Southern Cross
I've always hated going to church, except in my mid-teens when I would be blessed enough to sit behind some hot suburban mother in a tight pantsuit. I would spend the standing parts of Mass with head bowed, committing her ass to memory and trying to arrange my boner so it didn't poke directly outward, lest it be taken for a Crucifix. I never felt guilty about that, which is odd, because I grew up Catholic. Maybe guilt just became my default emotional state. Or maybe I didn't feel guilty because my instinct told me that my boner was normal and natural (since then I've realized that my boner is neither natural nor normal -- it's cross-shaped).
Cross-shaped. You ever heard of anything like that? Outside of the supernatural?
And the second weirdest thing about my penis is that it looks relatively normal flaccid: not at all like a "t." And then, by accident, I see Joss Stone on Carson Daly. Pop! I can hang Christmas ornaments on it. But only the ones with the strings, not the ones with the hooks, unless it's Christmas Eve.
You want to know what it's like having a cross-shaped boner? Ladies?
Well, the condition manifested itself in my early teens, and I worried nightly that there were malignant tumors in my penis. At fourteen I had a choice to either show the male doctor my boner or risk death. I chose the latter. That was a terrible decision, but twelve years later, I'm still alive. To date, a doctor has never seen the cross (or the Cross, if you prefer). Doctors have grabbed my balls pretty regularly, and they have never led me to believe that there might be something abnormal about my penis. If I were hard, my condition would be staring them right in the face.
It's a cross left-to-right, not up-to-down, in case you were wondering...
My relationships tend to be pretty short. I don't like the awkwardness of pretending that I don't have an intimate defect, so I make it a point to tell a hot suburban mother before she has a chance to see it. And I often ask her name first.
Offerings can be left in the comments section.
---
Cross-shaped. You ever heard of anything like that? Outside of the supernatural?
And the second weirdest thing about my penis is that it looks relatively normal flaccid: not at all like a "t." And then, by accident, I see Joss Stone on Carson Daly. Pop! I can hang Christmas ornaments on it. But only the ones with the strings, not the ones with the hooks, unless it's Christmas Eve.
You want to know what it's like having a cross-shaped boner? Ladies?
Well, the condition manifested itself in my early teens, and I worried nightly that there were malignant tumors in my penis. At fourteen I had a choice to either show the male doctor my boner or risk death. I chose the latter. That was a terrible decision, but twelve years later, I'm still alive. To date, a doctor has never seen the cross (or the Cross, if you prefer). Doctors have grabbed my balls pretty regularly, and they have never led me to believe that there might be something abnormal about my penis. If I were hard, my condition would be staring them right in the face.
It's a cross left-to-right, not up-to-down, in case you were wondering...
My relationships tend to be pretty short. I don't like the awkwardness of pretending that I don't have an intimate defect, so I make it a point to tell a hot suburban mother before she has a chance to see it. And I often ask her name first.
Offerings can be left in the comments section.
---
posted by JMH | 9:56 PM
1 Comments:
There are hot suburban mothers in pantsuits in churches over there? Do they want to seduce the priest?
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