The first time I saw a man’s bits, I had requested to do so.
The first time I saw a rod, I was really excited (having just pulled at my hair) and very happy.
…because not quite.
At the tender age of seven, I was treading water during a swimming lesson and staring at a man. He was standing in the doorway of the men’s change room watching us swallow and snort water so that we might receive a little badge that our mum’s would proudly sew onto our backpacks. While I was practically drowning, and probably peeing in the pool, he was standing idly by and diddling himself.
He had his fun bit out above his shorts and he was playing with it, like it was a small cat. I didn’t understand and so stared in his general area more mesmerized by his chosen combination of matching baby blue turban (a la Seikh variety, not Arab from the South – although am certain there are many wankers there, too) and baby blue shorts, the colour of his body serving as sharp contrast to the chosen colour of his attire. Flailing, half drowning, peeing, I wondered if his mama had sewn them for him, so they would match.
In my early teen years while pretending I liked ‘exercise’, I was running through the Experimental Farm. Running toward me was a hairy fatso without a shirt on. Some ways away from me, he stopped running, pulled out his johnson and declared “Tu-DUH!”; I responded with a sprint. If I had had cymbals, we could have taken his act on the road. Literally.
In my later teen years, two things happened. First was during a crisp September evening while Natasha and I were walking along Elgin Street. We approached the platform of one building — the one which now houses the British Embassy — and looked up to see a man with his pants and underwear around his ankles and his shirt completely undone, billowing like a cape in the wind. His schlong was Braveheart, and his hand the army helping it pad along to FREEDOM! Because I am slightly fucked in the head, I imagined that if I kept my normal pace, the wind would carry the items soon to shoot from his little hand and it’s friend and hit me directly in the side of my head. I ran while Natasha stood back shell-shocked by the sight.
It just hit me (heh!) that if I were in some sort of a p0rn situation, it might be called ‘Clumsy Accidentally Finishes You Off But Doesn’t Know It And Is Now Having A Sandwich While Writing About What Just Happened.’
The following summer, I was walking down Bank Street when I looked into a car and saw a dying man. How else could I have explained the expression on his face? With terror gripping my heart, I edged over to the window intending to heroically tap and ask if he needed help. I would save his life, someone would take my photo and someone else would write me up in The Ottawa Sun. I was so excited. Sadly, he was not dying but rather he was sitting with his salami at full salute and him, given’er. My dreams of being in The Ottawa Sun were crushed along with his salami.
All of the above because I am wondering: Don’t these men have the privacy of a sock and/or bathtub?