I grew up thinking for the longest time there were two types of dicks in this world. And I don’t mean some metaphorical two types of shitty-people… but literally two different types of penises in the world. Let me explain:
When I was six or seven years old my parents brought me over to a family friend’s house to play. I don’t really remember them exactly, but they were co-workers of my mother or father with a kid about my age. The parents stayed inside to talk, this other boy and I romped around his back yard, playing soldiers climbing up the terraced hill. Eventually we came inside and upstairs to his room to play with his toys. At some point I had to pee, and so did he. So we went to the bathroom to unzip and unsheath and release two matching streams like Ghostbusters’ proton piss.
Now I had done this countless times with my classmates in the piss stained stainless steel urinal trough at school. And I had a brother older than me and I’ve seen him pee, (sometimes all over the back of the toilet seat) so other dicks weren’t exactly a mystery to me. But this kid was packing something different.
Earlier that summer I had caught a chameleon and played with it for days outside. My mom had a brown exercise bike on the patio, that I would sit and ride and spin and spin those wheels. I would let my chameleon climb on my head and the handlebars and my shirt until one day he fell, and landed right in the moving parts of the bicycle, between the teeth of the gears and the cold metal chain spinning in a fury from my feet and he was smushed to a green pulp. This kid’s dick was like that. Smashed and misshapen, with a weird pattern down the middle like a gear had been run through it.
His dick was like a crinkle cut french fry, except thin and slender like a regular french fry, but one from an old batch that had browned and bent from soaking up too much oil. A pink french fry smushed lizard dick. And compared to my fleshy round vienna sausage, his dick was weird.
“Your dick is weird.” I said, crossing our streams of yellow waste flow as they spun and sputtered into the white porcelain bowl.
“YOUR dick is weird.” he retorted.
There we stood, perpendicular to one another, our piss streams reducing to tepid dribbles. There was a 50% chance he was right. Clearly, one of us had a weird dick. I had neither the capacity nor vocabulary to refute him, to explain no, in my young and traveled life I had seen copious amounts of dicks besides his and my own, and they all looked like mine in one way or another, and none of them looked the the Frankenstein french fry monstrosity that hung twisted between his legs. So I did the only logical thing I knew:
“Mom!!” I yelled as I went bounding down the stairs.
The adults were in the dining room, coffee and cookies on the table, legs crossed as the adult topics of the day meandering lazily through the room. Nothing nearly as important as my discovery of french-fry-dick “Mom!” I yelled again.
“Yes?” She didn’t even look up from her friends. Even at six years old I had enough sense to know that blurting out “dicks!” was not the right thing to do in a room full of adults, especially these strange towering adults that were not my parents. But I had to, I just had to say something.
“His dick is weird.” it came out as a breathy whisper as I tugged on my mom’s sleeve.
“What?” Came my mom’s disinterested voice.
“His dick…” I began”it’s weird.” She waved me off, engrossed in the conversation of adults. I prodded her again.
“Jesse what are you saying?” My mom gave an exasperated sigh, not even turning to face me. Okay. She was asking for it:
“I saw it! His dick is weird!” I shouted, raising my hands into balled up little fists over my head. Just then my urinating rival had made his way down the stairs, sliding into the kitchen across the white linoleum tile with piss droplets on the front of his khaki shorts, his eyes narrowed into angry accusatory slits.
Eight pairs of adult eyes and one pair of kids eyes were focused on me. I could see my mother turning bright red with embarrassment. I don’t remember what she said, but I do remember we left that house shortly thereafter, and I don’t remember ever going back.
The thing is, I never got an explanation. There was no awkward conversation on the drive home about the different types of dicks or people being different, or how I shouldn’t blurt out about dicks. So I grew up thinking there were two different types of dicks: vienna sausage dicks, and crushed french fry dicks. And to this day, my grown up mind has no idea what I saw, other than it was horrific.