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by Jay Riggio
Last week I took my girlfriend out to an Asian style dinner. We split an appetizer of deep fried teriyaki-encrusted calamari. I dipped my chopsticks in and removed a circular fried morsel that strangely resembled the detached foreskin from an unsuspecting penis. At that particular moment, I stared closely at the ring and wondered why my precious skinhood had been taken from my sacred ray gun (what I sometimes call my penis). Where had the discarded sheath that once engulfed my little genitalia gone?
I began to research the topic of foreskin and the neccesary/unneccesary performance of circumcision. In my wanderings I found that some believed that the foreskin is a valuable piece of anatomy that the Lord Jesus Christ whipped up to protect the head of the penis from everyday wear and tear. Many circumcised men swear that the exposed head of their penis has declined in sensitivity due to the exposed penile glands. After my findings, I sat back in my chair, and gazed at my ceiling. My daydreams took me to an old but familiar time when I was the tender age of thirteen. I remembered how it felt when the first slut I ever encountered slipped her evening chilled fingertips into my jeans and grazed the head of my member on a neighborhood playground. The overwhelming sensation shot through my loins like a defective mortar on Labor Day. God I miss that girl. Her hands as soft and frail as her little heart. Anyway, today my girlfriend can work on my unimpressive meat stick for a good ten minutes before I am reminded that I should cum before I make another cup of coffee. I decided that the abuse had gone on for too long. The erosion that was slowly devouring my penile glands had to stop.
I contemplated many options including wearing spandex (I always thought I looked dope in lycra), suicide, and finally, lining my underwear with cream cheese. Unsatisfied with thes options I carried on in search of an answer. About to give up, I came across a website that bore the information to relieve me of my plight. The site was an advertisement for the product called The Manhood. The Manhood is a silky sheath that slips over the penis, designed to protect the penile glands from irritating clothing, ultraviolet rays, cold weather, post-sexual activity, minor urine dribble and God knows what else. It is also a foreskin restoration alternative. A mushroom to anteater converter…….if you will. I viewed the photos and realized that my search had ended. I contacted the company’s founder and president Randy Tymkin and he agreed to send me a sample. Available in sizes small to extra large, I requested a small. Mr. Tymkin was gracious enough to send me two sizes. Thanks Randy. But despite my deep voice, and over the phone confidence, my penis is very small.
Upon receiving it, I ripped open the manila envelope and tried my Manhood on immediately. Fastening the two Velcro strips together at my little buddy’s base, I stood in my bathroom and stared down at this strange thing. My weenie looked like a KKK Grand Wizard. It looked weird, but fuck it………I was no longer circumcised. Taking a deep breath, I pulled up my pants, pointed my finger toward the sky and shouted “Hey Jesus……..payback’s a bitch, huh?!” (I was on three cups of coffee at the time.)
Eager to take my new penis for a spin, I opted to do a few push-ups before hitting the streets. I pumped a ten count, and with each full descent, my crotch grazed the surface of the floor. It was glorious. I then walked outside. With each stride, I felt my concealed penis skim the crotch of my jeans. It felt silky down there. So I pretended that my weiner was a rare diamond jewel encased in some special new age polymer, that was not only damage proof, but bullet proof as well. I’d be lying if I told you that I was any less confident than a well-hung Samoan. My Manhood foreskin simulator was perhaps what I had been missing since the brief incounter with that shy doctor’s scalpel so many years ago.
It had been two weeks since I first slipped on my Manhood. I was loyal to that little sheath the way a little penguin is to its mommy. I was beginning to believe that my sensitivity was coming back. Sex was phenomenal, and masturbation was as good as when I first whacked off. It was working. I was about to send Randy a box of chocolates as a thank you when my life as an uncircumcised man began to fall apart. My loved ones noticed a change in my behavior. I was moody and aggressive when apart from my hood. I tend to throw my socks, underwear and pants all over my shithole of an apartment before boarding the sleepy train. My hood was no exception. Remote controls and once prized souvenirs were smashed as I searched for my penis garment. When my penis was naked, I was a godamned monster. Coffee and a bagel was no longer a morning priority. Dressing my tiny staff was.
One morning my search for my hood turned up nil. I became edgy and irrational; I picked fights. In one particular burst of anger, I accused my roommate of stealing my Manhood and screamed, “My dick is like gold, you cocksucker……….fucking gold!” I’m not sure what I meant by the phrase, but goddammit, I fucking meant it.
So many regrettable moments took place in the seemingly endless string of the days that my Manhood was missing. Hopeful that booze would help, I decided to forget my unclothed genitalia. But lo! Sweet justice! I spotted my hood crumpled behind a wastebasket engulfed in dust bunnies and loose hairs, just as I was about to leave. The Velcro at the base was infested with shed pubic hair, dingleberries and a smelly kind of lint that I like to believe was a derivative of Monterey Jack. In a moment of glory, I scooped it up, blew off whatever I could and slipped that son of a bitch on. It was on the third day of losing my Manhood that I found it. I believe the Lord rose from the dead on the third day, so it was no coincidence that I had risen as well.
To celebrate my found Manhood I ordered three shots of tequila and washed them down with a beer, as soon as I arrived at the bar. Before I knew what had hit me, I was dancing with two provocatively dressed Vietnamese women. I was on fire and these broads were fanning the flames. Absorbing my heat. Gyrating my hips like a cotton mill, I could feel my Manhood tapping the thighs of these beautiful little ladies. My ego was racing. Fueled by countless drinks and a phenomenal dance track (I believe it was a Gloria Estefan jam), I dropped my shorts and proceeded to dance around wearing nothing but a t-shirt and my lint stained Manhood. I unleashed my ‘A’ game and took the floor like a seasoned vet. Some of the crowd dispersed, some stared in wonder and awe. I shimmied toward a dancefloor female comrade, when I received what I think was a sucker punch to the side of my temple. The force of the punch sent me reeling half naked onto the floor. Down, but not out, I returned to my feet wearing only a t-shirt. My hood had parted with my genitalia during my unexpected descent. I looked around hurredly and nervously for the hood. It was gone.
Laughter and shouts erupted from every corner. I was approached by a big man in a silk shirt. A new Manhood? I thought briefly……Luckily, I came to my senses and exited the bar quickly. Without retrieving my underwear, pants, and shoes…….I scurried home.
Much of that night is a blur to me. All I remember is that tears streamed down my eyes as I fumbled into my apartment. There are moments in one’s life that are never forgotten. Moments that stick in one’s memory for years to come. Moments that dig into your heart, and explode like a handful of bang snaps. Moments like your girlfriend leaving you for a well-built Spanish man. Moments like tripping up your high school’s steps, and knocking your front teeth out in front of a mob of cheerleaders. And finally, moments like losing your Manhood during a nearly nude barroom brawl. “I’m never gonna dance again, these guilty feet have got no rhythm.”
For more information on The ManHood, check out http://manhood.mb.ca.