the hanging bit
Sometimes I get so frustrated with this little thing hanging between my legs. The grief and drama it causes.
Then I laugh at the absurdity of it all. Not just the fact that that it’s hanging there in the first place but the whole body. The appendages jutting out all over the place, the anus sitting right next to the little hanging thing, the nose, hair, the whole package.
How absurd we are.
We think we are so special in the universe but I’m pretty sure there is a lot of other sentient life put together a lot better than we are.
And this damn hanging bit.
Half the people on the planet have a hole in them that seems to be a perfect fit for my little hanging bit but it’s never that simple. Sure, they all feel the same but somehow I want to stick my hanging bit in a particular hole. Even “want” is a poor way to describe it at times.
And why? They all feel the same.
Don’t give me the evolutionary imperative line. I know we are born with the drive of spreading our seed but that is simply the engine that moves the metaphorical vehicle. Procreation doesn’t explain everything. Our minds, our ego, play a huge and senseless part. A cute woman could be wearing an “I’m infertile” t-shirt and there would still be lines around the block to have a shot at her rig.
So evolution gave us a motor but no steering wheel.
And why does it feel so good to play with if it is just a means to an end? If you stretched the nerve endings on the tip of my hanging bit endings-to-end I’m pretty sure they would travel the moon and back at least a half dozen times. Funny we would call them “endings” in the first place, they are usually just the beginning.
All of this sensory overload would seem to scream “Any hole will do!” but it doesn’t work that way.
Don’t get me started on the hole either. What a mess that thing is. How could evolution come up with something as beautiful and complicated as the human eye and then produce the hole? The hanging bit might not be a treat for the eyes but the hole looks like evolution was just exhausted from working on the eye and decided to turn in early. You can almost see it throwing up its just-recently-completed hands and saying “Good enough. We’ll come back to that in a few hundred thousand years when we’re done growing the head a bit more. The downstairs plumbing will have to suffice. They’ll just have to live with the bouquet.”
But my hanging bit desires it just the same.
I sometimes sit back and wonder what great advances humanity would have made if we didn’t have such voracious sex drives. So many brilliant minds (I’m obviously not including mine amongst those) spending so much of their day worried about their hanging bits. I’ll wager every known disease would be a thing of the past if men could spend just a few clear-headed days without the shadow of their penis hanging over them. We’d be flying around in environmentally-friendly solar cars, our life spans would be doubled and college and professional athletes wouldn’t have to continually spend big bucks getting themselves found not guilty of rape charges.
What a wonderful world it would be.
But instead we all wallow in the bleak reality of the hanging bit. Chasing the momentary release of shooting a batch of DNA into the depths of some hole that is usually lying there seeking completely different objectives, collapsing back dazed like the guy who suddenly wakes up with a start and realizes he’s been a werewolf all night. Except instead of mauling people to death he’s been crashing around making poor decisions, promises and mistakes.
“What have I done? What have I done?! That wasn’t me. That was my hanging bit!”
All these lamentations falling on deaf-and-expecting-to-be-taken-out-to-an-expensive-dinner ears as the poor creature tries to drift off to sleep figuring out why hole and whole and hold and holy all sound the same but are so damned different.
Sometimes I get so frustrated with this little thing hanging between my legs. I can’t help feel that putting the anus right next to it was poetic justice.