How to do the wrong thing right



Always, I receive loads upon multiple loads of various “size” questions — way too many to answer them all. And for mysterious, unfathomable reasons, most all of your measurement questions, dear readers, come at me as the seasons first begin to change; hence, with the “official” arrival now of autumn, the floodgates have yet once again opened: So, yank down those britches, studs, pull your wood rulers out, and let’s get right to it.

Dear Howard,
Whatever fragments that once still existed of my private life, pride and dignity are now shredded, pitifully, by asking you this question. Just so you know: I’m a top, always and only 100 percent — I’ve never swung bottom. But my penis (seeing as how I’m shoveling out honest-to-God total truth here) isn’t very much to brag on, and because I don’t swing a porn-sized pecker, I never advance a date beyond the first lay — packing a baby penis deals real blows of embarrassment to men like me. No dude has ever unzipped my pants and exactly whistled, “Well, lucky me, you’re still on the market, stud!” What can you tell me about the latest advances (assuming any such girthy miracles now exist) regarding the safety and functionality-realism of penile implants? — The 3-Inch Wonder

Dear Wonder,
Oh, fuck me, man: “Functionality-realism?” Really? OK, well, you want real truth here, 3-Inch, I’m going to actually give you functioning real truth. I am not at all an actual medical doctor (say nothing of a urological specialist). Think of me more, Wonder, as just, oh, your average, friendly, gay medical smartass; thus, here’s my un-wondrous prognosis: To the best of my understanding, surgical cock-lengthening doesn’t work; not satisfactorily, at this date, does such surgery functionally satisfy very many male patients who undergo it, if any. Whether you opt for an implanted prosthesis or an internally inflatable penile pump, the average length you’ll gain is but a mere half-inch—which satisfies no sexual partner distinguishably at all, especially after you’ve spent so much money to achieve no noticeable difference whatsoever toward increasing your partner’s pleasure. Wonder, I’m not being a party-pooper/bedroom-asshole to you here, but sincerely, I advise against penile implants as of this date. If you desire actual photographic surgical proof of why you shouldn’t waste your money going under the knife for such a bulge-producing procedure, simply Google: “Penile implants before/after photos.”

Dear Howard,
My current apartment building is at least two-thirds gay. We’ve got a big cardboard box in our mailroom where everybody leaves all their olden days’ fag mags, Beta video cassettes, used DVDs and whatnot that they’ve gotten either tired of jerking off to, or that they’ve replaced with more updated technology. A fusty porn library, basically, is what it amounts to. My infuriation, though, is that every queer resident in our building seems to think it highly amusing to also leave their own DNA “deposits” behind on whatever they return back to the box. I need assistance with how to word the perfect scathing note to hit these polluters with; may I request your helpful input, please? — Will

Dear WIll,
A scathing note saying what, exactly, would you hope I phrase for you to leave, when any “polluting” resident in your building who wants to borrow such monkey-spanking fare for a night or so can? Fortunately, Willard, no matter how much dried spooge you lick from any stuck-together pages of old porn mags, or from any lube-larded DVDs, all traces of any contagions you’re concerned about guzzling should have long ago dissipated.

Dear Howard,
My ex just got diagnosed with penile cancer. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but the whole time we were together he never listened to me when I warned him that, one way or another, getting tattoos on his dick would come back to haunt him — Lee’s entire penis is covered in tats, tip to testicles. At full Viagra, his erection throbs up and down like one of those old cylindrical kids’ kaleidoscopes you look through to watch all the colors morph about. Now, he’s talking about suing his tattoo parlor. Lee asked me what I thought he should do, and I (facetiously) replied, “Cock amputation.” Predictably, I got tied to the bed and dick-whipped for that. Man, what should Lee do? — Perry

Dear Per,
How about you advise Lee to just, oh, follow a penile cancer specialist’s advice? Trigger-happy litigiousness will garner nothing; regardless, it’s sure not any tattoo parlor’s liability for his getting cancer: The only medical trials dear Howard here could find that, at all, give any credence to tattoo ink being a human carcinogen (containing toxic traces of lead, arsenic, nickel and such likes) are via a study from something called the “European Commission’s Joint Research Centre” (whatever that “Centre” dubiously is). Perry, you need to focus on being a real and true friend now to your dick-whipping ex: If Lee dies ahead of you, good man, you’ll probably miss him; moreover, suing never gets anybody into Heaven.

— Howard Lewis Russell

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