The Willy Day
I worry whether I’m a prude. But I can’t be. I write ‘rude stuff’. So what was the deal with me the other day when I went blog hopping and happened upon a post showing male full frontals? I jumped back from the screen in shock. You know, my eyes went wide, and that silly little noise escaped, similar to the sound when you let off a little gas in public and didn’t mean to or you turn your ankle in the middle of a crowded street. You know what I mean. A strangled “Whoo!”
Yet I couldn’t resist scrolling down. For research purposes, I’ll have you know. That’s what I told myself anyway. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not against the willy. (I want to giggle because that word is just so stupid.) No, not against it at all. On this particular site the comments were many, with women apparently drooling over the various shapes and sizes and discussing amongst themselves which willy they would like in their lady gardens, which led to me leaving the blog feeling a little disturbed at my reaction. Am I abnormal to not want to gaze at all those men like that? I write about them using explicit words, for God’s sake, so what the hell was my problem? I put it down to me preferring non-visual willies, apart from my DH’s of course, and went along with the rest of my day.
Later, while out jogging with a friend, I mentioned my willy surprise. She slowed a bit as she got her phone out of her pocket. I assumed she was going to call her kids to check on them, but she said, “Oh, I have over 200 on my phone.”
“Yep, wanna see?”
“Uh, no,” I said.
“Oh, go on. There’s one I got sent today. Really weird.”
We slowed to a walk. She scrolled through her phone then thrust it in my face. Oh my bloody good God, there in front of me was a wooden willy.
“It’s wooden,” I said.
“No it isn’t. It’s this guy’s real piece. I’ve seen it on webcam.”
Now, how I didn’t faint I don’t know. This was my friend here, someone who had never talked in detail about sex much less admitted she has over 200 cocks on her phone and webcams with guys. Colour me shocked for the second time that day. Thankful I hadn’t let out that silly noise again, I smiled brightly and picked up the pace, hoping there would be no more willies for me that day.
Fate had other ideas. We see many other joggers while we’re out. One particular male gives me the bloody creeps, making me wary of every other male who passes. The Creep stares at us as he approaches and grunts when we’re level. He looks like those guys you see in the newspaper. You know the ones: WANTED! PEEPING TOM! Anyway, it wasn’t The Creep who jogged toward us but some guy we’d never seen before. Tight lycra shorts. Serious about his exercise. And as he neared, I saw he obviously only wore the shorts. As though a child had fashioned a sausage out of Playdoh, this guy’s winkle hung down his leg. Not excessively far, but enough so I could imagine the state of it if he got a little excited. I blushed at having spotted it, because really, I’m not into gawping at other men’s wotsits. He jogged closer—and his sausage expanded.
Now then. That wasn’t my idea of good scenery to jog to. Once again I let out that STUPID bloody noise and upped my pace, averting my eyes from his doodah and focusing ahead. My friend snorted—yep, she’d spotted it too—and we jogged past him as though we hadn’t noticed a damn thing.
At this point we were running down a track in the middle of nowhere, which always frightens me and, with The Creep in mind, I glanced back to make sure Playdoh Dick didn’t turn and follow us. And found him glancing back too.
Oh. My. God. My face heated like no one’s business, and I pushed myself to run faster, praying we wouldn’t see him again. It seemed my day was full of willies and I wanted no part of it. I mused that if DH came on strong when I got home, I’d run away from him screaming. There’s only so much a girl can take, and my God, I’d had enough already!