Nah’msayin? Touchin’ Yr Dick—It’s Actually Pretty Sweet!
This article may come off wrong to some people. I actually kind of feel uncomfortable writing it, as it’s an article that, in reality, only people with penises can really understand.
I generally pride myself on writing for everyone, even generally eschewing coverage of male-dominated topics, but damn, I just had to get these thoughts off my chest.
It’s comforting to touch your dick.
Honestly, I’m not joking. I have no idea what the genetic or psychological underpinnings of that fact are, but I know it to be a truth nonetheless. Straight up, if you’re in a situation where you are uncomfortable, or scared, or unsure—touching your dick makes you feel a little better.
It’s even nice in comfortable situations, like when you’re falling asleep or just lounging around. My dad used to lay on the living room floor with his hands down the front of his pants on Saturday mornings.
I always thought it was gross—I still definitely think it’s pretty gross—but at least now I understand the drive.
Christ, and I do understand the drive. Sitting through a boring meeting, or standing half-asleep in the corner of some upscale vernissage, the subconscious, casual inclination to slip my fingers down the front of my pants—but not all the way, just far enough to know my dick is still there, safe and sound, resting against my leg.
This isn’t a sexual thing, either. I’m not whipping my cock out to jerk off every time someone scares me. I really don’t know what it is that drives it. A female friend once told me it probably had to do with asserting dominance, or malehood, but I can honestly say that isn’t it for me at all.
I am incredibly un-male, in terms of male stereotypes or societal norms, and pride myself on my breaking from cismale culture. I am not interested in asserting myself, am generally quite welcoming of other opinions, and have few major insecurities. It just feels good to touch your dick. In a nonsexual way.
So I submit this fact to the world, and issue a call of tentative personhood to the dick-bearers of the world. To the hoodrats, the rap gods, the construction creeps, hocking loogies on street corners, gruffly cupping your cargo-swaddled packages, I see you, and for once, for just one moment, I tip my hat to you, in brief rapport.
That’s all I’m empathetic about, though. I’m not a creep. I swear.
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