My Penis Is Ruining My Life

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My penis is a dickhead. He’s an asshole. He’s my worst friend, and I can never leave him.

I knew him growing up, but we didn’t really hang out that often. In elementary school, he was just some guy. We’d see each other in the bathroom, but it wasn’t really us wasting time. We were just in and out. We’d say hi and then go on with our day. He only really got me in trouble when I said his name too loud in the middle of class.

But then he changed. He started making weird suggestions. In middle school, he’d tell me to sit next to certain girls in class. He’d push me to agree with anything a girl would say. On occasion, he’d say, “Hump that pillow.” At first, I’d wonder why, and how, and for what reason? He said this is what people do. That nobody would care. We could do it while nobody was looking. That it was just a pillow without feelings. I went from questions like, “Why?” to questions like, “Why not?” This was my friend. He wouldn’t steer me wrong. We’ve known one another since birth. Then my mom walked in and wondered out loud what the hell I was doing. My penis had no answers. He was just an innocent bystander to my horrible decision. He just kind of stood there, like a dickhead.

I honestly thought things would change. I thought we’d get to high school and we’d work hard in school and make great friendships and do whatever we could to become good people. I was wrong. My penis had none of those plans. He didn’t care about school or friendships or family. He just wanted to “get his.” But we still got closer. Almost too close. Spending hours together. Our relationship turned into a daily struggle of my rational brain on one shoulder and him on the other. He told me it would be a great idea to have girls sit on my lap during chorus class and then he’d start jostling around and ruin the whole thing. Almost like a prank. When someone wondered out loud how we would get alcohol, he would raise my hand. I’d tell him we didn’t have alcohol. He said, “Your parents do, dummy.” When someone offered me a cigarette, he told me to take it. I told him that I had bad lungs. That as a baby I swallowed something called Meconium and I physically couldn’t inhale the smoke. He asked me what Meconium was and I explained that it’s actually the infant’s feces inside the womb. He said, “You swallowed your own shit?” and laughed. Then he explained that he’d met a small penis with that same story. I took the cigarette. I coughed. He didn’t really care.

Then he came with me to college. I knew we should have gone to different schools. I needed to study so I could get a good job. But he said we’d make a good team. He said we should go to a school for “the experience.” He said we should go to the school with the great party scene. He said a job was “all about who you know.” That him and I would study all day and party all night. We went. We partied. And when morning came, I’d try and go study. The hangover would be oppressive. He’d tell me the only way to make it better was to shake him around. That only made me want to study less. He only encouraged me when it came to shots or shotgunning. He’d say, “Look, they’re all watching. Show them what we can do.” Then we’d meet a girl and he’d just pass out, leaving me to explain. He never apologized.

I graduated. I got a job. I thought he’d get better. I thought he’d relax a bit. I’d get into relationships and he’d be fine for a few months. Then he’d get restless. He’d be bored by the woman I was with. He’d tell me about all the girls I was missing out on. We’d be on the train. Every woman that walked by he’d nudge me a bit. He’d say, “Look at her. Oh and that one. What about that one?” He was like a kid at Disney World. It was almost too much. I’d say, “What about the girl we are hanging with. The cool one. The one who made us laugh.” And he’d just shrug. He’d tell me that I was too good looking, too young, too busy to be held down. I’d listen. I’d move on. He’d push me to download the apps. It was like I bought him speed. He wouldn’t stop. He’d tell me to keep swiping. Even when I was on dates. He’d bring me to the bathroom to swipe more. When a push notification popped up after sleeping at a girl’s place. He was nowhere to be found. Tucked away, still sleeping. A heart semi-broken, but he didn’t care.

I keep wondering when it will end. When will this guy stop being such a dick? When will he realize that if we work together we can have a happier life? Then I see an older man with a much younger woman. I see the look in the old man’s eye. The one I see in the mirror after I climax. A clearer head. It’s the look of a man who had a wife of thirty years. Built a life with a house and kids and memories. It’s the look of a man with a dickhead friend who told him that old chick’s boobs weren’t as good as the woman from the gym and he listened. His dickhead friend never changed. They live together now in a white-walled apartment with an empty fridge. It was much easier when it was just a pillow.

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