Brown Paper Packages Tied Up with String


Hot Dogs on the GrillSo I followed the advice of my gynecologist (if you missed my post about him here’s the link I ordered both a dildo and a bottle of lube.

My parcel arrived! With a mix of excitement and anxiety I stared at the box and realized excitedly that the contents could be a game changer for me. Yet at the same time I was scared.  A working vagina would mean I was ready for sex again. Ready for sex again would men dating. Dating would mean I was ready to attempt to have a relationship. Relationships scared me. After a very ugly divorce and a very painful on-and-off boyfriend situation I was afraid. My heart could only take so much. I was brave in every other area of my life. Love was frightening.

Charm_f110x147_1421201154I opened the card board box that said CHARM 1 Dildo and had a graphic of the purple, hook shaped device on it. I looked it over and flexed it back and forth. It reminded me of a purple uncooked hot dog. Thinking of it as food made it seem a little friendlier. With visions of B-B-Qs and picnics I read the package: “Charm’s extended length offers extra inches for those who prefer a longer reach. Made from 100% recycled silicone. (I couldnt help woder what had been recylced to make this object I was planning on inserting into my very clean vagina). The thick oval-shaped base makes Charm compatible with a variety of harnesses” Huh??!!! Harness-compatible base? Oh, dear… what was I getting into here. ID-Glide-Lube-Water-Based-645oz_grandeUgh. Why couldn’t I just be “normal”?  I wish I smoked pot. Instead I poured myself a glass of wine and stared at my first dildo.

I put “Charm” aside and took out the bottle of personal lubricant. The bottle was larger than any shampoo or conditioner shampoo I had ever purchased. Is was more like the size of a bottle of bleach. It was time to do this! I put on CNN. I quickly learned that as much as I liked Anderson Cooper he wasn’t helpful. I turned him off and tried to turn myself on but even with a handfull of lube the pain was still there. It felt like I was trying to jam a hot dog into a key hole.

I tried again the next night after a bubble bath and a glass of wine. This time I put John Legend on my iPod. John sure beat Anderson in the sex appeal department but the pain remained. The task of trying to stretch out a menopausal atrophied vag (ryhmes with Madge as in Madonna) was more time consuming and annoying then going to the gym, doing the dishes by hand, or racking leaves.DSC_0480 I tried to be consistent. I wished Sex in the City was still on and one of the girls was struggling with menopause. Or maybe The View could have an segment, or Steve Harvey. Meredith Viera, or Dr..Oz. Better yet Martha Stewart. She was great with step-by-step directions, was the right age and was very confident but alas I was on my own. It made me angry that there wasn’t a service, like a phsyical therapist, but with an expertise in stretching.  Maybe Gwyneth Paltrow would know someone. She has experts for everything! When I realized how weird that would be I felt hopeless. I felt very alone and was convinced my sex life was over.  I was done. And then wouldn’t you know, the next day I met a handsome surgeon from one of the best cancer hospitals in the world. We hit it off. As soon as I got home from the date I dug out “Charm”. With my eye on the prize, the hunky oncologist, I could do this! Fantasizing about Dr. Hotness did nothing for the pain, it was the same. I was convinced I had not stretched anything.  It was time to step up my game.



With the New York Mets in the World Series I just had to share this post from an older friend (who wishes to remain anonymous) about the first she masturbated.

The New York Met’s were in the World Series. It had to have been the late 1960s. I don’t think they ever were in the World Series before. A once in a lifetime event.My parents were not TV people. Or sports people. They read newspapers and drank.  I was sent to bed. My brother had also been sent to bed but he had a transistor radio. I was under the cool floral sheets with the fan on high (back in the pre A/C days for most folks in suburbia). I felt wet between my legs.Was it so hot that I was sweating? No. I thought maybe I had peed. I reached down and could feel the warm liquid. Hmm… that’s weird. Did I have an accident? I felt around and the juice increased. Was I peeing on my fingers? I pulled my hand out and sniffed my index finger. What was that smell? I bravely licked my wet pointer finger. It was salty but although I had never tasted urine, I was sure it was not. My hand went back to this mysterious source of moisture when my brother came running into my bedroom, the Met’s had scored, My hands were down my thick, white cotton panties.


Even though every light on the upstairs level of our split-level house was off I was sure he saw what I was doing. He was older than me. I must have known I was doing something bad. Something weird.Soemthing dirty. Something I would surely get in trouble for. I waited for him to question me, to tease me, to report me to my mother, but he never did. And I never did what I did that night again. The Mets were my ticket to my budding sexuality and also the end of my sexual experimenting for close to a decade.


My brother grew up and moved away to college. Years later, when I moved west to go to college, I was dying to order a masturbation book from the Book of the Month Club. Still embarrassed,  I ordered a bunch of books so the masturbation book wouldn’t stand out. I was going to learn how to really masturbate and have an orgasm. It took that book and a lot of hard work but I finally did. Over and over again. Sometimes when I’m alone I can still hear the tinny sound of my brother’s transistor radio and the crowd dheering.


The D Word

images-1I went to the gynecologist soon after my failed attempt at re-popping my cherry.

“Since you’re not big on medication I’d say the way to go is lubrication (here we go again) and get yourself a dildo.”

I stood there in the ritzy office with my Harvard educated gynecologist and he just said the “D” word. I nearly died.

“Is that really the only option? Isn’t there something else? Physical therapy? Acupuncture? A specialist you could refer me to?”

“That’s really it, unless you want to try medication.”

I shook my head no.

“So a dildo it is.”

I nodded with a tiny, awkward smile about the size of my shrinking (yes, they really do shrink) vagina.

I walked home with my head down. I had to do this. I had to stretch things out and get back in the game. Sex was always an important part of my life. If I didn’t do anything now it would only get harder or worse, I might never be able to have sex ever again if my vagina continued to shrink and atrophy. What a horrible thought!

I went straight to my laptop and did a Google search. I have to tell you as I sat there researching I felt sick to my stomach. I was upset with myself for letting this happen. Who hasn’t heard the phrase, if you don’t use it you lose it. I never thought it would happen to me! I was angry with my body for letting me down. It also made me realize that I was alone. Single. Unattached. I would have to handle this on my own. I wondered if I had a husband, a boyfriend, or a lover would they be willing to help me sort out the mess I was in. Why wasn’t I in a relationship? My thought ran wildly in the wrong direction. Focus. Let’s figure this out!

I typed in dildos for menopausal woman and hit the return key and there it was, “sex toys for the menopausal woman”.


I cringed. I normally like shopping. Even online shopping… this wasn’t fun! I read the text:

“If you are post-menopausal, approaching menopause, or just over 50, you have come to the right place. Our sexologists have outlined a few tips to keep in mind when you are picking out sex toys after 50. Your body is changing (or has changed) in a way that is different from when you were 20 and that can influence your choice of toys.

1. Start with Lubricant

After 50 our bodies starts producing a little less moisture than before, and that includes our vaginas and vulva.  Lubrication makes everything that much more supple and pleasurable.

2. Use Supple Toys

Find toys that bend with you.  Aging tissues tends to become thinner and less elastic.  This change can be challenging, especially when a slight bump that used to go unnoticed or may even have been arousing before menopause, might now cause a jolt of pain or discomfort.  Toys made with silicone are an excellent choice as they are both body safe (no phthalates) and pliable.  And yet they are firm enough to give the toy structure without being too hard.  Make sure to choose toys with smooth edges.

3. Use a Dildo (at least now and then):

The vagina needs a work out too — being massaged, squeezed and contracted.  This stimulation will keep vaginal walls active and will ward against thinning and drying by bringing rich and nourishing blood flow to feed the tissue. If you are not having intercourse with a partner, a dildo is an ideal option. Or if your partner’s erection is not always there, a dildo is an idea choice.

4. Strong Vibrations:

As tissue wanes and blood flow decreases, so can our ability to feel sensation as we did before menopause. We may need more stimulation to get the same nerve endings to fire.  Vibrators ramp up the sensation, increasing the intensity of stimulation needed to achieve orgasm without tiring a hand (or tongue).keep-calm-and-buy-sex-toys-6

Keep in mind menopause is a time of change, which means what you are experiencing now may change again tomorrow or next year.  Adopt an attitude of “go with the flow.”

What a friendly and informative site! I felt way better than I did when I left my doctor’s office. I was not a freak. And I was not alone after all. So I did it! I ordered a lubricant and a dildo. I’ve got this. Update to follow. Soon?



I Have a Boyfriend 2

9878211724_3ccc592f66_mMore from Amy…

One day I was walking home from Target, when a man approached me on the street. I was struggling with a shelving unit I’d bought that was about the same size as me, when he offered to help me carry it. I turned him down for an entire block, because I didn’t want this to turn into a pick up line. But, by the time I got to the third cross walk, I knew I needed the assistance.

He helped me carry the shelf back to my building, and then left with a thank you. Awesome, right? Someone did an honest good deed, so where am I going with this story? Well, obviously, this isn’t the end of my tale.

I ran into him about a week later on the street in front of my building. He said “I’ve been thinking about you all week, and I was just wondering if I could have your number.”

I said “I’m sorry. I have a boyfriend, and I don’t think he’d appreciate you calling. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t give my number out to strangers. It’s disrespectful to my relationship.”

He said “So, we can’t even be friends? I think we could be friends.”

And I said “no, I’m sorry. I have had a lot of bad experiences with friends and I just don’t give out my number anymore. Thank you for your help the other day. But, I’m good.”

Now, at the time, I was texting a friend. So, my phone was right there in my hand. He proceeded to grab it and call himself, stating “here, now you can say you had no choice” as if that was somehow a good thing.

Before any of you act like this is some shocking thing that never happens, I want you to know that this has in fact happened to me multiple times. It sounds crazy if you’ve never seen it. But, I assure you, there are many men out there who think this move just shows “confidence” and isn’t creepy at all.

He texted me later that night. I didn’t answer. He called me later that night. I didn’t answer. He did the same thing the next day and, again, I did not answer.

Finally, on my birthday, I got a call from an unknown number. When I clicked the message, this is what I heard; “Bitch, I don’t know why you have my man’s number or why he’s over here blowing up your spot. But, I want you to know that he’s married. He has a child. And not only that, HE HAS AIDS. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you he gave it to me? Because he did. So, leave him alone before he gives you that dirty ass dick of his. Or if you already fucked him, then enjoy having HIV.”

I texted this strange new number and said “your husband took my phone and called himself. I have a boyfriend and have zero interest in being with him. Thanks for the info, I will continue to ignore his calls.”

Later that night, he called and left a crazy voicemail that said “my ex is just jealous. She’s stalking me. Maybe we could meet up for coffee sometime and talk this over? I’m free on Thursday if you want to go out.” Needless to say, I did not call him back.

😱😱😱😱😱 ‪#‎SAYWHAT‬ “You’re just another bitch”


I met this guy at a bar. I will be honest, I don’t really remember what we talked about or why I gave him my number. But, apparently, I did because he started calling me everyday after that night out.

I was honestly too busy to answer the phone the first couple times. But, when he started sending me texts three times a day that said “hey, you alive? You can’t answer your phone? What? Are you that busy?” I decided it was probably best that I continue to ignore him.

After about a week of not returning his calls, he left me a voicemail that said “you know, I thought we had a real connection. But, obviously you’re just another whore trying to get a free drink. I hope bitches like you burn in hell for what you do to men. You aren’t even that cute. I’ve fucked cuter. You’re just another bitch.”

And this, ladies and gentleman, is why I never allow random men at the bar to buy me drinks anymore. 😐😐😐 ‪#‎ICanBuyMyOwn‬

So, anyway, I hope that sheds some light on why women don’t hand their number out like candy. ‪#‎TheMoreYouKnow‬

Dating Daddy


I was meeting a friend for dinner at a swanky Beverly Hills restaurant. I was on time but my friend, new to the area, was lost. I cannot stand to wait alone for anyone in a restaurant or bar. Although, I’m a very friendly person and quite confident in most areas, I feel incredibly uncomfortable and vulnerable in that environment. (I think it dates back to immediately after my separation when a girlfriend invited me to meet her at a bar. I got there and she was nowhere in sight. I had no idea at the time that I was in a well-known pick up bar on a Saturday night. Many men assumed I was there for the sole reason of hooking up. Apparently everyone in Los Angeles knew this but me and that’s precisely why they went there. It may have been my worst night as a newly single woman).

I was beyond thrilled that evening when the hostess allowed me to sit down at a table as long as I ordered something. I sat at the table and promptly ordered an 18 dollar glass of Sancerre and the bruschetta appetizer. I figured I could nibble slowly until my friend arrived. As soon as I sat down the older gentleman at the table to my right smiled. As time went by, and my date still had nor arrived, I am sure he and his buddy thought I was stood up. The gentlemen invited me to share their appetizers and I in turn invited them to try mine. Nearly an hour later my date arrived. It became dinner for four. By desert we all knew each other and had exchanged business cards.

A few days later one of the men called and invited me to an art opening. At dinner that evening he mentioned he had to attend a business meeting at a hotel property that he was a partner in. He would be flying down on the company jet. I’m not sure exactly how it happened but I was invited to come along. I said I would love to go as long as I could bring my friend (the same friend he had met at dinner). I called my friend from the bathroom at Mr. Chow and told him to get packing!

To make a long story short we took the helicopter to the private airport to the private plane. Before I knew it we were landing on a beautiful tropical island. It was paradise until I learned I was bunking with the old man while my friend was in his own suite down at the other end of the property. I guessed we were dating not just pals…


The first night we were exhausted from getting up so early. We crashed into the sumptuous king size bed without incident. Al was off to a meeting the next morning while my friend and I were given comp cards to purchase anything we wanted at the shop. The rest of the day was spent relaxing by our private pool with our own staff serving fresh seafood and colorful cocktails. I was trying to get used to the fact that I was dating an older man. Was there anything wrong with it? Was it weird? Maybe it would be a good thing. He certainly was showing me a nice side of life and was extremely generous to my friend and I

images-4That night we want to a local place for dinner.  I looked my date over from head to toe. He was attractive for his age, well-groomed, and was dressed in well fit white linen trousers and the palest of green linen shirt with a cashmere cable knit sweater the same exact color slung over his shoulders. After a festive dinner the three of us we went to see the straw market. This was al’s idea, he thought it would be fun and wanted us to see the other side of the island. We shopped for souvenirs at one stand. The proprietor was lovely and oozed local charm. She insisted that she take our photos in front of a fountain. “Here love, stand next to Daddy and your brother over her on the other side of Daddy.” I almost sit out my teeth. There it was! That’s’ what the world would think of me dating this older gentleman.

On the way home in the chauffeur driven car “Daddy” fell asleep. I knew it was over before it began. images-6

The World is Flat (and so am I)

shutterstock_138076832-300x282This great piece is from my friend’s new blog. If you’re a woman with breasts, I’m sure you can relate. I know I can! If you’re a man, maybe you’ll learn something.

I found out that I was flat-chested in 6th grade. I am both naive and a slow learner; however, when I looked at the other girls changing out of their gym clothes, I couldn’t miss the obvious: I was the only girl wearing a tee-shirt and Grandma pull-up cotton panties. All the other girls in my class were strutting around the locker room in their matching bras and panties.

Apparently, I missed the memo.

After school, I had a clear mission in which I would get a training bra, too. But first, I had to go through my mother. See, my mother was old-school, tough as nails, parochial-schooled Shanty-Irish-Catholic ruler with an iron fist and a biting tongue. No poetic blarney ever came from her; she fancied herself a straight-shooter and you either withstood her heat-seeking missiles or you hid.

I opted to approach her after dinner, after the eight of us sat down to a home-cooked meal, after the dishes had been cleared, the leftovers lovingly stored away to later metamorph into something vaguely recognizable in a day or two, and the pots and pans were scoured, dried, and put away.

The next phase of the evening was homework, but I had been honing my speech (my plea, actually) since school let out and during the 3:00-4:00 soap opera, “The Guiding Light.” My plan was simple and reckless: just get my mother alone and ask her to bring me to The Mart for…mumble…mumble…, which is where I lost my nerve based on her lack of accessibility, interest, or investment in my crisis du jour.

But, I prevailed and blurted that I, “…desperately needed a bra…no one in my gym class was wearing tee-shirts any more…and I needed her to buy me a bra that very night.”Teenform-Training-collectible-5811--711x1024

She stepped back to gain perspective. Looked at me with a critical and jaundiced eye, and proclaimed, “but you don’t need one: you haven’t developed yet.” I admit I’ve suppressed what came next. I know there was no blood. There may have been teeth-gnashing, rending clothes, pulling hanks of hair out and such histrionics, but what I do remember is that we did get in the car with the intention of getting me an unnecessary training bra (her words, not mine).

So. The Mart: old school department store. Some fossils had been there since the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Grease, carbon-dated hot dogs, and rancid popcorn butter added to its dubious allure. But to me, it was Nirvana, I was going to get a bra, wear it the next day, and casually and pointedly change in full view of the other girls so I could show them I belonged to the pack.

Couldn’t have written the script for what happened next, though.

The Mart was a small-town department store in which there was no clear division (walls) between departments. Ladies lingerie may as well been next to fishing tackle, which may as well been next to the snack bar. It was a bargain-basement store and what you see was what you got.

Well, the whole store got an eye full when my mother stopped rummaging through bras, mumbling, “28A, 28A, 28A.” She handed me this stripped-down, sexless, utilitarian scrap of fabric and told me to try it on. I asked her where the dressing rooms were. She shot me a funny look and said, “No, just try it on over your clothes.”59b327d3146ac972cbc1b942931e4544

That phrase still reverberates nearly 40 years later.

The only way I was going to score this bra was to stand in the middle of the store, in the center of the aisle, next to machinists and housewives, and sniggering teens and try on that Goddamned bra.

And I did it. And I’m not proud of it. Sweat was pouring down my back from the humiliation. I must have smelled like a locker room, but I did it: pride be damned. I took off my jacket, unhooked the bra, wrapped it around my chest, and adjusted it while I stood rooted to the spot while my mother adjusted my breasts in full view of the other shoppers. And…lest we forget, she was saying, “…well, you know you don’t really need one….”

She did buy it for me but by that time, it could have been a hair shirt. I wore my new bra to school the next day to gym class. Made sure I was noticed while changing, but no one noticed it. No acknowledgement. No comments. Things were no different than the day before: other than my mother was $6.00 poorer and I was 100% more bitter and cynical.

That’s how I learned I was flat-chested and would remain so. Luckily, I hadn’t been exposed to any snide remarks or jokes…but it was merely a matter of time.

Please find more from sweenbeaner at


Hoping for a Vagina


images-1With all the news of Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner’s transition, I thought I would share another real life story of transition. Very few transgender people, male to female or female to male, can make physical changes so quickly as we have seen Caitlyn go through over the last year or two. Here is Emily’s story. Her story is much closer to the majority of folks in the transgender community. Please read with an open heart.

images-3Ever since I can remember I always felt different, unique and very sad inside when I thought about my life and how I envisioned it to be. I was trying so hard to fit in and be what I was supposed to be even though I cried inside and tried desperately to break free to the girl’s side. Despite my feelings I knew I couldn’t disappoint my parents as they saw me as a boy even though I didn’t see it that way.

Sure I was born male with a penis but my mind, heart and soul registered as female. I was always crying inside as a boy as I saw the girls in their pretty dresses wishing I could dress like them and feeling my body and mind completely at odds with each other. I felt the pain in my heart and it affected every aspect of my life and pushed me into striving to live as male even though it didn’t feel right at all. I reluctantly came to accept my life situation as a “boy” growing into manhood and I remember living in total fear of puberty and worrying about how it would affect me. My dressing was my escape and I always enjoyed the times I spent gazing at my reflection in the mirror in our living room wearing a pretty dress. I had to do this secretly and when I was home alone.  My feelings were all centered around the discomfort with my body and how I viewed myself.  I envisioned wearing the dresses, the bows in my hair, the nail polish and the pretty shoes because I was truly one of the girls. I always envied the girls at my school where I would see them all dressed so pretty as they looked so cute and wore such nice plaid rompers/skirts, blouses and Mary Jane’s shoes which were the school uniforms for girls in Parochial school. Meanwhile I had to wear boring gray pants with a shirt and red tie from grades one through four and blue tie from grades five through eight. I felt I should have been wearing the girl’s uniform and being addressed and treated as one of the girls as a student, an athlete and a person. I was so jealous of what the girl’s had and what I wanted so desperately to have.

As I think back to my boyhood days I remember the clothes I had to wear versus the clothes I wished to wear and the choices, styles and selections I had to wear were diametrically opposite to the clothes I wanted and needed to wear to feel happier and truthful to myself. My parents and my two sisters never knew my secret growing up nor did my friends. I was forced to live in the closet for fear of rejection, ridicule and bullying. I managed however because I was a very dedicated student in school and I was very skillful in baseball and cross-country running in grade school and all throughout high school.

It wasn’t until I reached puberty that I learned that girls have vaginas and boys do not!  I felt trapped with a body that didn’t match my gender identity. I was all girl and I remember I would cry when I realized I was very different from the girls I knew. We had very different anatomies and I knew in my heart and soul that I was a girl! I was a different type of girl! It was very difficult and emotional for me to come to terms with this painful reality. I was born with a penis but I felt totally female and this confused me and made me an emotional recluse hiding behind my studies and my athletic participation. I felt if I buried myself in the books and immersed myself in athletic competition my ongoing depression and gender dysphoria would go away. I always felt my body did not make sense to how I perceived myself from a gender perspective. I was literally sleep walking through my life with no sense of hope as I knew no one that struggled like I did and to make it worse I had no one to share my “secret” with. I just wanted to dream of a place where I could go and live the life I felt in my heart I should. I wanted to live my life as a very feminine woman with a vagina and breasts indeed!

All I could envision was the sad truth that I was not going to experience the joys of young womanhood and I was destined to be a girl with boy parts and the most difficult thing for me was knowing no matter how much I wished and prayed for a miracle I was never going to have a vagina which was always my dream and sadly a mere fantasy for me. I remember praying to God almost every night when I didn’t cry myself to sleep asking him why was I born the way I was, with boy body and girl mind and spirit. I just felt so lost and alone and was just going through the motions psychologically although I continued to excel in my academics and athletic endeavors. This plus music helped me cope to a certain degree but I still found myself secretly cross-dressing which played a major theme in my life as dresses, swimwear, lingerie and shoes were so much fun and so very appealing to me.

I remember through the years and quite vividly how important it was for me to live the life of a woman with a fully functioning vagina and to feel feminine and attractive to guys. If only I had a vagina I could experience feelings I never had of penetration and orgasm. I wanted to have a man inside of me through way of my vagina and to provide me the joys and wonders of sexual intercourse where I am the goddess. Oh what it would be to have a vagina! Pure joy and incredible sensations that only women can experience and that can only be imagined at this stage in my life.

I would even be happy with a tiny vagina! All I wish for is to have a vagina, to be happy and to experience the joy of sex as a woman. The truth of the matter is that although I identify completely as a woman in my mind, heart and soul I am genetically a male and I can’t change that nor do I want to undo what I am which is a proud father with gender dysphoria of a 16-year-old son who happens to have his own inner struggle with autism. My son is my life and I support both my wife and son. I am not ever going to be a real woman because I can never menstruate, I can never conceive, I can never give birth. I can never feel the pain that women and girls feel. Women and girls are truly special in every way and in my heart I too am a girl blossoming into womanhood even if it is as a transgender girl. I will live my life the way I see fit and that is as a very caring, loving and empathetic person who loves being a father, a husband, a brother, a son, an engineer, an accountant and a transgender woman of course with hopefully a body that eventually will match the mind. I don’t need to go overboard. I just want to carry on as I should! I am a woman! I am Emily! I am Transgender.

To find out more about Emily, please see the links below.

About Emily:





Penis-less Man Beds Over 100 Women

Andrew Wardle, 40, a British man born without a penis “suffers from an extremely rare birth condition called Bladder Exstrophy, which caused the organ to grow outside his body. Doctors were able to fix his bladder, but he never developed the reproductive organ.

The Manchester, England-based Wardle is the subject of an upcoming one-hour documentary (airing June 13th) on Discovery Life Channel that will follow him as he confesses the truth to old friends, past lovers and even his current, unsuspecting girlfriend.

“I had only told about 20 percent of them the truth,” Wardle tells the network. “It is difficult to explain to a new girlfriend. Once, I was punched in the face when I told a girl. I guess she felt like I had lied, but it’s not something you can say right away.”

The documentary also follows him through medical procedures as he seeks to have a fully functioning organ built thanks to recent advancements in gender reconstruction surgery. Wardle says he has struggled with depression, substance abuse and at one point even contemplated suicide because of his condition.

“The Man With No Penis” premieres June 13 at 10 p.m. on Discovery Life Channel.

I don’t know about most women out there but I am fond of the male anatomy. I would never miss the fact that a man was minus a penis. I’ve come across the micro penis (and written about it in  —–) so it would be really hard for me to not realize my date was missing a limb. Sure if i were passed out drunk or had taken a handful of Percocets I surely could miss the entire experience but that’s not how I roll.

Coincidentally, The Man With No Penis airs on the same day as the Smallest Penis Contest in Brooklyn, New York. Now that’s a lot of Penis in one day!

Close-up of Andrew on beach.

Photo: Discovery Life Channel



Teenie Weenies – The Smallest Penis Contest

It’s that time of year again! The Smallest Penis in Brooklyn Pageant is scheduled for Saturday, June 13th at 2:30 p.m. at the Kings County Saloon in Bushwick, Brooklyn.

With lines down the block in previous years, it promises to be another mob scene next month at the new and roomier Kings County Saloon. Started 2013, it’s the only pageant in the world where small penises are celebrated. This year the prize has been pumped up to $500. (kind of makes me wish I had a small penis and not a small vagina).

The nuttiness will kick off at 2:30 p.m. Hopefully bartenders will still be mixing up a special COCKtail, the “Penis Colada” drink: a creamy, white concoction that by no coincidence resembles semen, and comes with a phalic-shaped straw to boot.

Per a media release, contestants will be judged in multiple categories, just like a beauty contest. However these beauties will all be from below the belt, not the 50 states and Puerto Rico! A “wee crown and scepter” will be awarded to the least-endowed man best exhibiting “extraordinary heart, talent, and chutzpa.”

Last year, event promoters told HuffPost the pageant was all about empowering the little guys, describing it as a competition “for confident people with a sense of humor.” There were five contestants last year: the Puzzle Master, Rufio, Rajkumar, Twig ‘n Berries and Spiderman mask-wearing Peter Parker. The contestants were introduced to the audience via a question-and-answer session. And although this was a tiny penis competition, it was pretty clear from the get-go that both Rufio and Twig ‘n Berries had perfectly average-sized penises. They were just in it for the fun of it.

I’ve been told post-Q&A came the swimsuit competition. The fellers lined up on top of the bar, their goodies camouflaged with sheer cloth-covered with sea creatures. Then they were sprayed with water by Super-Soaker wielding bar staff, and urged to dance for the crowd. Apparently, that’s when things got a little wild.


Finally, there was the crowning. The contestants wore tiny tuxedos over their penises in celebration. Hopefully last years winner, Rajeeve Gupta, 28, a Fulbright scholar from India,  will be there to hand over the title to the new winner who will be celebrating his place in Small Penis history. Last summer when Gupta was crowned the wiener of the second annual dick show he said, “I’m so happy! Hopefully I’ll meet someone because of this.” Hopefully, Raj wasnt given the shaft since his big win. “Raj was definitely the ­littlest big winner.” said bar owner Aimee Arciuolo.

Sounds like a fun afternoon and $5.00 well spent. It’s worth it just for a Facebook status or check in and a load of jokes. But, based on my experience counseling some men with unusual fetishes and sexual conditions, I have a sneaking suspicion that if you held a contest for the smallest penis and the men WERE humiliated, NOT celebrated, the bar owners would really make a shit load of money. But that’s a whole other thing, isn’t it?

Those interested in competing or serving as a judge must be over 21, and have been asked to email for further details. Cheers! Here’s to the little guys.


Dating Etiquette – Full Disclosure or Not?


Now that I’m feeling better I’m thinking about dating again. Truth be told, I go out a lot. I just don’t consider a coffee/drink or even dinner “dating”. I think of it as a “meeting”. I think of dating as two people who are interested in each other and are seeing each other on a regular basis with the goal being a sexual relationship. That’s just my take.

I’ve been thinking more about the sexual relationship part lately. Sure, I want to like the guy. I want to be attracted to them and all that but maybe I shouldn’t be SO picky. Maybe I could have another glass of wine and just go back to their place. Let’s say I do, do I need to explain my situation? (In case you haven’t been reading my other blog posts I’m referring to an out of practice, tight, possibly rusty, and tiny, menopausal vagina) How do I explain my predicament? Do I have to or do I just act like everything is normal and I’ve never had an issue before? And then I just spring it on them when the underpants come off. Just like nearly all of the men I have dated with sexual issues and limitations. Take for instance the ones with Erectile Dysfunction. They know they have a problem but they don’t say a word. When it’s show time the curtain never goes up. It becomes an Olympian feat to try to get a rise out of these poor men. It behooves me why they just don’t pop a Viagra.

Or what about the men with Premature Ejaculation (I refer to them fondly as “Minute Men”). With a Minute Man the show is over before you take a seat. And then there’s a somewhat (but not as small as you might think) group of guys out there with the dreaded micro penis. They too never drop you a hint either. They never indicate that there’s anything is wrong. And when the boxers come off it’s like an Easter Egg hunt — in the dark.  And you can’t find the golden egg. (Yes, that really happened to me and it was very confusing. And upsetting. Especially when I did find the little nub, it was so small it resembled a cross between a doorbell and an acorn more than a penis). I don’t want to be those guys.

Perhaps I should be more like the man I had a second date with a few years back. He was a seemingly lovely man, attractive, successful, and age appropriate. Between our first and second course at a lovely romantic restaurant he shared with me his struggle with prostate cancer. Naturally, I was very understanding and sympathetic. I even held his hand (and I’m not a hand holder) because I thought we were really connecting. He shared a lot,


“After surgery you can’t have sex for six months. No masturbation. Nothing. When the doctor said I could finally make love to my wife I was so happy. When we tried nothing happened. I went back to the doctor and got a prescription for Viagra. Nothing. Cialis. Nothing. I made another appointment. The doctor said, Don’t worry. I’ll give you a shot. You’ll be fine.” When he came back with the needle I rolled up my sleeve. The doctor asked, “What are you doing?” I said getting ready for the shot. And he said, “No, not there. Take down your pants AND shorts.”

Apparently the doctor proceeded to inject his penis. He drove home as fast as he could and had an erection that lasted over four hours. To this day he has to carry a syringe with him on dates, “just in case”. He has learned how to inject himself. That’s what he has to do each and every time he wants to have sex. Can you imagine having sex for four hours? I actually thought about it that night when he dropped me off. I thought I could get started with him, leave and go shopping for a few hours and get back just in time for the finale. Then I realized there would never been any finale for this poor guy. He wasn’t able to ejaculate. As nice as he was, there was never a third date.


Which brings me back to, do I need to say anything? Or do I just go with the flow when it finally does happen?  Maybe it would be a good surprise. What man wouldn’t want to think they had a schlong so big it wouldn’t fit in a grown woman’s vagina? I could be every man’s ego boost…

Straight, Gay, Bi, Trans, what would you do?