, ¬†and ask deceptively simple questions that actually get the other person to ask questions of themselves.

Approaching argument in this way should be, in theory, especially effective with the more academically minded. That type likes to get very complicated right away, and the best way to undermine them, to twist them in knots, is to take the debate down several notches, and ask questions that they have never taken the time to explore, because, with excessive pride in their intellects, they have leaped ahead to more scholastic, abstruse problems. It is then easy to expose their shaky foundations, their preference for intellectual decoration over solid concepts. In days past when I pretended to be an academic, I sat through turgid discussions and conferences that used highly specialized terminology, I watched people contort themselves into grotesque shapes trying to resolve totally contrived problems, and I thought all the while that certain, simple questions would have ground everything to a halt, and forced people to reconsider their spurious efforts.

One other thing: I would strongly encourage everyone to make themselves comfortable with being wrong. It seems to me that we make much bigger asses of ourselves by refusing even the possibility that we might be wrong. I don’t think a person is stupid for making a mistake in their reasoning, but they all too easily become stupid attempting to defend their errors when decency would otherwise compel them to just back down a bit. It is rather a strange attitude when you think of it, that people are so averse to accepting their own shortcomings. When you become aware of your limitations, you are granted an opportunity to become better, to correct your errors and grow as a thinker. We should actually look forward to being wrong, it should strengthen our resolve to keep thinking, to keep questioning and exercising our minds.

The weather outside

Trudging through the deep darkness of post op depression. The biggest snowstorm in 5 years, my monstrously sore groin, loneliness. Waxy lamp light, macbook on a thrift store poker table, strong coffee. I’m lodged between the novelty of the procedure and the benefits of effortless erections. Still feeling abnormal and constrained, can’t work out or get laid. Can’t even rub one out. Jacking off was the ultimate escape, a window into a world of freedom, a soothing pastime, one of life’s great consolations. A big deal is made of porn and its corrosive effect on relationships. I never found it as compelling as my own imagination, and it’s not because my powers of visualization are preternatural. I prefer to fantasize about women I know or have seen before, exes and acquaintances, women on the train, walking down the street, drinking coffee in my shop. If you’ve had coffee and a croissant where I work, I’ve thought about fucking you. It doesn’t matter if you’re not attractive, you still have a place in the dumpster of my heart.

The term spank bank was always apropos. I have Swiss accounts of masturbation material, and now I need to focus on something else. The trouble is that there is nothing else. Well, I suppose there’s family, work, and charity, but none of those ever really appealed to me. My family is entirely decent, but they are far away, and I have no intention of starting my own in this blighted land. Work is pure tedium, and I never had the industry or will to find or create a calling that could fill my days with vigor and purpose. Charity, well, I never had money to give, but I could give my time. Maybe it would give me some much needed perspective. It remains an option. The most disappointing revelation is that I’m just not as much of a cerebral soul as I thought. I should be reading more, I should be writing more. The time I have now that I can’t pursue sex is getting filled with….frustrated thoughts about not having sex. Aimless article skimming, youtube demagoguery, an occasional dip into the deep waters of Plato’s Republic.

I can’t move out of my girlfriend’s house because I can’t afford to live in D.C. by myself. Even a room in a shared house is too much. I don’t understand how 23 year olds afford 1600 a month rooms. What happened to me? Where did I go wrong exactly? And why couldn’t I have just paid attention in school? If I want to leave, I’ll have to go back home, live with my parents for awhile, and try to get my old job back, making sandwiches at a co op grocery store deli. Go back to hitting on college kids as I limp into my thirties with my bionic penis. Pay off the debts I’ve accrued from medical expenses. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I could reconnect with several good friends. Get back into writing and playing music, become passionate again. I remember the days of intense practice, of the burning desire to master difficult pieces. Late nights and raw finger tips, scores laid out on the desk, scribbling notes on hand position in the margins. Working through confusion and despair, the triumph of overcoming the unknown. Maybe this could be my life again.

 

Using a finely ground lens

If I fancied myself a sophisticated frenchman, I might be heard remarking something along these lines: In every orgasm there is something missing, the peak is not quite high enough. It is a problem of time; we never directly coincide with the ecstasy and become one with it. Some slimy residue of the self always sticks, lags behind and taints the enjoyment. Total immersion into orgasmic bliss is a failure, it is not an escape -but we will repeat its failure, time and again with every act of compulsive copulation.

This was a strain

Too much caffeine too early. Mind moving too fast, fingers shaking, anxiety rising. It’s early morning again, that two hour window of serenity that makes life worth living. I look forward to being awake earlier than other people, when it’s just me, my mug of coffee, and my computer. A little reading, a little writing, and some contemplation are all I need to feel content. From there things go downhill. What follows my electronic monkish morning is boredom, apathy, indolence, resentment, and licentiousness. I am still probably about a week away from using my new technologically assisted dick, and my lust is baying like a hound on the hunt. Even with my dysfunction, I never had to go this long without cumming. I could always at least find relief, even if I couldn’t get fully hard. I can feel the pressure building up within, the sensitivity returning, the insistent yearning for that electrifying, ecstatic release.

Internal standards sink lower and lower. My eyes linger on women I wouldn’t have noticed in the past. My imagination swiftly conjures up the scene of our sweaty, awkward rutting. The jiggling cellulite and rumbling ass flesh, the stretch marks and razor burn, skin too pale, skin too dark, droopy tits, no tits, bad teeth, huge forehead, sloppy cunt, ¬†unnatural commentary amalgamated from years of distracted porn viewing; any detail that might have given me pause is now powerless to prevent my rabid fantasizing. Old, young(still legal, though), fat, thin, all grist for the jizz mill. If I could activate my dick right now, I’d stick it in just about anything. At least I can wear normal pants again, as the swelling has gone down considerably. I know I’m not far off from a life I’ve only so far glimpsed in dreams. How sweet it will be, to never again have that anxiety overtake me as I am invited back to a woman’s house, to know that I will not be thwarted by my biology. In the mean time I’ll continue to dwell in the depravity of my imagination, a lawless land of monstrous copulation.

 

Do we get recliners in Plato’s cave?

My time off while I recovered was supposed to be productive. I had visions of industrious engagement with the great books of the Western Canon. It was finally time to set aside the petty thoughts and electronic distractions and get to work. The inertia of recovery made me even more distractible, intellectually flighty, and self absorbed. I flitted from video to video, article to article, Facebook post to twitter feed, riding a wave of inattention and avoidance. What happened to my concentration? Like an elastic band stretched too far too many times, my attention span went slack. Even youtube videos move too slowly, and I find myself reading Facebook posts and instagram captions while dimwits hurl their precious invectives at the enemy ists and isms. None of it is really captivating, fascinating, or absorbing. I’m paying so little attention to any of it but I still need it to be on, I need the useless tirades, the boiler plate haranguing, the spittle, the head shaking, the talking over, the talking down, the contrived debates where the contempt each participant has for the other oozes out of the screen.

Why would anyone want to argue with a person that fundamentally disagrees with them? I’ve never understood this. Is it the possibility of humiliating someone? Of catching them in contradictions, and exposing their hypocrisy to the world? Do we not understand that the tools we use to undermine our enemies can easily be turned on ourselves? I think that’s why people become so focused on the weaknesses of their opponents, real or imagined. If it weren’t for the evil feminists, or the leftists, or the conservatives, men’s rights activists, communists, libertarians, marxists, oligarchs, big pharma, big business, anarchists, criminals, black lives matter, all lives matters, I hate cops, I respect and defend cops, free markets, controlled markets, the federal reserve, islamophobes, transphobes, brown muslim terrorists, white christian terrorists, the NRA, the NAACP, the NSA, the UN, structural inequality, systemic racism, globing warming, global warming hoaxes, Donald Trump, and that guy that cut you off in traffic, we’d realize how hollow we are, and that our own thoughts and desires are self defeating.

Not only do large groups fight with each other, they also fight with themselves. Scholastic, hairsplitting, nut twisting disputes erupt over terminology and semantics, over definitions, history and legacy. No, that’s social democracy, communism is…. We’ve never had true fill in the blank, we have a mixed blah blah blah. I agree with original intent and aim of generic movement a, but the fourth wave, red guard mutation is a betrayal of yada yada. Then you have the fallacy mongers, the dorks that just finished reading an introductory logic book and fancy themselves indisputable masters of argument. Well actually that’s a reducto ad absurdum, ad hominem, straw man, begging the question, circular reasoning, genetic fallacy. What about the fallacy accusation fallacy, where you commit the egregious error of thinking your fly by night grasp of latin and logic gives you even a semblance of clout? Whenever someone mentions a fallacy I always imagine their underwear getting yanked up over their head, or I hear the sound of an inhaler.

I’m not sure if enough people are aware that Socrates was a huge dickhead. What did he really do? He would speculate on the transcendent conditions of human life, and encourage people to seek the good. Well enough. But how did he go about that? The greater part of his life was spent making people look like jackasses using disingenuous argumentation. Just read any dialogue where he gets into it with a sophist or friend of a friend. He takes a common sense position, which is totally adequate for the purpose of social cohesion and practical action, and through a process of vicious abstraction and ironic questioning, turns it into a baffling mystery, a piece of nonsense no sensible person could any longer accept. Once a reasonable, everyday assumption has been unraveled, he offers, well, not much beyond vague aspirations and clumsy, inelegant myths. Sounds pretty goddamn familiar.