Snapshots from Green Victoria (tedwords) wrote,
Snapshots from Green Victoria
tedwords

Three Little Inches



Okay, girl, pull up a chair, would you? Let's get serious about things for a minute. Okay?

That’s right. Make yourself comfortable. Take off your shoes and curl up to a steaming mug of tea. Take all the cream and sugar you want. Here, have a scone...hot out of the oven. Yes, yes, and take some jelly, to go along with it.

Feeling comfortable? That’s good. See, I’ve got a question for you, and it’s an important one, too. Something that I’ve been wondering about for a while now, after years of extensive research.

Maybe you can help me shed some light on the subject, too.

“Does size really matter?”



I mean, come on. It’s really ridiculous, if you think about it.

What’s the measure of a man of...well...diminutive stature? No, I’m not talking Herve Villachez. I mean, in the package department.

I’d say it’s around five inches. Wouldn’t you? Let’s be real here, ladies. If 6.5 is considered average, then five is probably, I think, the standard for sub-standard. At least, that’s what I think of. There may be men out there that have less than that, but I'd say, for the most part, five is where you take a dive.

And what is super-sized? What realm are we talking about when we say that someone’s hung like a horse? Packing a trouser constrictor? Comes equipped with king schlong?

Well, that’s the thing. I think anything over eight inches fits the bill. Don’t you? From what I’ve seen and heard, eight inches is considered “large,” nine is considered huge, and ten inches is considered...well...heaven on earth?

But think about it. That means that the difference between submungous and humungous is basically three measly inches.

Three measly inches! That’s all that separates the men from the boys! How absurd is that?

Three inches is nothing...three inches is a short stack of quarters that won't get your laundry done. Three inches is a less-than-filling piece of banana inside your banana split. Three inches is a layer of snow that New Englanders would hardly think worth shoveling. Three inches would be a pretty unsatisfying popsicle on a stick.

What's the big deal, when you think about it like that?



It reminds me of a story I once wrote, about a decade ago. It was based on a true story that happened to a friend of mine, who was cheating on her husband with another man. My friend did something so outrageous that I ended up writing a 275 page novel about it. Someday I’ll clean it up and do something about it (I love the title: Friday Nights at the Red Pine Motel Someday, that story will appear somewhere, it will.)

But my point is, there was one section toward the climax of the story where I wrote something so obscene, and yet hit so close to home, that I spent weeks giggling insanely about it.

I purposefully dug the novel out tonight and hunted down the offending paragraphs. It occurs right at the moment when my heroine, named Nancy Nutt, has come to the realization that the man she was fooling around with has no intention of leaving his wife for Nancy:

Shy hung up the phone. She sat on her bed and stared down morosely at the contents of her pocketbook, strewn across the bed sheets.

So this was it. There was no doubt about it, now. She had spent the last three months living a lie, chasing a wisp of fog that had no basis in reality. She had cheated and lied to her husband, manipulated a priest in order to get an innocent person fired, broken into someone’s house just to steal a can of paint, even wrecked her car.

And all for what? Seven or eight Friday nights at the Red Pine motel. Ten or eleven injections into her creamy thighs, from a wrinkled cylinder of flesh that hardly measured six inches at best.

But, she LIKED that wrinkled cylinder of flesh. She liked the body that came with it, too. Most of all, she enjoyed the attention paid to her. The kisses, and the caresses, and the secret knowledge that she was moving on with her life, getting past the stifling wasteland that her marriage had become.




But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Let's be honest. It’s never really about the wrinkly cylinder of flesh! What Nancy really enjoyed in my story was the whole package (no pun intended)—the love cylinder, yes, but more than that, the kisses and caresses, and the attention, after years of living in a loveless marriage.

The size of that wrinkly cylinder of flesh was entirely incidental, really. And that’s the way life really is, don’t you think? We just don’t spend our lives the way that Empress Nympho does in History of the Word, Part One , lining up our suitors for the evening’s orgy, just to find that one man who stands out among all the rest, so that we can stare at his nature’s bounty and let out a huge, self-satisfied, “YES!”

Because that’s not the way life works. In real life, those three little inches are entirely meaningless. Well, perhaps not meaningless...it’s always nice to grab a little something extra, but in the schlong run, that’s not where the real, ultimate decisions are made.

Except in Britney Spears’ case.



Okay, I was just kidding about that. Sort of.

My point remains—when you get right down to it, decisions of the heart trump such trivial things as the difference between three little inches, each and every time.

Take, for example, my conversation with Corb, tonight. After I had finished reading to him my “wrinkled cylinder of flesh” story, he stared at me as though I had lost my mind, said I was gross, and shut the bathroom door in my face.

Oh, wait. I meant, after that.

See, after that, as we were lying in bed together, I turned to him, and said. “Corbett, say you love me.”

Corb stared at me with his gentle blue eyes and said. “I love you, Ted.”

“And tell me that you love being with me.”

“I love being with you, Ted.”

“And tell me you love my wrinkled cylinder of flesh.”

At that point, he groaned and turned his back on me.

Try as I might, I simply could not get him to say those anything even resembling “I love your wrinkled cylinder of flesh.”

See? Because that’s not what love is all about, is it? No matter what the size queens out there may want you to believe, no matter what those "size DOES matter" junk emails you get claim, it’s never been about those three little inches. Not really. There are three little words out there that make a whole bigger world of difference.

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