The Penile Code

Growing up in a neighborhood chock full of males, I was the first in the group of my close knit clique to begin puberty.  As a child my mother would buy me small soaps that replicated little animals which, with the addition of water, would sprout mock fur. It always fascinated me how they did it but they did. Now the small sprouts of hair above my genitals were reminiscent of those soaps. The entire event caused me great distress when exiting the bathroom in our house. I was frantic not to let anyone see my budding masculinity.

It was no great surprise that I should be the first in my group to begin puberty since I was born in January. I was beginning to   mature ahead of everyone else and that particular summer was the one closest to my heart, not for sentimental reasons but for the simple fact my penis was growing by leaps and bounds.  I was, for the first and only time in my life what may well be considered endowed. 

Since the other boys were lagging behind I was quite impressed with myself. As I peered between my legs my thoughts became over exaggerated. Oh sure, when a little boy first discovers his penis he thinks he's hit the jackpot. “I can make it do this” or "Wow, it feels good when you rub it”, but this was entirely different.

So this is what manhood is all about. Hmm, won’t they just love this big boy. It was unclear who "they" were. It was early on and my sexual preference was, at best, tipping the scale. My friends and I loved to get the neighborhood girls to drop their panties as we study their anatomy and became aroused, but deep within I knew there was something different about me.

In the privacy of my room I’d ponder the idea of being a model in Playgirl magazine. Playgirl was new to the magazine world and was talked about in a hushed voice. It was the call to arms for those in support of the Women's Lib movement as a tool to exploit the male physique similarly to they way Playboy had exploited women for years. Thank God someone listened to the call.

 Spreading a towel on the floor I would lie down stretching my arms backward over my head. I hadn’t actually seen a Playgirl magazine except on on the rack at our local pharmacy but did sneak peeks at Cosmopolitan while in the grocery store. On occasion I would be so brazen as to pose before the mirror and examine in great detail the extension of my soul which lay between my legs.

 Reality was on the horizon. While playing basketball, my friend Mark and I stumbled on a collection of porn magazines. In a tattered box, lying by the side of the road, was a treasure more valuable than Blackbeard’s own. A simple brown corrugated box contained a ounty of magazines- Palygirl, Hustler, Playboy, Penthouse and so on. Had it been nightfall, Mark, who was always more charged than most could have lit up the sky with his glow of excitement.  "It’s a blessing from God," we uttered in unison quietly under our breath as we pawed through the pornography. Somehow in retrospect I think it unlikely God would have blessed usthis way but at the time it made getting on our knees and thanking Him worthwhile.

 Unfortunately as I turned the pages of Playgirl with great curiosity the image of another man’s penis, a better man than I, burst my bubble and vanquished any aspiration I might have of becoming a model. There was a distinct deficit in my delusion of being a “superman”. 

Not wanting to let our cache out of sight we stowed them in the safest place we knew, our basements. I immediately took possession of the Playgirl magazine. Neither doubt nor deliberation was involved. Somehow I knew it was the best possible choice for me. Perhaps it would come in handy as a tool for my future modeling career. Of course I’d seen my brother and some of the neighborhood boys naked but never a man such as the one who graced the cover of this periodical. A distinct commotion was going on within me.

Pouring over the photos, I wondered how it was possible this Adonis, or anyone else for that matter, could be so well endowed.  Where do they find these people? With my ego strewn about, I knew few would be clamoring to catch a glimpse of my penis when one such as his was immortalized. I consoled myself. Well, I'm a growing young man and there's plenty of time to catch up. At the age of 49 I've decided to throw in the towel, raise the white flag and reconcile myself  to the fact that it's not going to happen.

With each turn of the page there was a movement, a “firming up” if you will, that I had never before experienced.  As the blue eyed man, with the luscious jet black hair on his head and chest, peered back at me I shrugged off the sensation as a simple case of curiosity, an erotic impulse. Sex had been openly discussed among my peers and during the early years of my life we played games such as “strip” and “doctor”.  Seeing another boy's penis or girl's vagina was a big deal at the time and we were always cautious not to get caught. 

“You’ll go to hell,” my mother would say, “You'll have to go to confession!”  She never worried about punishing us too harshly. "Someday you'll have kids of your own. They'll do the same thing to you. That will be punishment enough. I only hope I live to see it happen.” Can it be she feared me into homosexuality so I wouldn't have any children?  Hmm. At any rate my mind was beginning a search that would last a lifetime.

Seventh grade gym class was a detrimental experience. I’d worry not because I wasn’t good enough at sports but because we had to shower in the locker room.  I remember undressing and preparing myself to take the plunge in the gang shower of the locker room, which seems an odd experience under the best circumstances, to wash away the profuse teen sweat after a soccer game. Across the room, naked, stood one of the most popular guys in our school, Anton Di Pinga. I’d always wondered what made some people so much more admired than others and once his gym shorts and jock strap came off I knew why.  There before me was the most perfect specimen of male beauty I'd ever seen.

Anton defined the word masculine.  With dark tufts of hair under his arms he was a living, breathing replica of my Playgirl model. The soft, black hirsute map on his chest became a perfect trail down his abdomen, like an arrow pointing to the garden of good.  I was in awe.  In an effort to not get caught staring I looked away from Antony in the direction he was going so I could catch a second glance from behind. It seemed time slowed as he walked by. 

Even from behind, Anton was an architectural phenomenon. He was the Coliseum, the Acropolis and the Pyramids wrapped into one perfect package.  God had spared no expense in putting him together. The David, La Victoire de Samothrace and any sculpture by Rodin paled by comparison. I didn’t dare look down at my own penis, or in the mirror for that matter, but knew there was an apparent rustling.  Please God, no, please don’t. Not here, not now.

My thoughts leapt to the forefront of my mind. This was not simply envy; this was something far deeper. It was electric. It bore the same surge of power lightning produced and then some. How could I be envious of this young man? In truth Anton was an utter ass, pompous and belligerent. It was his body, the curvature of his flesh, which turned the tide for me.  With every opportunity henceforth, whenever I saw a naked man, a sensation occurred within me. The skies opened as a deluge of meteor showers fell upon me. As I developed further, through the long days and even longer nights of my adolescence I knew my mind was reacting in the manner it had been taught by society, “Homosexuality is bad.”  What was I thinking and how could I be such a disappointment? To it’s credit,  my penis was clearly defining that homosexuality was an extremely good thing for me.

 I spent the entire decade of my adolescence wrestling with the two opposing factions. In stores, at the movies and even in school, I would catch myself quickly glancing toward men.  When I could make out even the faintest outline of what lay beneath their denim jeans, fitted tee shirts or wool trousers I would feel exhilarated. Finally, with great relief, I found the solution to all I had been searching for. I discovered “The Penile Code”. 

Know that your being will intuitively regulate what is right and what is not.  There need not be discussions by secular or non secular parties, nor should other’s interpretations of how you should live affect you.  The fibers of your being, the earth, wind, fire and water that comprise your soul shall direct you on the path of life that is your own. For some it is heterosexuality. For others, like me, it is homosexuality.

Throughout my Catholic upbringing I was taught that God created us through infinite wisdom and in his own image. Catechism taught me that God makes no mistakes. I have come to learn neither does your penis. Does it matter what your religious beliefs are or if you have religion at all? No. Follow the essence of your soul, the truth in your heart, the knowledge of your conscience and the movement between your legs. They all will guide you to your proper place.  I have learned to obey the “The Penile Code” rigidly. It has never steered me wrong.