The Hardest Drug

I was fifteen years old when I discovered it, the most incredible drug on earth. No one ever warned me against it, this was before the Internet mind you, but that probably would have gotten me hooked earlier. It was not man-made, G-d made it, or the Universe (or whatever is in fashion to call it this month) and it transported me to the highest realms of ecstasy, more than that eponymous drug. I tried most drugs that year, but I knew enough not to try Heroin, because they talked to me about Heroin, and there were TV commercials, and it just didn’t look that good. Plus that whole needle thing. Not. Appealing. But no one ever told me about it, and I found out later that my dad cut it out of my biology book, and only now can I appreciate why. He must have known, and my mom too, but why didn’t anyone tell me about that most mind-blowing of all mood-altering narcotics – the Human Penis.

Oh sure, the thing belonged to someone, and I guess that was partly the point. There was a proud owner of the thing, and it required a certain engagement on his part, which at the time, teenage boys being what they are, was not in question. They were always engaged. In something, if not in me, then certainly in the idea of someone who resembled me. And I didn’t realize that I was hooked on the engagement, didn’t realize until now, some twenty-five years later, where this fascination would take me. How many rumpled beds I would lie on, how many cuties would take my attention from what I was supposed to be focusing on, and most horribly, how much baseball I would sit through. Those are hours I will never get back.

And now I have two little penises of my own (G-d help me if they ever read this) so what should I tell them? Be wary of the women who puts your genitals on an altar and prays to them each night? Be nice to those girls because there is something missing inside them from birth or childhood or some other time and place that they are seeking to fill with you? I mean, these kids haven’t even gone through puberty yet, but I’m already worried about it. I worry about them even more than I worry about my friends, and the world, and myself, and that’s a lot. I don’t have a job right now, so basically all I have to do is worry. That, and yoga. Though usually not at the same time.

I am no longer fascinated by the penis. Meh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a fan. I would have it sign an autograph and totes follow it on Twitter. But nowadays my altar does not feature it; though it’s not a large altar, like they had in the Temple in Jerusalem in the Old Times, when they knew from an altar, and would sacrifice goats on it and shit. Though if I had an altar that big, ornate and made of gold, like everything was back then because ancient Jews were somewhere between gaudy and Rococo (I bet I was digging it in my Cohen Priestly garb) I would put the following…

My childhood toy. My heart. My talent. A couple of my kids’ keepsakes. Service. Art. And love. Big Universal Love. And if a dick comes with that, then GREAT, but either way, this is what I pray to each night. The bible may call it idol worship, but in my heart and mind, I am growing to adore that which is inside me, the soul that is apart from what you all see, or what you show the world of you. It is unique, and yet not so unique, which is even more impressive, knowing that everybody has one… So Namaste motherfuckers. My essence salutes your essence. My breath meets your breath… and one day soon, I might get laid again. Who knows? Until then, I will give myself a big long hug, and kiss myself good night and sleep in peace knowing I have all that I have ever needed inside me, even all that time ago, when I didn’t know it.

4 comments

  1. Since I usually make it a point to try and say something clever or poignant about your blog entries, I will take this time to let you know I have nothing significant to offer in regards to penis worship. Instinctually, I want to talk about my love and adoration of the vagina. Much like the penis, every vagina has its own language—its own way of communicating. Sometimes it works. And, at times, it eluded me–or spoke Russian, when I was speaking Swahili (no, I don’t know Swahili). But 99% of the time, interpreting came naturally and with extreme poeticism. So, while you worship the penis, there are those of us who worship the vagina with equal fervor. And, to remain “considerate but with an edge”, I should leave it at that, so that I don’t allow wild abandon to guide my thoughts and feelings.

    EXTRA NOTE: And, I even restrained my thoughts and writing while watching a film about a group of friends spending an entire weekend having sex with each other.

    • Um if you notice this post is about how I *don’t* worship the penis anymore, though I am particularly more than fond of one, and its specific owner. I am sure there were many times when you and the vagina needed no interpreter. Also, what movie was it? Anything we would know? Sounds like the logline to many…

      • Yes, terrible wording on my part. Should have been “while you had worshipped the penis”, yet I made it present tense (probably because I have read your blog for a while and the penis seems ever-present to the topic) 🙂

        I can’t divulge the title of the film, unfortunately, because it is something submitted to us and hasn’t premiered yet anywhere. But, hopefully, I can talk about it soon enough.

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