Life from the Male Perspective 2: The Second CummingSubmitted by AllyJeans at 2018-11-30 08:53:09 EST
Rating: 1.55 on 18 ratings (22 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Years and years ago I did this social experiment where I pretended to be a man for a day. There were ups, there were downs, there were many moments where I engaged in what some people would call "blatant acts of sexual harassment." More often than not it was with people who knew me and I felt safe to explore those male feelings and urges...but this is 2018. Could I be the same man I was back then? Probably not. But it's not just political correctness. Men have changed and so should I. My current understanding of male dynamics will influence me as I try to once again explore what it means to be male. What follows is my diary detailing the events of a single day as a male in his late 30s.
The alarm goes off. I tilt my head and flick at the hot dog dick I fashioned before bed. It is soft and recumbent, lying on my leg like a weary traveler. Morning wood feels like a distant memory...something other men have, not me.
I shake and twirl the hot dog for 15 minutes. Nothing. No response. You ever watch a porn where the dude just can't get all the way hard and uses his hand to shove it in the vagina like he is trying to get pizza dough back in the tube? I'm that guy right now. Fuckin' shit.
Just got dressed. I'm older now, so I decide to go for a Lands' End fleece, cargo shorts, and boat shoes. I need a hat to cover my hair, so I tuck it into a fedora. I also add a mustache because it's Movember and I can't let the brotherhood down.
In line at Starbucks. I stare at my phone and shake my head a lot while I wait. I'm impatient, obviously, but being a white man in 2018 means letting everyone know how impatient you are and how much whatever you're looking at on your phone bothers you.
"Fuckin soy beans!"
Everyone ignores me.
I elbow the guy next to me. "Do you invest?"
I glance down. "Ugh. Down 2 and a quarter!"
I decide I didn't really want to talk to that guy anyway so I pretend he's not there. I make it to the front of the line.
"I want an iced coffee," I say, "but I don't want the stuff in the cold pot. I want fresh-brewed."
"Ugh, but...sir?" (The mustache was a great idea) "You see...it will melt the ice and..."
"Don't play any games. I know how it all works. I'll take it as ordered and I want a sausage McMuffin."
"Never mind I have to do stock things!"
I storm out, opening both doors in dramatic fashion.
I'm at work. Got some odd looks walking in, but that is to be expected. When you're an alpha like me everyone takes notice. Especially the betas. Speaking of which...
Hitchcock is standing in front of me holding a coffee cup in both hands. He's just looking at me with this blank expression. I smile, confident that I nailed the look. Seconds go by.
"Hi, Ally." He pulls a hand off the cup and gestures up and down, "This again?"
"What do you mean, Hitchcock?"
"Is this going to be another story for that website...Goober something?"
I ignore him. "My dick won't get hard."
I pat my loose cargo shorts, momentarily bringing the outline of the hot dog into relief.
"What happened to the banana?"
"That's what I keep asking myself. I guess you can't be 25 forever, eh?"
"Yeah..sure." He makes to pass by me, I block him.
"Where are you going? I need help with my dick."
He looks side to side, probably for witnesses or someone from HR.
"Ally," he whispers, "I'm not going to talk to you about how to get a hot dog erect."
I pause and think over his words. "You're right. If I can't figure out to nut on my own, I don't deserve to be a man."
I walk away. I can feel him watching me, wishing he was me. Clearly testosterone wasn't my problem.
I do some work and try not to think about my dilemma, but it isn't long before I'm looking at E.D. ads on my desktop. One has a guy on the couch snuggling with his wife. Another features a couple rollerblading. I give up. I;m not 60 and trying to romance some broad in a bathtub. I am 38 and looking to jerk it.
I go on twitter for a little while to tell people how wrong they are about whatever they are talking about.
"If you really were an engineer you'd know how often people bang in submarines."
"Actually, dogs can look up, but only if they look down for 2-3 hours before they attempt it."
"Left-handed people can't become barbers."
Susan and Hitchcock are sitting together in the breakroom, being all beta together. I sigh and get my lunch bag out of the fridge and sit opposite. They stop talking. Apparently they had been talking about me.
"Ally, you look wonderful," Susan says.
I wink and take a bite of my sandwich, then I absently feel my crotch to make sure the hot dog hasn't slipped out.
It sounds sarcastic. Is she trying to flirt or start a fight. I can't tell with women sometimes. Fuckin shit.
"Nothing." I chew thoughtfully. "Is someone doing your taxes this year or are you doing them yourself."
"Myself, I guess."
"Turbo Tax is bullshit." I say. "I don't trust them. $60 bucks for whatever software version you buy and there are no guarantees."
I cough on my sandwich. Fucker is trying to "actually" me? ME?!
"Shut up, Hitchcock. What do you know about taxes?" I drop my sandwich on the table. "You probably don't even have a portfolio."
I put my hand on Susan's "If you ever want to see my portfolio, I can arrange it."
Susan laughs and Hitchcock gets this weird look on his face. He married Susan 3 years ago and he's been all extra about it. Waves his ring around. Brings the baby in like that proves anything.
I lean in, "Susan, I've been having this problem..."
"Nope." Hitchcock laughs awkwardly. "No one wants to hear about the hot dog."
"I already heard about the hot dog," Susan says, "Can I see it?"
I look at Hitchcock. "That was personal, man. That was serious bro stuff and now Susan probably thinks I'll never go to pound town ever again."
"You were just about tell her about it."
"Some friend." I pick up the remainder of my sandwich and toss it in the trash. I toss the bag on the counter halfheartedly, like a man, exposed. I felt naked.
I made to leave and then took a step back "But seriously, Susan, if you ever want to lend a hand I'll be glad to show you..."
Work is done. I pack up a report I have to finish at home and walk out, dejected. My whole look is falling apart: My mustache is dangling and threatening to fall off. The ace bandage on my chest is growing more uncomfortable with each succeeding minute. And I'm pretty sure my dick has a tear in it. I bumped against a desk after lunch and it just feels wrong...more wrong, anyway. Still, I have man plans tonight and I can't give up on them now.
I change into something more bar appropriate. Got some nice slacks. Taped my dick. Kept the fleece, but I loosen the bandage to give me more of a peck situation. I swapped the fedora for a Nike hat and put more glue under my mustache. For cologne I use some Brut. I feel fucking classy as balls.
The bartender cards me. This is outrageous. I am a mature beefcake. I shake my head and hand him my I.D. He looks at it. Looks at me. Looks at it. Looks back at me.
"I used to shave back then." I wink, conspiratorially and point at my lip. "It was before I found out how much pussy this baby reels in." The bartender makes a face not dissimilar to Hitchcock's and then hands me back the I.D. "What can I get ya?" he asks.
"Some kind of micro brew. Something that has a weird fruit flavor in it like kiwi or huckleberry."
A moment later he brings me a hoppy beer that tastes like ass. I smile.
I take sips and watch the basketball game on the tv above the bar. I can't make out the score and the sound is off, but I throw up my arms during all the right moments, because when I'm not drinking or getting angry at things on my phone, I'm watching basketball games.
I do a dick check. Still there.
A woman walks in and sits at the end of the bar. I give her the up and down with my eyes and smile. She smiles back, bemused. After she orders, I flag the bartender and tell him to put it on my tab. I got all the moves. He does so and let's her know. Another uneasy smile.
I decide enough waiting. I grab my beer and walk over to sit next to her. First though, I stand with my foot on one of the rungs of the stool, displaying my alphaness as only I or Captain Morgan could. I smile with slightly parted lips, a hint of the teeth. It's a look that says "I don't bite...unless you want me to."
"Can I join you?" I ask.
"Thank you." I sit and offer an outstretched hand. "I'm Ally."
"Emily." We shake.
"Nice name, Emily. Isn't that Greek for emesis basin?"
"I really don't think so."
"Hmmm. I'm pretty sure..." I give her a side glance and take a sip of my beer.
"Your eyes are amazing," I say.
"Thank you, but..."
"Yeah, they totally make up for your otherwise bland features."
"Yeah, I..." She pauses. "Are you negging me?"
"Negging? What's that?"
"Ok, this is too weird."
"If you want to get weird we can get weird," I say. "I know I guy that sells knock off weed called tree. It's pretty much the same as weed, but it makes you stand in place for a while."
"I don't want any three."
"Tree, and don't knock it. It's like this whole different thing. Instead of saying you're high you say 'I'm growing.' Speaking of which, I have this problem down below and I was wondering if..."
And like Susan before, Emily was dragged away, though this time by herself.
I come home just as miserable as when I left the office. On the bright side I am slightly drunk, so I don't I realize how miserable I could be otherwise. I drop my pants and look at my dangling dog. Lifeless. Electrical tape hiding its damage. No. I couldn't go out like this. I will not abide this failure!
I close my eyes and start helicoptering my dick.
"No," I say to no one. "Not like this."
My pelvis gets into a good rhythm and the dick spins like no real dick could...or should.
"Be hard. Be hard!" I command.
And it spins and spins, and I start to believe. In my mind's eye it is turning into a specimen like no other..like some two-foot monster out of "Tales from the Darkside" that would kill your parents if you didn't bone at least once a day.
But then I stop, winded. And I open my eyes. And it is as limp as ever.
I shrug, rip it off, and throw it in the freezer. Twenty minutes later I break it fapping against a table and go to bed, sated.
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