The Balls of St. Mary's

New York is currently undergoing a renaissance of nudity. Nude restaurants, nude dance clubs, nude comedy clubs. Well, duh! Every few years nudity raises its ugly head, usually among segments of the population who have no business going about uncovered. People who look good in a bathing suit are usually content to wear one. Speaking for myself, I have absolutely no problem with the concept of exposing myself in public but I would need to be fit enough to make a good impression. Unfortunately, the economic reality of survival in New York implies long hours spent working just to make ends meet, and when I’m lucky enough to have a job it necessarily precludes spending enough hours in the gym to make an agreeable presentation of public nudity. Last year I was buff and nicely tanned but I was broke. This year I can afford to drink Stolichnaya instead of Georgi but my body looks like a piece of garbage. No way am I going to show this stuff off without some mitigating camouflage.

Then there’s the problem of gay guys, who’re already a problem for me even when I’m fully clothed. For whatever reason, a lot of them consider me to be totally adorable and I can’t seem get them (sorry) off my back. I wish I could elicit that reaction from women, who mostly find me horrifying. I am so repelled at the concept of other men that I would be terribly company in any nudist situation. I don’t have any problem about women, but, again, they have to be in some kind of presentable condition.

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Another aspect of bathing suits and lingerie of women is that I look at that kind of covering as gift wrapping for the pussy. Everybody knows that presentation counts for a lot. That’s why, even though you know what you’re going to get when she takes her clothes off, it’s still a big deal.

But absolutely the biggest problem about nudity for me personally is the unimpressive impact of my endowment to the humanities. What can I tell you? The women in Brooklyn say I must be a Dodger fan because I remind them of PeeWee Reese. It ain’t no A-Rod Louisville Slugger. In this I find myself in the company of Governor Schwartznegger, who is said to suffer from similarly unimpressive pole numbers.

It’s an old story in gym locker rooms about guys who kill themselves to get big, and then their wives are having it off with pencil-neck weaklings who happen to be endowed with a big dick. I knew this fatman who swore to me on a stack of bibles about how a bodybuilder actually used to drop his wife off at the fat guy’s house so that she could have sex with him, and that way the bodybuilder wouldn’t have to miss a workout. Let’s face it, you only got a limited amount of electrolytes in your body, so you got to define your priorities – sex or a big body. For a lot of guys there is no way their sex drive is going to beat out their male vanity on the ascending scale of priorities.

The problem is, the only muscle that doesn’t benefit from a rigorous bodybuilding regimen is your johnson. They have not yet invented a machine where you can lift a stack of weights with it. Can you imagine the scene in any gym where the guys could line up to do a set on the “Super Dick Blaster”? Oh, man, it would be worth the price of a gym membership jus to see a thing like that. Just remember, if you're standing in line to work out on that baby, don’t bend over to tie your shoe, not unless you want to end up in New Jersey in the Jim McGreevey Memorial Home for Male Unwed Mothers, where the baby pops out of your butt and they have to wash it off with a Karcher power washer to get all the brown stuff off. But that’s another story.

When I was a kid I had a nice size dick, relative to the rest of me. I never had any complaints from the girls. But over the years, all the working out and exercise inevitably made me bigger and my crank has diminished in size relative to the rest of me. Add to that that I’m currently working a 60-65 hour week, and coming off a very stressfull period of unemployment, after having gotten my arm mangled in a bus accident and then suffering an unbelievable bout of pneumonia which almost killed me, and my ding-dong is not exactly ringing “The Bells of St. Mary’s”, if you get my drift. The way things currently stand with me right now, I am not expecting this little acorn to grow into a mighty oak without a little cosmic intervention.

Lemme give you an example of how bad things are, as regards my masculine power surge: a couple of years ago, during one of my not infrequent periods of unemployment, I had gotten myself into thoroughly decent shape from working out 5-6 times per week and going to the beach every day. So, during a week’s vacation in Mexico (I said I was unemployed, not on food stamps), I decided that I looked fit enough to take some nude photos in the little zen garden they had in the resort. Whatever it was, maybe the light, I don’t know, the photos made me look chisled, which motivated me to want to show them around.

But show them to whom? I didn’t have a web site at that time, and I sure wasn’t going to show them to any men. And, like I said, women can’t stand me. So the potential audience narrowed down to one victim, my girlfriend’s sister, Marjolaine, who is over 18 and has presumably seen a couple of men in her life, so I figured my chances of getting arrested were pretty slim (like my pecker).

I e-mailed her the photos and she replied “I’ll tell you what I think after I get a magnifying glass.” Oh well! I think I’ll pop about a six-pack of Viagra, inflate my pecker up until it resembles a bicycle horn, photograph it with a telephoto lens, blow it up to screensaver size and e-mail it back to Marjolaine. That way it’ll get the consideration I think it deserves.

In the meantime, though, don’t expect me to go waving it around at no nude restaurants or comedy clubs, no way!

But personality is not the only consideration. There’s also the question of personality safety for my nuts, what with all of these lunatics threatening to chop each other’s balls off. And I don’t mean ancient history like Lorena Bobbit. I’m talking about more up-to-the-minute freakos like former NY governor Eliot Spitzer, who threatened to cut off state senate majority leader Joe Bruno’s balls off. As it turns out, Bruno retired with dignity while Spitzer’s walking around with dead air in his pants.

Then you got Jesse Jackson, who’s so jealous of Barack Obama that he threatened to cut off Obama’s balls on national TV. Jackson’s a class act. Maybe he should come out to Hymietown and do a few circumcisions while he’s at it. America owes Jesse Jackson a debt of gratitude. The country has not been confronted by a politician’s dick since Paula Jones was kind enough to describe for us every little twist and turn of Bill Clinton’s little porcine corkscrew member. And naturally, Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas will go down in history for immortalizing the patriotic proportions endowed by the Almighty on that most prolific of profligates, namely Long Dong Silver. How can an underdeveloped miscreant like myself ever hope to stand out in the light of such immense talent?

But for the pièce de résistance, you can’t beat Tricia Walsh-Smith who went on You Tube and threatened to cut off the balls of her husband, Philip Smith, president of the Shubert Organization and eat them for breakfast.

I wonder what her recipe is: hard boiled or poached? How about a nice plate of fried balls with scrambled eggs? It’s too bad she specified that she was gonna eat them for breakfast, because a nice lunch course of jellied balls swimming in their own semen might get her a Celebrity Chef gig on the Food Channel. Maybe she could puree them and serve them over the guy’s dick for supper.

OK, so It’s established, I ain’t going out nude in public, particularly to a nude restaurant where there’s cutlery. For all you know they could end up seating you next to Valerie Solanis, the militant lesbian who tried to kill Andy Warhol. She might still be hanging around, and you never know, you get seated next to her in one of those naked restaurants, and she’s got a pair of gardening shears in her Timberland bag.

In fact, if anything, I got a tendency to go in the other direction, with a suit of armor to protect me from Spitzer and Jesse Jackson in front and McGreevey from behind. The one thing that sticks out in my mind is that all these castrating freaks are Democrats. What’s with that? These nutsos are so deranged, it kind of makes you feel nostalgic for old Dick Cheney and his shotgun.


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