I attempted to take some pictures of my penis this evening.
Oh, don't be so shocked. Of course I did. It's not the first time over. No, I'm not a narcissistic, arrogant egomaniac. I don't even think my cock is that pretty. It's just something I did to see if I could do so. And this time, I took some pictures for a purpose. Just after orgasm. Okay, well, not just after orgasm. It was a big orgasm. Just after post-orgasm recovery period. I also used my left hand because my right hand didn't want to leave my cock.
It's been a difficult day. One of those days.
So I took the snaps with my faithful, recovered BlackBerry - I have a new camera now, but it has yet to make it out of the box - and appraised them, because I'm that sort of crazy person.
I was thankful that my penis doesn't look odd, even in pixellated form. There's no huge, purple, bulbous head. There's no obvious blue veiny streakiness. There's nothing there that looks as if it shouldn't be there. And it doesn't even look like the Gherkin. But I was dismayed.
My brain spiralled into memories of seeing cock pics online. Pictures of cocks associated themselves to brash, overconfident men. Guys who use pictures of the giant tips of their cocks as user icons. Men who think that if they post pictures of their cocks on Yahoo! groups, girls will automatically want to do them. And worst of all, men who will take pictures of their penes from Batman angles, above or below, in order to make them look far too big, and who will send them randomly around IRC networks. I've seen 'em all. And none of them have been pretty.
With this in mind, upon wang picture appraisal, they were really not the most appetising of pictures. I'd been aiming to catch certain things in the pictures, and I had. But I got my stomach fat in there too. Something just above the accepted amount of body hair. And a terrible angle which made my cock look exactly like one of those web-based arseholes' pictures of their own. I didn't even recognise it as my own after a few seconds, and don't you think I would have gotten used to the sight of it by now?
And so I got up from my bed convinced that my penis was an ugly beast. As I went to get a drink of water, my computer still whining and groaning from its as-yet-unfixed problem of mystery, I felt vaguely uncomfortable and a little disconcerted about the whole affair.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
See her run! Run, ILB, run!
"This train is ready to depart," whispered the voice in my ear, "so any persons on board who are not passengers please return to the platform. Thank you."
I ignored the warning and carried on with the kiss.
After giving her my assurances that I would miss her and affirming that she did, indeed, think it was a good idea if we saw each other again, I leaned back, although not stepping back onto the platform yet.
"I told you you'd make it," I said, a little more confidently than I felt. I hadn't been at all confident we'd make it, but at least I know enough about King's Cross to be certain that, if you have a train to catch from the mainline station, make it to the Underground concourse with five minutes to spare - three if you're quick - and you'll get there. We got there. Problem solved. Both my feet and hers ached, and I was fighting myself not to clutch the stitch in my side and expose myself as a fraudulent athlete. She was still breathing heavily and looked slightly flustered, but she was on the train, and that's what mattered.
It's not my fault. Okay, well, it is my fault. Everything had gone particularly well - the sun had been out this time; we'd had the picnic we promised ourselves followed by a nice walk through the park. Yes, it had been hot, but nevertheless, it was pretty nice. Yes, of course, there was kissing, and there was groping, and I did get a manly holler of, "go on, my son!" when she lay on top of me, ostensibly to demonstrate how long her hair was... but mostly to carry on kissing me as I reclined. And possibly to feel my erection too, although that was probably just a pleasant side-effect. At least, I thought it was pleasant. Presumably the hollering man thought it must have been too. We got a bit lost, doubled back and found a Tube station that took us to the Natural History Museum. We looked at some dinosaurs, but decided that £10 was far too pricey for more dinosaurs, and headed for the shop, where she bought a Diplodocus. We then headed for another shop, in which she bought a Baryonyx. And she, I and the two dinosaurs headed outside, where we lay on the grass.
This is when my brain switched from "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, loves to kiss, hooray I hit the jackpot!" mode to "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, stroking my hair, this is so relaxing, aaaaaaah unwinding" mode, and I almost slipped away. Almost. I certainly relaxed. I didn't even realise I was that wrought. I guess problems with one's PC, running a barbecue that wasn't even your idea, not having a job and having to tidy an entire house by yourself in about an hour and a half do take their combined toll. It only took a couple of dinosaurs, a Kinder Bueno and a simple hair stroke to sort out. Life is simple sometimes.
Unfortunately, during this haze of relaxation (and all that came with it; refer back to paragraph 2 for an idea of what it involved - now add more kisses), about an hour dropped out of the universe and went missing somewhere, and the resultant warp in the space-time continuum contributed to what ended up as a mad dash from Kensington to Camden, with about as much madcap slapstick as a trip on the Piccadilly Line could conjure up.
But we made it in the end.
And, as I'm sure you'll have guessed, it was worth it, no question.
I ignored the warning and carried on with the kiss.
After giving her my assurances that I would miss her and affirming that she did, indeed, think it was a good idea if we saw each other again, I leaned back, although not stepping back onto the platform yet.
"I told you you'd make it," I said, a little more confidently than I felt. I hadn't been at all confident we'd make it, but at least I know enough about King's Cross to be certain that, if you have a train to catch from the mainline station, make it to the Underground concourse with five minutes to spare - three if you're quick - and you'll get there. We got there. Problem solved. Both my feet and hers ached, and I was fighting myself not to clutch the stitch in my side and expose myself as a fraudulent athlete. She was still breathing heavily and looked slightly flustered, but she was on the train, and that's what mattered.
It's not my fault. Okay, well, it is my fault. Everything had gone particularly well - the sun had been out this time; we'd had the picnic we promised ourselves followed by a nice walk through the park. Yes, it had been hot, but nevertheless, it was pretty nice. Yes, of course, there was kissing, and there was groping, and I did get a manly holler of, "go on, my son!" when she lay on top of me, ostensibly to demonstrate how long her hair was... but mostly to carry on kissing me as I reclined. And possibly to feel my erection too, although that was probably just a pleasant side-effect. At least, I thought it was pleasant. Presumably the hollering man thought it must have been too. We got a bit lost, doubled back and found a Tube station that took us to the Natural History Museum. We looked at some dinosaurs, but decided that £10 was far too pricey for more dinosaurs, and headed for the shop, where she bought a Diplodocus. We then headed for another shop, in which she bought a Baryonyx. And she, I and the two dinosaurs headed outside, where we lay on the grass.
This is when my brain switched from "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, loves to kiss, hooray I hit the jackpot!" mode to "gorgeous girl in my arms, thinks I'm sexy, stroking my hair, this is so relaxing, aaaaaaah unwinding" mode, and I almost slipped away. Almost. I certainly relaxed. I didn't even realise I was that wrought. I guess problems with one's PC, running a barbecue that wasn't even your idea, not having a job and having to tidy an entire house by yourself in about an hour and a half do take their combined toll. It only took a couple of dinosaurs, a Kinder Bueno and a simple hair stroke to sort out. Life is simple sometimes.
Unfortunately, during this haze of relaxation (and all that came with it; refer back to paragraph 2 for an idea of what it involved - now add more kisses), about an hour dropped out of the universe and went missing somewhere, and the resultant warp in the space-time continuum contributed to what ended up as a mad dash from Kensington to Camden, with about as much madcap slapstick as a trip on the Piccadilly Line could conjure up.
But we made it in the end.
And, as I'm sure you'll have guessed, it was worth it, no question.
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