Peering Out the Front Door

My friend has a girlfriend now, and through her he meets different people and sees them at different functions.  He told me about one guy he met who he’s seen at a few parties.  At the parties, this gentleman likes to unzip his pants and have his willy hanging out for all to see.  I suppose he wears boxers, making it much easier to put his unit through the opening.  Briefs would not be as accommodating.

He rocks out with his cock out.

This gentleman attends these parties with his girlfriend.

Late at night I ponder this.

In all my adult life, I have never seen someone do this.  In high school, I do remember someone jokingly whipping out his pink Cadillac and acting like nothing was unusual, thus surprising the people around him, who were other guys in the school hallway.  As an adult, though, I have never witnessed someone placing his fleshy flashlight out to be exposed to the outside air, for the sake of humor.

I have never done this.  I like to think of my humor of having a more high brow nature.  I’m lying to myself by thinking that, but not lying to you if I admit to lying to myself.

But that’s neither here nor there.

When I think of this sausage situation, the thing that strikes me is that this gentleman who performs this act at these parties has a girlfriend.  And I imagine what this girl is like.

I imagine her as being the prettiest girl in the room.  She is beautiful, but not fully aware of her beauty.  She is humble and enjoys her place in life.  She is unassuming and down-to-earth.  She is well-read and cultured, and spontaneous. She is kind to children and animals.  If you met her, you would know just from seeing her big brown eyes, that she is open and sweet and lovely.

Oh, no.

She doesn’t think it’s funny when her boyfriend whips out his schlong.  But she knows the real him, whatever that may be.  And she lets him be.

I think about this a lot when I am alone.  I think about how nothing really makes sense.  If I did that at a party, someone would call the police, or at least not invite me again.  Then someone would say, “You don’t have a girlfriend because you whip out your baby maker.”  I would agree with them.

And then sit home.

Alone.

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