Tuesday, January 12, 2016

The D*ck Ring

Well, I’m dating again.  My interest in meeting Internet strangers (in hopes of finding love) ebbs and flows.  I find the effort it takes to identify and set aside time for dates more often than not goes without ROI.  However, my 30th birthday and winter have come, and the looming threat of loneliness has won.  So here we are.
            We met through a mutual friend – a rarity in the modern dating environment.  His now ex-roommate (hopefully an unrelated occurrence)/my friend from improv dragged him along to the restaurant at which I was working for a promised visit.  It was a slow afternoon so I had time to stand at the table and chat.  He was quiet, but charming, and I liked his smile.  I thought at the time it was happy happenstance, but learned recently it was always meant to be a setup.

            He asked our mutual friend for my number and for quite some time, we tried to schedule a date.  I cancelled a couple times, my jadedness got in the way, and then he immersed himself in training for and completing an Ironman.  I followed up with him after his return to Chicago and we finally found a time to grab drinks.

            We met at a trendy bar in Logan Square; I ordered a drink that was “whiskey forward” though I still don’t know what that means.  He was sweet and seemed, inexplicably, to find my sass charming.  Conversation was easy.  Looking back, though, that might be attributed to the fact that I dominated two-and-a-half of the three hours we spent together grilling him about his dick piercing. 

I’m not entirely sure how his peen came up in conversation (I also learned he has a smiley face tattoo on his butt), but it was such remarkable information, I couldn’t let it go. 

I was a woman obsessed.

I rudely assumed it was a relic mistake from college, but learned instead that it was a very recent, conscious choice.  Of course, I needed to know everything.  Why?  Didn’t it hurt?  Doesn’t it get dirty?  A double bar – why?  Where exactly is it?  Show me using your arm as a penis.  I don’t get it.  It goes through the shaft?  Is it foreskin?  Was the piercer uncomfy?  Did you have to get hard to get it pierced?  Were you uncomfy…being naked at a piercing place?  Again, why?  Have you used it yet – on a lady? 

And finally, most importantly, can I see it?

            A presumptuous inquiry, sure, but I was a couple whiskey-forward cocktails in and it just felt right.  He agreed, however reluctantly, not before warning me that it was chilly in the bar and that he was flaccid.  I offered my approval if he wanted to go get hard before the viewing, but he felt that would be worse.

            “You’re going to giggle; you’re too awkward not to,” he informed me as though I were new to my own body.
            “Yes, of course I am.”
            “You can’t even get through this conversation without laughing.”
            “But that’s fine.  Because I’m already laughing, so you’ll know I’m not laughing at your peen.  I’m just laughing because this is amazing and weird.”

            The bar had two single bathrooms making this endeavor quite simple.  With coats on and the bill paid, I went first into the ladies’ room; he joined me a few seconds later.  I was giggling before the bathroom door was even locked.

            “Just a reminder, I’m not going to touch it.”
            “I know that.”
            “This is purely research.”
            And then there it was: his genital jewelry.  I leaned in to get a slightly closer look.  I was so happy. 

            We walked out of the bathroom and out of the bar, hugged, and walked in opposite directions.