Men like seeing other men’s dicks. Sorry, let’s call the manhood penis to be politically correct.
There’s even proof. An eye-tracking study showed men fixated on other men’s crotches more than women. The authors of “A Billion Wicked Thoughts: What the Internet Tells Us About Sexual Relationships” gathered hoards of online data and concluded that men search for wiener about as often as they do for vagina. It’s hardwired into our brains to gawk at cocks.
I, a straight man, like looking at cock, and I have no problem admitting it. If I’m pissing next to a guy, I’m always tempted to nonchalantly gaze at his yogurt slinger. But my problem isn’t that I like looking at dicks, or that I fantasize about looking at dicks. My problem is that I haven’t seen enough dicks.
Because for all the dozens of penises I’ve fixed upon, I still haven’t seen an uncircumcised one in real life. Yeah, I’ve seen them in porn, but there ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby. And several of my friends have authentic uncut doodles. But none of these guys will let me see it due to social stigmas. Which bugs me, because I’ve seen all my other friends’ dangling appendages enough times I could identify each one out of a police lineup — and most of my friends surely can draw my dick from memory.
This is especially problematic because my chances to see uncut cock are dwindling. My hooded friends all live at least 1,000 miles away, so I don’t see them often. To make matters worse, one just got married. And another moved to Japan.
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My friends are getting older, domesticated and less likely to whip it out and let me look upon thy member. I might meet some new uncut venturous friends, but that’s unlikely. And I could get a delightful surprise from a stranger in the men’s room someday, but you can’t rely on this sort of fortune. I need to act before they all become old, bland, non-penis flashing men.
This week, I stayed with one of my hooded friends. Not only does he lives halfway across the country, but I recently found out he’s getting surgery in a few months to remove his foreskin. On the flight over, I became determined to put it all out there, give it everything I got, and let it all hang. I’m like a minor leaguer who has never made it past AA, and this is my last realistic shot to make the bigs.
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All week, I badger my friend to pull it out. He just ignores my requests, which is what he’s done for years.
I beg for him to release the snake when we get back from the pool. I try to get him to reveal it in the restroom at a baseball game. I nudge him to expose himself in a McDonald’s parking lot, somewhat reminiscent of that scene in “Boogie Nights” where Mark Wahlberg gets ready to blow a dude.
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“I’m not going to show you my dick in a parking lot.”
“C’mon man. Don’t be so gay about it. Just let me see your dick already!”
“You’re disgusting. This is ridiculous … Yeah, I’ll have two McChickens without lettuce. What do you want, Ross? … An orange Hi-C, no ice …”
As we devour condensed cholesterol, I tell him it needn’t be this way. We could make it classy. It doesn’t have to be a fast-food flash. When we get back to his place, we could bust out throw pillows with embroidered initials. Dim the lights. Place the dong against a contrasting color silk-sheet backdrop. Harden it up and beef that jerky. Give him a plump chub to show off. You know, make it resemble a classy retro Playboy pose, like a Marilyn Monroe centerfold, but more dick pic-y.
“I don’t have any throw pillows. And I don’t want to make a production of this.”
He hates this pitch. I fly to New York the next day. I feel like I went to Yellowstone, and Old Faithful decided to conceal itself under a pair of boxer shorts.
It’s 1:40 a.m. the night before I leave, and I’m just chilling with my friend’s Shih Tzu watching “The Daily Show.” He comes back from the kitchen and, without warning, rips his shorts down and squats like a linebacker positioning himself before the snap. He sits in the stance for about 10 seconds as I inspect the unchartered area like a paleontologist who finally found that elusive bone.
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The foreskin is much girthier than anticipated. Watching porn, I previously just noticed skin around the tip. Just the tip. But that’s because with an erect penis, the difference between cut and uncut is most visible at the head. But for a soft penis, the difference becomes more apparent all throughout.
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The foreskin is thicker around the shaft than I expected. It is like a carnal coat of armor. My friend’s penis is also wider at the base than what I’ve seen in other peters. My theory is that the skin scrunches up down there, expanding the width. It sort of has a triangle beaker look to it, but this may just be his penis and not foreskinned ones in general as I’d need a bigger sample to determine the causality of this relationship. Length looks pretty average, though.
With all that skin, I bet it could stretch several inches over the head. There’s got to be some elasticity here. And the extra padding looks like a pillow for your balls. I wonder what it feels like.
I extend my pointer finger and wiggle it toward his junk like I’m ET phoning home.
“What the fuck are you doing!?”
“Trying to touch your cock.”
“What the hell, man! Why would you do that?”
“There’s just so much more foreskin all around than I expected. Kinda wanted to feel how squishy or fluffy it is.”
He promptly pulls up his pants, scowls and lets out some sort of laugh-sigh expression. Show’s over.
Took me 25 years to finally see a sausage in its natural casing. Journey’s been a slog. For a good decade or so, I’ve worked as a reverse pioneer attempting to catalogue something well-established before my chances to experience it run out.
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Circumcision is much more common in America than other Western countries, which can create unsettling anxiety for men. One of my uncut friends told me, “I sometimes get mad at my parents for not circumcising me like everyone else because it is almost like a stigma. Like I’ve been around girls who say, ‘I’d never touch an uncircumcised dick.’ Which is awful to hear. And makes me even more shy to ever show my cock to anyone.”
Most guys who know me well have no issue eventually showing me their goods, but my uncircumcised friends protect their family jewels as if I were a diamond thief.
Of course, this only escalates my curiosity and leads me to put more pressure on them to give me a peeksy. Their refusal quenches my desire in the same way that parental demands of “Don’t you dare see that rascal boy!” prevents teenage female protagonists from sneaking out their window to hookup with the local badass. It’s a never-ending circle that heightens my penile thirst, yet pushes away that tall drink of water, making it forever appealing but unobtainable.
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As I fly home, I feel accomplished. I set out to get a stranglehold on this endangered social species. And I finally succeeded. At times, I felt like I was on a never-ending mission on the Starship Enterprise seeking out new life forms and civilizations. While I did not search for Spock, I sought out and finally found unsnipped cock.