Working With A Small Schlong

JD Salinger accurately expressed why writing is so hard (at least for me) when he said that immediately after publishing a book he felt like he was walking around town with his pants around his ankles. I agree with that metaphor and then some: writing creatively for others is not just leaving the house with no pants; it’s dipping your balls in a cup of ice water just before going onstage in the “buck” with a spotlight on your small, shriveled wang.

For the record, I don’t have a small cock (though I can’t say it’s big, and it’s certainly small enough to be insecure about).* But my cock—or anyone’s real, actual cock—is not what this piece is about. This piece is not really about real cocks. It’s more about writing cocks. The definition of which is simple: the amount of courage a writer has in creating and sharing his or her work with others. The bigger a writer’s writing cock, the braver he or she is with his or her art.

Most writers have small writing schlongs, which, of course, means they are overly sensitive about their work and what others think during both the writing and sharing processes. Some writers have big ones, but they are rare (and, unfortunately, many of these “writers” out there with massive writing schlongs don’t have a lick of talent). My writing schlong is, well, basically very tiny. And so for years I have been excruciatingly insecure about my work (which has led to extended bouts with the writing schlong version of ED: OCD).

Over the years, I’ve tried to increase the size of my writing schlong (with the hope that it would: 1) make me comfortable sharing my work; 2) allow me to stop obsessing over it; and 3) enable me to actually finish a thing or two). I’ve tried everything, guys, I really have. I went and got my MFA in writing**. I revisited grammar books from grade school. I kept a journal. I wrote (grinded through) several papers and short stories (none of which I’ve ever deemed “finished”). And I read every word E.B. White ever wrote***. The end result of all this engagement with the craft? I write wicked good emails and sound work-related documents.

I try to resist coming to conclusions, because (unlike what Opera would tell you and we would all like to believe) almost nothing is conclusive, and as soon as you do conclude anything you eliminate all other possibilities—which is dangerous. But if I had to sum things up and encourage a fellow writer cursed with a small writing schlong, here is what I’d say: 1) you can’t increase the size of your writing schlong any more than you can your actual schlong; 2) the key to working with a small schlong is probably the same as (Trevor and Jeff’s secret to) having sex with a small schlong: don’t think about your size. Just go bust a nut and/or express some love and/or make that baby. Don’t lose sight of your purpose; love your partner nice…

These days when I write, I try hard to stay focused on the message I am trying to convey, and I allow and remind myself to have fun. That is the whole point! If I see an opportunity to give a reader a little pleasure or impress him or her by showing off a tad, fine—I’ll try it. Maybe.

But I know that if I worry too much about pleasing others (a.k.a. my performance), I’ll never accomplish much—if anything—at the keyboard (or in the sac), and I’ll never (satisfy my wife or) be satisfied myself. And both of those scenarios would suck. (Dick.)

(Real dick, this time, I mean.)

*Consider this is a mere “sidebar”… But. I have a good friend with a monster dong—I mean huge, as in: He. Has. Three. Legs. And, despite the freakish nature of rocking an extra appendage, the dude got swagger… I can’t say so for sure myself (much to my chagrin), but there must be some form of confidence that comes with having a huge hog.

I don’t know—maybe I’m wrong, but I just feel like I’d be wicked happy all the time if I had a real big one. Even when life throws a guy with a big one a curveball, he can always remind himself that he at least has a big cock.

If I could supersize my wang for a day, I’d have a lot of fun. My inner monologue would go something like this: “Wassup, wassup, wassup. I’m the man. What’s that? Excuse me? Oh you wanna step to me, bitch? You sure about that?” Then bla-zam I’d grab my wang with two hands and swing and boo-ya-kasha; the perpetrator would be laid out. The End.

**Don’t do this unless you are wealthy and/or fortunate enough to have been born with a large writing schlong.

***Do it.

Day Sex

Day sex is so good, and you know it (at least I hope you do).

For most of us, day sex is rare, and rare is special. But I think day sex rules for other reasons, too. For one, I have more energy during the day. Secondly, there is more light—so I can actually see my hot wife while we bone. And, finally, both of the above circumstances tend to bring on a rock-hard “woody.” Which is nice.

Woody often graces us with his presence at night, too, but half the time (usually tired and a few beers deep) Woody’s cousin “Chubby” stumbles in for the night shift. I love Chubby, he’s great (and certainly better than Noodle (who fuckin sucks ass)), but let’s face it: Woody is “the man.” Love that guy, I really do.

Normal weekdays are out—no day sex during the workweek because we both work. So, our only real opportunities for loving like that come during our daughter’s 2-hour nap on vacation days and weekends. It’s pretty sad when you do the math: over the course of any given year, with a 2-week vacation, we have a mere 124 hours of daytime availability for sex. That’s just 1.4% of our existence.

My daughter absorbs the majority of time that would otherwise be available for “smushing” before the sun goes down, but I obviously don’t hold it against her. After all, she’s 1. Plus, I have to remember, too, that, thanks to (the idea of) her, the several months it took to conceive her were filled with sex—morning, noon, and night. Truth be told, I got so much loving while trying to conceive my daughter that Woody started calling Chubby in for back up—even, on occasion–during the day!

Unfortunately, our baby girl and our lack of free daylight hours aren’t my only day sex “cock blocks.” First and foremost, my wife isn’t as enthralled with day sex as I am. She is a doer (and I wish there were more of double entendre to that statement). And, she is a busy body who views our daughter’s naptime as an opportunity to tackle her “to do” list—to clean, pay bills, shop, organize and get ready for [insert any of a million things here (except for my wang)].

Day sex remains elusive, but it would be insane for me to complain about our sex life or anything at all. I am raising a family with the woman of my dreams, and—as my wife was quick to point out after reading a draft of this post—she is generous with her loving. And while she would never let on otherwise, she really does seem to like doing me (even when Woody can’t rise to the occasion and sends his lazy cousin in to do the trick).

I am a lucky man. And, as soon as we start trying for another child, I will become even luckier—regardless of whether or not we succeed in this endeavor. When we will start trying is not entirely clear. But what I can say is that Woody is ready, and Chubby is on call (in the event it takes a while).

And as soon as my wife adds “making a baby” to her “to do” list, I will be very excited to put our daughter down for her nap.

The Original Tebower

Trevor was with me during one of my first panic attacks. He loved it. I didn’t. But it really was hilarious, in a way. Sad too—really, sad—but so freaking funny, at least in hindsight. Kind of hard to explain this juxtaposition. Whenever Trevor talks about it these days (which is typically whenever we get together), he refers to it as the time I “took a knee in Colorado.”

It happened during a 12-hour stop in our cross-country journey from LA back to the Northeast. (Trevor had flown out West just so that we could cruise the country together. (Picture the movie Sideways—friends on their final journey together, in a Saab, before one of them ties the knot.) Trevor was engaged and about to marry the wrong woman, unfortunately (and deep down I think he knew it)—but I’ll let him fill you in about that whole saga.)

Anyway, I had been in LA for 9 months or so, thinking/hoping that I would somehow, miraculously get noticed and make it big in the film industry. Maybe acting, maybe writing, maybe directing. I really didn’t know what I wanted, nor did I have a clue as to how to make anything happen. In all honesty, I didn’t do anything to help myself. I was pretty nervous when I was out there.

Basically, all I did for 9 months was walk the streets, smoke butts, and spend at least a few hours a day trying like the dickens to make progress on a screen play or a short story. I made no progress whatsoever. I had about 42 “open” projects going at once, and I wasn’t able to commit to any of them. Even when I did work on one for a while, I would go over and over the same sentences a million times. You’ve heard all about this already.

I did meet some interesting people out West, and I had some pretty cool experiences, too. (I expect to tell some stories about these people and our rich experiences together—maybe even here in this blog.) But, from a career standpoint, I was so disengaged with LA and the film industry while I was out there that I might as well have been living in Antarctica.

In any case, driving back to the Northeast, it really hit me that I was a failure. I was a few years out of College and had accomplished absolutely nothing. I remember Trevor laughing upon noticing that my car registration and emissions sticker had both expired. Honestly, until he’d pointed that out, those things had never really crossed my mind. I was a mess. So unorganized. I remember opening the glove compartment and a bunch of unopened bills fell out.

So we stopped in Colorado and met up with some good friends of ours, and that night we drank plenty and smoked some weed and then went to a reggae concert at a bar in downtown Breckenridge. Before “Eek-a-Mouse” hit the stage there was this hardcore hip hop group opening for them. Their music was so loud, it practically pierced my ear drums. The bass vibrated my ribs. And I’m sure the elevation was bothering me too.

Just minutes after our arrival at that crowded bar, I started to feel a tingling sensation all over my scalp. The air seemed to get even thinner. I thought I might be having a heart attack. I can’t remember exactly how things went from there. I believe I found Trevor and told him I had to get out of there. I tried as hard as I could to make my way to the door.

My eyes were open, but a dark cloud started materializing in my field of vision. I was losing consciousness, and trying real hard to hold on. But everything was failing—it was like being put to sleep against my will. Utter helplessness. When my palms hit the concrete floor I had enough consciousness to attempt keeping my head from hitting the floor, but not enough strength. Boom. Ow. I sensed people looking at me and gasping–look at that guy, did you see that fall, look at that guy.

Trevor and the bouncers sort of picked me up and carried me outside. The embarrassment was palpable. I sat on a bench in the freezing air, which felt great against my hot, sweaty skin. Sitting there, I was pretty petrified, wondering if I’d just had a heart attack and how much longer I had to live, but I was also relieved that I was no longer the center of attention.

Trevor asked me what the fuck just happened. I told him I had no fucking idea. He started laughing—not an uncomfortable laugh—but like a genuine, holy-shit-this-is-the-most-hilarious-thing-I’ve-ever-seen-type laugh. It was just what I needed. I even chuckled a bit myself.

And I chuckled just now, writing about it, too.