This segment titled Alphabet Soup: The alphabet according to someone with very little shame and a lot of time on her hands was inspired by blogger Mandy Wallace and the Writers of Kern A to Z challenge. Enjoy!
Hello everyone! It’s Friday once again and I don’t know about you, but I’m unpleasantly hungover. That’s what happens when you drink Tequila, boys and girls! Hopefully your day is off to a better start than mine. Because you’re beautiful and I love you.
Dicks have become a widespread unit of measurement, for both men and women. From the moment you realize only boys have it, to that professor in college who only sees the world in relation to the phallus, dicks constantly determine our (subjective) reality. They’ve become a measure of worth, the national average dictating who has a right to feel manly and who will never be able to “hold on to a girl”. They’re a supposed visual reminder of women’s morals. Too many of them and you’re a slut. And yet too few, past a certain age, and the dick-shaped negative space in your life becomes an invitation for everyone to wonder about your sexuality. Like there is a Goldilocks number out there that’s just right, except no one’s found it because it’s entirely subjective and depends on those judging you.
Guys send pictures of their dicks like calling cards. Like “Naw, you don’t need my number. With a picture of my dick you’ll be able to pick me out in a crowd”. And I can’t help but wonder if even as a joke that has some ring of truth to it. Have we all convinced ourselves that a dick is so powerful? Have women inadvertently promoted this delusion that we are are as awestruck and inspired as men are by their own dicks? And if so, does that mean that in this social currency our vaginas should be what matter most about us? Because very few women were ever taught to feel proud of lips that can’t speak. Then again, few were ever taught to speak with either set of lips, so maybe there’s something to it after all.
There is a dick shaped space left in my heart, sounds like the worst verse ever written in poetry. And yet, I keep circling back to it. Sluts, prudes, MEN (with all capitals to properly communicate their manliness), men (lowercase because their dick isn’t big enough), all determined by the amount and quality of the dicks they’ve possessed or haven’t or continuously do. And so girls lie about having had sex so they can escape being called a prude. They lie about the number of guys they’ve slept with to avoid being called a slut. And men say things like “It’s cold” when it’s too small, “I know you want it” when they’re proud of what they’ve got.
Even so, there are times when I can’t help but want my circumstances to be influenced by a dick. Like that moment when you’re leaning in to kiss a guy and you feel it against you, a shared wish turning into a promise. Like that precise instant when someone enters you and your entire being condenses into that one entry point. When the sum of his and her parts equal something greater, or just great. Like every time sex ends and your skin glistens and your body aches and there’s nothing. A happy nothing. You both leave. Space defined by the absence of everything that makes up two people. Dicks cease to be relevant.
In the end, when it counts, we’re measured by nothing more than silence and the steps we take to get away from the pieces of ourselves we’ve left behind.