Flavor Of The Week: The Penis Show

As a newly single 29-year-old woman entering the world of Downtown dating again, my past has not been nearly as cool as Suze Rotolo’s. The famed ex-girlfriend of Bob Dylan writes in her hot new memoir, A Freewheelin’ Time, about how their love bloomed amid artists in Greenwich Village. All I have in my Village diary is a broken heart, some whack-jobs and one crazy penis.

Four years ago, I was sharing a 400-square-foot apartment with my BFF Jody when I accepted a date with a young buck from the dog run. He was tall, blond and built like a hockey player named Chuck. We talked about music, local bands and where to go out in the city; I thought he’d be a fine suitor to go for a drink with.

At the time, I’d fallen for a man much too old and unavailable, so Chuck seemed like an easy ego boost and someone who could definitely fill the space for a young woman looking for fun. He was cute, but it really didn’t matter because I had just wanted a distraction, possibly a catalyst to pull me away from banging my head against a wall with the other guy. I wasn’t looking for a husband or my future baby daddy—I just wanted someone normal and sans baggage with which to grab a flirty drink.

I called him on a Tuesday and invited him to go to a music show I was attending. I waited on the corner of Bowery and East Third Street as he crossed the street toward me. His tall, 6-foot-2 body seemed to waiver like a gangly branch blowing in the wind. He fell into me, crouching over my 5-foot-7 frame, as his forearms tugged at my blond hair. As we pulled out of an awkward hug, I felt something was off.

We went for a quick beer before the show and the shy, soft-spoken personality I met at the dog run was gone. Now, he threw F-bombs around and asked me if I had any tattoos in inappropriate areas.

I told him about my tattoo in a seemingly conservative locale: the small of my back. He boasted a precarious location for his and asked if I wanted to see it. I told him I could wait, and we carried on to the show. His behavior only got more bizarre. He put his arm around my shoulder as we walked, but it didn’t seem like a romantic gesture—it was as if I were his crutch.

Chuck and I got to the show, and I introduced him to my friend Mike who was in the band. As my teetering date walked away to get us a drink, Mike asked, “What the hell is wrong with that guy?” I just laughed. Chuck arrived a few moments later and clumsily placed my Corona on the table. His eyelids were heavy, hanging over his bulging red eyes as he stared directly down at me. I was not turned on in the least—in fact, he was starting to creep me out. He wavered from his left to right foot as though he were trying to figure out which one to give attention to. There was a mild giggle reverberating in the back of my brain, knowing that this would make a good story to tell my friends. As I grabbed my beer with two hands to stabilize it, he said, “Do you want to see my tattoo now?” I looked up at him towering over me.

“OK, sure,” I said.

He lifted his shirt, and I thought to myself, “The pelvic area isn’t that X-rated.”

Then he undid his belt and soon his pants were down and he was pointing to the tattoo on his upper thigh. I can’t remember what the blotch of color was because his penis had fallen out. There it flopped, staring at me intently.

By the time he realized his man part was hanging free, he pulled up his pants, knocking himself off balance and nearly falling over. Jolted out of my showdown with the one-eyed anaconda, I blinked my eyes a few times to rid them of the image. I was so shocked by both the substantial size and the childlike incident that I just sat there—silent and dumbfounded. He sat down again and our conversation went completely downhill.

I could see his mouth moving, but all I could think of was the scary penis that had just invaded our date. Here I was trying to get over someone else, and this obliterated accidental streaker, who had just dropped his pants in front of my face, sat talking about how great the band was. I was anxious to send him home.

After the band finished, I walked him out, telling him that I was already committed to having a drink with my friend from the band. As I walked away, he called out that he was sorry.

“If you could give me another chance, I swear I’ll take you on the best date ever,” he said desperately, knowing he had screwed up royally but still wanting the chance to redeem himself.  “You like Italian food? I could take you for Italian food. That would be nice.”

I turned to look at him and said, “Thanks. We’ll talk soon,” knowing damn well we wouldn’t.

He sent me an email a few days later apologizing profusely. He said that I had called him when he was partying with friends and, because he wanted to see me that night, he came anyway—after doing copious amounts of drugs. It seemed like a plausible excuse for someone with a tattoo on his upper thigh and a penis that desperately wanted to see daylight. It just wasn’t the prospect of normalcy that I had been searching for. I just wanted to have a drink with a guy who could carry on a relatively intelligent conversation without dropping his pants.