Tuesday, July 30, 2013
OK Guys, Let's Talk About Your Junk
Let's talk about d*ck pics.
I find myself alternately fascinated and repulsed by them, to be honest. And the fascination has nothing to do with the peek at male anatomy. It's more about the mind set that would make a man think this is in any way enticing.
Because the truth is, guys, your junk is one of the last things I want to look at up close via digital or printed media. Up close and personal is a whole other thing, and to compare them is useless.
You see, the thing is, guys, women just aren't all that into your penis in any way other than its practical application. Men love to see pictures of women's ladyparts. It leads to all sorts of fantasies about what they can do with those ladyparts. Men are very visual creatures, and pictures of ladyparts - texted or otherwise - make for fine viewing.
Women, on the other hand, don't get that agog over just a penis. We just don't. They're all generically similar within an inch or two, varying a bit in shades of color or girth. It's only if they're really, almost freakishly different in some way that we take notice.
And of course, you think your lil' guy is special and so he is, when properly applied. I don't need him to sit for a portrait.
Really, I don't.
What we women know that men don't seem to grasp is that no matter how utterly alluring and attractive your manparts may be (And they're just not as alluring as you think. Sorry.), a portrait of your soldier at attention does not lead us to fantasize about having him service us. At all. In fact, the common reaction from my girlfriends and other women I've spoken to upon seeing a pic of some guy's junk is: "Eww."
What matters to a woman, far more than a closeup of your throbbing purple-helmeted love warrior, is the guy behind that thing. We want to know who's going to be wielding that impressive, woman-enslaving weapon of mass sexual destruction. We want to know what you're about. More importantly, we want to know that you know what you're about. And that is not accomplished by sending us an uninspired picture of your almost-certainly generic looking junk while in the throes of middle-school level hormones.
Send me a picture of your eyes. Have someone snap it while you're looking at me from across the room, and make sure you're looking at me with intent. Your look should tell me that you know what you're doing, and you want to do it with me.
If you've got a body you're proud of, take a pic of your well-sculpted chest. Send me a shot of those tight buns encased in athletic jockey shorts. Cuddle a puppy while shirtless. Yum.
If you're not the best physical specimen, show me a picture of you doing something you're passionate about - biking or painting or raising money for a favorite charity. A man who's passionate about things and focused on what he wants is a guy that I want to know much more intimately. Those kinds of skills serve you well...everywhere, if you know what I mean.
Better yet, forget the picture entirely. Tell me that you think about me when I'm not around. Tell me why you think I'm sexy, and do it without mentioning a single body part. The key here, gentlemen, is to make sure that I know you want me. Me. Not it.
Because guys who send pics of their junk pretty much want it, and look at women as the hopeful (or worse, convenient) conveyer of it, instead of seeing the whole picture of who we are and what we can bring to your bed besides the sum of the parts you'd like a picture of.
And women can tell the difference. Oh, yes we can.
So if you absolutely must send me a picture of your junk, stick some googly eyes on it or wrap it in a Hogwarts scarf and draw a lightning bolt on the tip. Make me laugh and I'm halfway in bed with you already.
Other than that, you can skip the portrait.
I'd rather meet your manparts in person, on my own terms, thanks.
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