Life from the Male PerspectiveSubmitted by AllyJeans at 2005-12-01 08:26:30 EST
Rating: 1.69 on 177 ratings (177 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Ok, I was a dude yesterday. I let my pit hair grow, I watched “Pumping Iron,” and I said “fuckin’ shit” about 447 times. Uh oh. My cock iches.
“Oh man, that’s the shit right there…the FUCKIN’ shit.”
When I got the idea to write this post I thought I wouldn’t have any trouble with it. I have lots of male friends, I play basketball with them and occasionally hunt large packs for sport. In fact, I have large jars full of collected masculinity, severed and stored in formaldehyde, with each specimen facing due north to placate my needs for a feng shui environment. Still, with all that going for me, I had no clue what to write. Then I had a flash of inspiration. I had to become a man. I had to experience the world as men do. So, I left my razor in its pink wall mounting, didn’t wash my hair, and began cursing. Here’s a record of my day.
I crawled out of bed and started drinking a beer. It was brewed cold in Colorado and shipped cold to ensure maximum freshness. Unfortunately, because of my massive penis, I had drunk half of it the night before and left the rest on my dresser. By then it was flat and tasted like a fart given substance. Who cares though? All real men need a little of the hair of the dog that bit them—even if it tastes like warm goat sweat.
I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that said, “Tacos taste better on the rag.” I completed my look with a ripe banana down my pants and a hat to cover up my hair. I couldn’t really think of the perfect male-defining head gear, since trucker hats are all over the place and pimp hats our out of fashion, so I got the next best thing and pulled on an old, beat up “Ball U” hat. The brim was razored to perfection.
7:30 AM I waked into a local Starbucks and stood wobbling back and forth. I turned to the guy behind me—a middle-aged man in a polo shirt
“Fuck man, what a night.”
“Dude, I drank my ass off. I was pissin’ for 10 minutes this morning.”
I slapped his shoulder.
“God, it’s a miracle I didn’t piss myself.”
“Miss, your next”
It was the guy at the counter.
“Miss.” I grabbed my crotch.” I ain’t no miss. This is a penis!”
He scrunched his nose. “Sorry. Can I take your order?”
I shook my head and spit on the floor. “Yeah. I’ll have a large black coffee and a Sausage Mcmuffin.”
“We don’t have those.”
“WELL, Aren’t you totally worthless?”
“We do have bagels…maybe you would like a biscotti?”
“Listen Chuck, I have a wicked hangover and I don’t want no biscotti. I want a large coffee and a fucking sausage Mcmuffin.”
“We don’t have Mcmuffins; they sell those at McDonalds.”
“Fuck this. “ I turned around and grabbed Mr. polo shirt. “Come on dude. Fuck them.”
He pulled free. “What are you doing? I don’t know you.”
“Whatever…. Fuckin’ shit.”
I walked into work. The first person to see me was Hitchcock. His real name is Alfred, but I torture him by using a nickname he must have heard since he was seven.
“Ally, you’re early today?”
“Yeah, Hitchcock. Starbucks was out of fucking Mcmuffins.”
He scrunched his nose the same way the clerk had and looked me over.
“What’s that?” He pointed down at my thigh.
“Sure you are. I bet you want to touch it.”
“I don’t even know what ‘it’ is.”
“Whatever.” I changed gears. “Did you see the game last night? The B’s need some help on defense.”
He was still glancing at my meat. “Uh, no, I called it an early night and turned in at eight.”
“What kind of a man are you?”
“The tired kind, I guess.”
I walked over and slapped his shoulder. “I know. You were exhausted from drinking and nailing a ton of broads—way to go.”
“Are you OK, Ally?”
“I’m fine, Hitchock.”
“Well, I got to go and…ah…later.”
I did a Sammy Sosa chest thump and finished it with the peace sign. He shook his head and left.
Boring day as usual. Thanks to the uptight boss, I couldn’t hit the net and find porn. How is a guy supposed to make it through the day without seeing some titties and busting his nut under the Formica? I have a newfound respect for my male co-workers. I mean, I couldn’t stop feeling the banana through my jeans. I felt so massive and powerful. If I really had a penis, I’d walk around all day long with my hand down my pants grunting periodically.
I looked up from a report to see Sue staring at me. “Ally?”
“Alfred told me you had a new look and a…” She looked south. “…what the fuck is that?”
I massaged the banana through the fabric. “Just a buddy looking for a friend. Do you want to be his friend, Sue?”
“Oh Sue, I prefer to call him Mohammad. He can bring life to the desert. Want me to fill that well?”
She laughed. “Whatever you are on, I’d like some.”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out some Tag body spray. I hit my pits and my crotch. Then I winked.
She laughed again. “Well, I got to get back to work. Don’t forget to tell me what this is about when you get your head fixed.”
“Oh Sue, I hate to see you go. Tut, tut, tut.” I looked her over. “All those curves and no brakes.”
She snorted and coughed all the way to the other side of the office.
Hunger hit my like a Mack Truck. Normally my appetite is enormous, but with my newfound masculinity, it seemed more so (my hacky sack scrotum apparently sucked the energy out of body). I went to the break room and took out my lunch. It was two pieces of Wonder bread wrapped around three different kinds of meat…and a pickle the size of my forearm. I ate the pickle first, taking largely manly bites without chewing. I almost choked twice, but my testosterone enriched neck muscles merely laughed at the inconvenience, putting a shoulder to the load and heaving it on its way.
While I downed some Mountain dew to finish the job, Hitchcock walked in.
“Hold it there, Hitchcock. What do you think of my sandwich?”
He was stammering. “It’s fine.”
“How about my beverage? The Dew. is a natural spermicide. I can bang all the ladies I want with no repercussions.”
“You saying I’ll make babies?”
I took another swig. “The hell I will. Fuckin’ shit.”
He got a grip on himself. “The Mountain Dew thing is a myth—besides, it supposedly only works on…”
“Spit it out Hitchcock.
“Nevermind …what’s with those bitches and their yeast infections?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I dropped my sandwich. “You’ve never run into one? Jesus, man, count yourself lucky. The last time I made it with a yeasty, food didn’t taste right for a week. It was like bobbing for apples in a tub of vinegar oatmeal.
“I got to go.”
“Yeah…get back to work. You’re putting me off my sandwich.”
He wanted to say something, but decided better of it.
I punched out. Nothing beats the feeling of being free from the daily grind. When you’re a guy all you want to do is get home so you can drink a beer, take a shower, and masturbate for an hour.
I was really up for my hour long masturbation session, but my banana squished after five minutes of “pimpmypoon.com.” No big loss. I wanted to save my energy for the nighttime fun.
I ruined another banana. This time I was smacking it against the desk pretending it was some broad’s forehead. When the fire is lit, you don’t know where it will take you. Guys can’t be constrained by barriers.
Time for some clubbin.’ I needed better clothes if I was going to seduce a honey, so I wrapped myself in an ace bandage, put on a wifebeater, and slid into a nice silk shirt. Then I grabbed some carpenter pants I borrowed from a friend, added the banana, and pulled on a slick looking skullcap. For a cherry on top, I threw on half a bottle of Old Spice. Perfection. I was so bangable, I could make a nun wet.
I drove to the bar. For inspiration, I listed to some Tom Jones. He has a big penis too, and he certainly knows what to do with it. After three or four “ooga chackas” I was so ready to penetrate—even if it wasn’t physically possible.
I sat next to a nice brunette with a short, pink skirt and a glittery blouse. I leaned over to her ear. “Hey beautiful.”
She turns and backs away. “Hi.”
I lick my tongue around my mouth. “Mmm, you look tasty.”
“Uh, sorry, but I’m not that way.”
I ignored her. “I got an apartment not far from here. Ever seen a three-foot sculpture of a fish? I got one.”
“Listen, I like guys.”
“Ohh, you’re into more than one. Well, well. I got a friend named ‘T’…”
“T is a guy, don’t worry. It stands for Tino. He learned this shit in Mexico that isn’t legal in 36 states.
She got up and left. I looked over at the guy next to her who had been eavesdropping.
“Her loss, huh?”
“What’s with that look?”
“Hey, just because I invite Tino doesn’t mean I’m gay. We pick ends at the beginning and never come close to touching.
He got up and left.
Unfortunately, the rest of my evening was like that. Picking up a chick is tough work. Sure, a couple of broads gave me a glance, but they looked more manly than me. I got standards. Without standards, you end up like any Joe blow with a diseased banana and an alimony check. Fuck that.
9:30 P.M. I went home with my tail between my legs. I wonder how often men go through this. Especially men as built as me. A woman’s vagina ain’t no palace of diamonds. It’s about time they start letting the gates open for tourists.
I grabbed a beer and put my feet up on the coffee table.
12:00 A.M. I woke up with my face on the keyboard, a nude woman on my screen, and my banana crusting in my hand. The experiment is over. I had become a man.