I want to do porno. Not backwoods smut with some “cocktail waitress” and her donkey, I want to do respectable porn, the kind that appears on premium cable channels. I want to tap lines off USC Cheerleader tits before sacking it from behind like a blitzing Lawrence Taylor. As most of us know, however, men of mind-blowing stature dominate the adult film industry. Men who, while thrusting from the hallway, can penetrate a girl in the shower. As much as I enjoy watching these achievements, the brutal truth is that I have an undersized member. Yes, I have what some call the Irish Curse.
For as long as I can recall, I have rooted for the little guy, such as Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia. I love watching him play. He makes me proud of my Irish Curse. Dustin doesn’t have much height. Nor does he have much girth. But, when he steps up to the plate, if you see that look on his face, it’s the look of Ron Jeremy, Peter North, John Holmes; it’s the triumphant look of a man about to toss the money shot. Dustin is living his dream, and I keep clinging to mine: Someday I will become the Dustin Pedroia of the adult film industry.
Kimberly had a major and double-minor in three different -ologies. She was a culturally enlightened, compassionately righteous, altruistic intellectual who wanted to charter Red Cross helicopter flights over cities like Mogadishu and drop bags of multi-grain biscuits into the eternally grateful hands of amino-deficient exiles. My Kimberly always saw the good in people such as myself.
As glad as I was to have Kimberly, college life still posed its conflicts. I had no clue which major I should choose. Having absolutely no aptitude for the sciences, I could pursue a field in business or the liberal arts. Part of me wanted to go for business, make a lot of money and hopefully compensate for my shortcomings. But then it dawned on me that people might think I’d gone into business just to compensate for my Curse. Thus, I decided to choose a major with limited earning potential, so I could be broke as well as Cursed, so no one could ever accuse me of trying to compensate for anything. I would simply be all-around deficient.
I became a liberal arts student with an unspecified major. In philosophy I encountered the primary metaphysical questions of: Why? (e.g., Why do I have an Irish Curse?) And to what degree? (e.g.,To what degree is my Curse Irish?) In sociology, I kept thinking about the function of my Curse and its sociological ramifications, before concluding that my Curse was on the “micro level.” In history, I kept wondering how many maniacal dictators had an Irish Curse, such as Napoleon Bonaparte, whose beef was supposedly smaller than that of a Bichon Frise.
By the time I declared myself an American lit major, Kimberly had ditched me for some “humanitarian”—someone with a better understanding of the human spirit (and bigger schlong), who was “better equipped” to meet her “emotional needs.” And though I (went down on her constantly, covered her ass in exfoliating jellies, strategically placed two electric swivel pens before fisting her with both hands and biting her nipples) was “good company,” her newfound beloved was fully (endowed) in touch with the “struggles of humanity,” in contrast to your humble(d) narrator, who couldn’t hit the clitoris.
Hey, humanitarian-boy: I hope you like saving the world with my sloppy-seconds… OK, enough bravado. Besides, I must admit, it doesn’t really count as “sloppy seconds” if I couldn’t even make the girl sloppy (sans repeated multipleforeign-object penetration). At any rate, in my post-Kimberly existence, I embarked on a quest for meaning, trying to gain knowledge about the place of my Irish Curse in this world. I turned to Eastern philosophy and found solace in the teachings of Confucius: “Him with little wang, must carry big balls.” I’m not sure from which volume that adage is from. Perhaps there is no such exact quote, yet I was still able to divine wisdom from the subtext.
I have matured greatly these last several years. It’s no longer enough to live just for my Curse. I want to live for everyone’s shortcomings. Though my Curse will never outgrow me, I can outgrow my Curse. As I paddle along in this great big world with an undersized, albeit determined, member, I hope that my Curse can serve as an inspiration for others. Ours is a world full of deficiencies of body or mind.You need not be Irish to be Cursed. My brothers and sisters: So many of us carry a burden. Some have diabetes, or hepatitis, or manic depression or hemophilia.
So many of us have our own version of the Irish Curse…but I have a small pecker.
For as long as I can recall, I have rooted for the little guy, such as Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia. I love watching him play. He makes me proud of my Irish Curse. Dustin doesn’t have much height. Nor does he have much girth. But, when he steps up to the plate, if you see that look on his face, it’s the look of Ron Jeremy, Peter North, John Holmes; it’s the triumphant look of a man about to toss the money shot. Dustin is living his dream, and I keep clinging to mine: Someday I will become the Dustin Pedroia of the adult film industry.
I don’t have much size, but I have tons of heart, and all the intangibles. Also, I’ve always been up for adventure. My Curse has traveled to some interesting places. It’s been to Montreal (where, with U.S. currency, you didn’t need a lick of French to get a blowjob), Amsterdam (where the Curse was “deep-throated” on the fifth-floor of a red-light spiral staircase) and Tijuana (where, following a “blumpkin” request, the Curse and its possessor were threatened with banishment from a discount brothel).
In spite of such exotic travels, the Curse’s favorite destination was undoubtedly the dorm of one dear Kimberly.We met during our sophomore year. She was a pretty cool chick. She had a flat chest, though, which meant there was basically no second base. With myself having an Irish Curse, I basically had no third base. So we scored from first base in about 20 seconds.
What made things really swell between myself and Kimberly was that we had an implicit understanding. Life had presented us both with shortcomings, and we adapted, copulating at angles that defied all geometric explanation and threatened several laws of physics.
Kimberly had a major and double-minor in three different -ologies. She was a culturally enlightened, compassionately righteous, altruistic intellectual who wanted to charter Red Cross helicopter flights over cities like Mogadishu and drop bags of multi-grain biscuits into the eternally grateful hands of amino-deficient exiles. My Kimberly always saw the good in people such as myself.
As glad as I was to have Kimberly, college life still posed its conflicts. I had no clue which major I should choose. Having absolutely no aptitude for the sciences, I could pursue a field in business or the liberal arts. Part of me wanted to go for business, make a lot of money and hopefully compensate for my shortcomings. But then it dawned on me that people might think I’d gone into business just to compensate for my Curse. Thus, I decided to choose a major with limited earning potential, so I could be broke as well as Cursed, so no one could ever accuse me of trying to compensate for anything. I would simply be all-around deficient.
I became a liberal arts student with an unspecified major. In philosophy I encountered the primary metaphysical questions of: Why? (e.g., Why do I have an Irish Curse?) And to what degree? (e.g.,To what degree is my Curse Irish?) In sociology, I kept thinking about the function of my Curse and its sociological ramifications, before concluding that my Curse was on the “micro level.” In history, I kept wondering how many maniacal dictators had an Irish Curse, such as Napoleon Bonaparte, whose beef was supposedly smaller than that of a Bichon Frise.
By the time I declared myself an American lit major, Kimberly had ditched me for some “humanitarian”—someone with a better understanding of the human spirit (and bigger schlong), who was “better equipped” to meet her “emotional needs.” And though I (went down on her constantly, covered her ass in exfoliating jellies, strategically placed two electric swivel pens before fisting her with both hands and biting her nipples) was “good company,” her newfound beloved was fully (endowed) in touch with the “struggles of humanity,” in contrast to your humble(d) narrator, who couldn’t hit the clitoris.
Hey, humanitarian-boy: I hope you like saving the world with my sloppy-seconds… OK, enough bravado. Besides, I must admit, it doesn’t really count as “sloppy seconds” if I couldn’t even make the girl sloppy (sans repeated multipleforeign-object penetration). At any rate, in my post-Kimberly existence, I embarked on a quest for meaning, trying to gain knowledge about the place of my Irish Curse in this world. I turned to Eastern philosophy and found solace in the teachings of Confucius: “Him with little wang, must carry big balls.” I’m not sure from which volume that adage is from. Perhaps there is no such exact quote, yet I was still able to divine wisdom from the subtext.
I have matured greatly these last several years. It’s no longer enough to live just for my Curse. I want to live for everyone’s shortcomings. Though my Curse will never outgrow me, I can outgrow my Curse. As I paddle along in this great big world with an undersized, albeit determined, member, I hope that my Curse can serve as an inspiration for others. Ours is a world full of deficiencies of body or mind.You need not be Irish to be Cursed. My brothers and sisters: So many of us carry a burden. Some have diabetes, or hepatitis, or manic depression or hemophilia.
So many of us have our own version of the Irish Curse…but I have a small pecker.
choco_paco
