OR: The lengths men will go to (eerr herm)

These days it appears that sending a photograph of your penis by mobile, to a woman you’re trying to woo, is more than common place (if you are a man of course, and have one to photograph).  And that if, as a single woman, you don’t have at the very least one in your mobile – a photo, not a penis because that would be weird – to show and compare with your mates’ photos, you are not allowed into the inner circle.  A kind of ‘c*ck trumps’ if you will – © copyright AnnePank 2014.  That’s a game just begging to be made!

Us girlies, have a friend who is the reigning champion of c*ck trumps – who we will never, ever in our lifetime beat at this game, because she is the proud owner, and only person I know in actual real life, or otherwise, who has ever been in possession of an actual entire gallery of such photos from different suitors.  Madam, I salute you and this post is for you.

**sigh*  How times have changed!  What happened to plain old flowers?  I like a nice bouquet of flowers to be delivered, they’re much prettier than p*nises and for sure, nicer in the centre of your dining room table.  A big bunch of pen*ses does nothing to brighten a room, nothing.

It seems that men will also go to extraordinary lengths (I’m sorry, it’s the only suitable word to use here too) to impress us to do this, and invest a massive amount of forethought and effort to get just the right angle to show off the very best of their meat and two veg.  I guess you’ve heard of ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ and ‘shadow puppetry’, well combine the two for the next case in point.  Another chap had made a huge effort in constructing a shadow pen*s to send to another friend of mine.  The photo showed the shadow of said member standing erect and quite admirably large and apparently……… attached to his shoulder, as the shadow of his head was clearly visible just centimetres away.  When we looked again more closely and in more detail, all in the name of scientific curiosity and research you understand, we realised that it was impossibly, impossibly straight and much too perfect to be real.  If such a specimen really existed it would be such a shame to even think about using it and I think, personally speaking, I’d prefer to have it removed, preserved and mounted in a glass cabinet, for appreciation and admiration only.  A bit like a work of art.  Then we placed bets on what it actually was and the winning answer was a thermos flask.  Bless him, the poor soul had obviously spent time elaborately recreating his entire body reclining on a bed with a thermos flask in place of his manhood and then, standing back admiring his work, proudly pressed send.  Snaps for creativity my friend.  Snaps all round.

I admire his artistic bent (oh, they just keep coming.  And Again!!)  Boom!*

Some men however, make no effort. No effort whatsoever.  I would love to write his name here.  But I won’t.  I received a message a couple of years ago from a chap I was dating, and when I opened it I must admit, I was a little confused for a while trying to work out what exactly it was he had sent me.  What was he sending me?  Should I be sad for the small, bald creature, that had apparently died mid transit across the lap of it’s loving owner?  Should I be horrified that a disturbingly ugly, unidentified species of vermin had tried to viciously gnaw off his bits while he was having a siesta on this hot August afternoon?  And had he woken mid gnaw, killed it and sent the photo, a bit like a big game hunter (in a much smaller way), to show me his razor sharp reflexes and killing skills?  Had he had a lucky escape and lived to tell the tale?  The photo was swiftly followed by a message that said, ‘thinking of you’.

And THAT was the result?!

His flaccid, lifeless p*nis, draped ever so carefully across the top of his left thigh was a one giant slap in the face.  Well, obviously not really.  It was clearly incapable of slapping anything.   But, he thought of me, and his c*ck died and that thought in turn killed any attraction there was.**   No good for the soul, no good at all and I think at that moment a little, tiny piece of my heart died.  I didn’t see him again after that, it was too much for my ego to bear.

NB:  Men, sometimes we are impressed, obviously, we like the pen*ses – but more often we show our girlfriends and giggle like teenagers.

Please, please, please send flowers.

* I think I may have been momentarily taken over by Barbara Windsor.

**  (Well, a combination of that and the fact he’d shaved off his cool tache!)