Johnny Would You Love Me if My Dick Were Bigger

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Johnny Would You Love Me if My Dick Were Bigger Page 8

by Brontez Purnell


  4. Coffee flop: I applied for a job at the coffee house and it was fucked up. I sit down to the interview with the manager, and the first thing I notice is a big-ass butterfly tattoo . . . on her face. NOT COOL. Admittedly, I’ve done too much nasty shit to judge anyone for anything ever, but I took one look at that fucking tattoo and knew this shit was gonna be so dumb. (And I was right!) “Hi!” she said. “My name is some hippie bullshit. How are you? Okay, so the pay here is so shitty, and the hours are sooooooo long, and you’ll be starting at the bottom, so of course, WE’RE GONNA FUCK WITH YOU. But whatever! We’re all total buds here and hang out all the time! Do you like to hang out?” I didn’t know how to tell this “free spirit” that I actually have cool friends and, outside the context of this bullshit job, I wouldn’t talk to her loser trustafarian ass ever. But seeing as how I was hungry and needed money for weed, I decided to play it cool: “Oh my GAWD! TOTALLY! I LOOOOOOVE hanging out!” She continued: “I think the staff would love working with you. You seem so quiet!” (I could tell she meant “weak.”) “We need more people like you on the team! I’ll definitely give you a call!” Thank fucking god she didn’t.

  5. Towel boy: I wasn’t getting laid very much, so I got a job at the local bathhouse. At the interview, the boss told me he dug the way my jeans fit and asked me if I had problems with my father. He also told me that as long as I kept making eye contact with the customers I’d be everyone’s’ favorite “towel boy.” That horny old fucker wasn’t whistling Dixie; within a week I was boning down with twinks, tweekers, foreign businessmen, and my fifty-one-year-old coworker whose dick was so big I was convinced that I loved him. I also learned a lot about bathhouses, like how most of them were closed down in the early eighties, but as long as you had a sauna, you can license it as a “men’s only health club.” I worked with this horny Christian boy who told his preacher dad that he worked at a “men’s crisis center.” He explained, “Well, men gotta get off, and until they do they’re in crisis, so I work in a crisis center.” This was totally shocking to me. A Christian in denial? Never! But this little bitch seemed to be moving mountains with the power of his. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he worked in a tweeker fuck pit. After working there awhile, the smell of butthole (which I once found refreshing and invigorating) made me want to kill. Not to mention all the mandatory work bullshit. Once a month, I attended work meetings where I learned how to more effectively mop up jizz and how to properly dispose of crack pipes. In the couple of months I worked there I only found one.

  6. Food critic: I got paid two-hundred dollars to taste test snack cakes. If I had a baby I would’ve sold that motherfucker to get this job. (Sorry Jr.—you ASSHOLE!) After each “market research” meeting, I would walk a block away, light a joint, and be in unison with the universe. This shit was 100 times cooler (by far) than world peace, getting my cherry popped, or the first time I got high.

  CRUISING REVIEWS

  1. One time I had a really hot roommate who did tons of coke. One night, for like the forty-eighth time ever, I was in his room getting fucked up and helping him look for drugs he’d lost. Three shots of tequila later, as if by magic, we were slapping dicks. He turns on straight porn and asks if he can call me Brenda, his favorite girl in the porno. At this point I was too far along in the process. FUCK IT. Why not try it once? “Um, sure dude, whatever . . .” Then he tried to fuck me without a condom. “Listen baby, I don’t have AIDS, I only have sex with girls blah, blah, blah . . .” Yeah, keep talking genius. No condom?!?! EW! If he had been my steady monogamous boyfriend or Damon (from the British pop band Blur) this scene could have been more “negotiable.” But this fucking cokehead? Awwwww, hell naw. He wasn’t gonna get me pregnant! The thought of a cauliflower farm growing in my ass (as well as a super-powered STD dragon that would live in my ass and harass me at night) came to mind, ’cause I was high probably, and I was moved to action. “Put on a condom, YOU FUCKING HIPPIE!” He did, immediately lost his erection, and passed out. This was quite some bullshit. Boning down with cokehead straight dudes is counter-revolutionary and he didn’t even have the decency to give me free drugs (that MOTHERFUCKER). I eased the tension by cumming really quickly, wiping my cum on one of his clean pair of socks, and leaving.

  2. I was hanging out so hard on Polk St. I was eating fried chicken, pounding a thirty-two, and feeling generally good about life when I was accosted by this sleazy yuppie. He totally looked like my driver’s ed teacher. He asked me what I was into and if I needed a ride and I said yeah ’cause I came to the city to see a show and all my friends had left and I (sorta) really wanted to suck his dick. I hopped into his blue Camaro feeling like the horny little gay boy who gets killed. And eaten. He started going the wrong way on the freeway and I DEFINITELY KNEW I WAS DEAD, but it turned out he just took the wrong entrance and we turned around. The whole time he kept talking about some huge interview he had for manager at Taco Bell or Sizzler or some shit. I took him back to my warehouse and I almost barfed when he said, “You know it’s really interesting to see how the artists and/or counterculturists of the area live.” Three kids were already passed out in my room, so I tried to fuck him on a mat in a hall where we kept the bikes. Two of my roommates who lived in a tent downstairs were on hella speed and “accidently” walked in on us twelve times. He got totally sketched out, ate my cum, and left.

  3. The oldest dude I ever got down with (for free) was sixty-four years old (when I was twenty). I was on the train wearing a white hanky (i.e., “dude, let’s just jack off”) and he was wearing some hanky that meant that he wanted to be beat up or fisted or whatever the fuck those dirty old men are always getting into. I was so happy he noticed me (I was just wearing the hanky ’cause it matched my outfit!) If someone wanted to “shake hands” with me just ’cause I was wearing a snot rag I felt it best to take the opportunity. So I did. We said our intros and got off at the next stop to find a bathroom. We get to the bathroom stall and my hanky won ’cause me beating up (or fisting) an old guy in a public restroom would have looked weird. We finished and parted ways and the people at the restaurant all got this really confused look on their faces when we walked out.

  4. I slammed three Long Island iced teas at the bar and felt like God. There was only one place this party was going: the video booths! I paid at the counter and went in the back. There were two Asian businessmen rolling their eyes at me and one crazy tweeked-out hairy, hippie wild man who kept shaking his hard dick at me. USUAL SCENE. Then I was commanded by a DL brother hanging out in the corner, “Get yo’ fat ass in that booth!” I was happy to oblige. He asked me if I “dressed up” and I told him that I wore ties to job interviews and shit like that, but I think he meant high heels. Like this closeted motherfucker would have even talked to me if I had showed up in a wig and pumps. I’m so sure! I came and left. Some minutes later, I happened upon a teenager who had to hurry to his job at Fed-Ex (or maybe he was just wearing a Fed-Ex hoodie?) “I’m already lubed . . . let’s go!” He was so cool. It was unfortunate when I slipped out of him accidently and fucked his taint filthy for about fifteen minutes. It was the hottest unintentional dry humping I ever had. Then I met “Stumpy,” he was five foot three, 230 pounds, and had a two-inch dick rock hard. I paid fifteen dollars to fuck him and by the time he was done with me I was a little bummed I didn’t have money to tip. That shit was sweet. As I (finally) left the booths, I was rather proud of myself. I used condoms, and I supported trade in the community. My fifteen dollars had gone to a good cause . . . or so I thought. As I walked to my bike, I saw Stumpy (that little fucker) ease off in a brand new Dodge pickup with leather interior. I felt confused (how was he reaching the pedal?) and a little snowed.

  5. I was on the train and this hella old black preacher dude made a pass at me. I’m talking long leather coat (with fox trim!), a big-ass piece of some black art home furnishing bullshit, and a big-ass Bible! Gross! Needless to say, I found him kinda cute, but I felt awfully weird about playing with his (really thick
) dick as long as I did. He wrote his number on the back of one of his church programs and tried to get me to follow him to the jack-off booths, but I declined because I had to go to school.

  JUVENILIA: ROMANTIC FOLLIES

  1. I saw the bullshit he usually left the bar with and I was surprised he was hitting on me. Alcohol. He was cute though, and I let him talk me up until I missed my curfew train to Oakland. He said we could make out at his house. On the way out the door, we chanced to meet the bullshit he usually left the bar with, some random Larry. That type of pale, skinny temp or yarn store worker SF was crawling with. I was sure my drunken Romeo had slept with most of them. I had been introduced to the other boy before, and I waited for that awkward moment when I get reintroduced to some random fucking white boy I didn’t remember. The bitch even had the nerve to cop an attitude because I didn’t remember her. Whatever, lady. If we were flavors of ice cream, he’d be vanilla and I’d be the most popular limited edition, okay? A one-eyed bartender friend once gave me advice to live by: “If they didn’t charm you, fuck you, or give you a black eye, then they didn’t give you much to remember.” I was on his team with that one.

  I wasn’t a boy anymore, and I saw where this was going. They started to only make eye contact with each other and started to only talk to each other too as we hopped into the cab together. It was too late to wake up friends, so I decided to wait it out at his house. My mind flashed forward to me lying awake in some strange room having to hear two strangers slurp on each other. I would have wished for a hot three-way, but both of them pissed me off. I wouldn’t have fucked either of them with an enemy’s dick. When we got to his apartment, the inevitable happened. I wasn’t having it. I took control of the situation and left the room to make out with his roommate.

  2. Love was finding me in all the most desperate and wrong places. I stood over my bathroom mirror, steam rising from the sink, frantically washing the shit stains out of my favorite T-shirt wondering what was the name of that big dick stranger in my room? He said he liked me, but I gave him the gnarliest case of poop dick ever, and I know I had ruined all chances of us ever being boyfriends. I needed him to leave. Love was finding me in all the most desperate and wrong places and it was all my fault. After talking about it for five sessions with my therapist, we totally figured out where it all began; it was my first kiss. I was a really later bloomer. All my bullshit needle-dicked, acne-face skater bros had at least sucked on titties. I had nothing. I knew that being a fag was going to suck in this town. Me and my bandmate at the time went to a punk show at an old car garage that night. We were standing at the back because my bandmate was too cool to stand in the front.

  I saw him dancing in the back near us, him being “Toast.” Toast was a gnarly (yet somehow cute—or was I desperate?) punk rocker from California. He was thirty-five (sixteen years older than me) and looked like he had tried every drug ever offered to him. We made out in front of everybody. The next day at school these kids from a rival band told everybody and my queen-y science teacher told me I should be praying and “exploring safer options” in this way that made me think he was hitting on me.

  3. Long story short I was fucking this way gross French dude. He had a big ol’ dick and he insisted this granted him certain entitlements in our relationship. He insisted this granted him certain entitlements in life. My main problem with his “big dick philosophy” is that it did not include very polite things. It was always “mine is bigger I top” or “mine is bigger, I’m intrinsically happier than you.” It was never “mine is bigger, let’s roll a joint” or “mine is bigger, I will love you forever.” All this yapping about his “big dick privilege” gave me a much-needed complex about the size of my dick. I started having wet nightmares about the biggest dicks I had ever known: my stepfather, grade school P.E. teachers, cops, jocks, you name it! I started measuring my dick every night before I went to bed to see if it had grown any (even though I’m twenty-seven years old). I almost spent three-thousand dollars on these weird dick-growth pills, but ended up spending the money on weed instead. I gave my complicity to this bullshit because at the time it was the best I thought I could do and because he had a big dick. I had given his thang too much power and now it had power over me. FUUUUUUUCK. I wasn’t going down (excuse the pun) without a fight.

  I carved in stone the golden rule about dicks: size may or may not matter depending on who you are and what you’re looking for; what matters more than that is whether or not you want to fucking kill who it’s attached to and I wanted that French bastard dead.

  He invited me to lunch with all his “radical fairie” friends. Radical fairies? Oh, hell no! I already know enough crazy fucking white people. He told me the guest list and I had already hooked up with most of them. I decided to stop being a hater—you have to respect the fairies because they’ll usually put out. That lunch was weak. Everyone had fake names and hair down to their asses. They all tried to convince me to spend the money I painstakingly scammed from my parents to go hang out with them on farms, mountains, and desserts. Glue sniffers. Hell no. Frenchie made a joke about desperate bottoms and I took it personally (’cause I’m a desperate bottom). How dare he come for me and my sisters! He didn’t know our pain! I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer and went to fucking war. I clanked my glass and made a toast to my beau’s dick and said something about it being his only redeeming quality as a human being and they all stopped inviting me to their parties after that. I was proud of myself dodging that bullet of BULLSHIT.

  I sit at my dishwashing job in Berkeley; it’s at a pizzeria. I sometimes get hit on by horny, bisexual, Berkeley soccer dads. He didn’t tip, and he gave me his number. “Call me,” he said, “I got a big dick.” I took his word for it and threw his number in the trash. Too exhausted. I’d already known enough big dicks.

  4. I woke up alone to that weird pulsating butthole feeling, like when you’re getting f’ed and someone pulls their dick out of your ass and there’s that sort of “pop” or whatever. Anywho, I felt it waking up and did a quick finger check to see if I had shit myself. When I noticed that I was clean a chill of terror crawled through my spine as I looked across the empty room. I HAD TOTALLY BEEN FUCKED BY A GHOST.

  5. It was Saturday morning and I was getting retardedly baked with a bunch of lady-men at the park. A very boastful friend was feeling high and mighty ’cause he was the only practicing fist-fucker amongst us. “IT’S THE MOST POWERFUL CONNECTION YOU WILL EVER FEEL WITH ANYONE. EVER” he declared, as if sharing a favorite TV show or flavor of ice cream didn’t count. Really bitch? LIES!!!!

  I told my side of the story. Some time ago, I was feeling grandiose and took all the shroom caps in an eighth bag and went to the bathhouse by myself. The very handsome older gentleman asked me if I was into “handballing.” I told him it wasn’t my cup of tea, but I’d take a sip and that I was tripping balls. He told me I’d be fine and gave me a gold star because my fingernails were freshly manicured. I took him in his room and started to punch him in the ass real good and got triggered into thinking about that old video game Mortal Kombat and the voice that comes on when you fighting partner is at his most vulnerable that yells “FINISH HIM,” and I rip his guts out and hold them up in the air, mystic thunder crashing down around me. Holy shit, man. I’m high! It then occurred to me that I was kinda bored and would rather be getting fucked. “THE MOST POWERFUL CONNECTION” my ass. Besides his heartbeat, I felt nothing.

  6. It was the summer of my seventeenth year and I was fucking over it. I took survey of my life and the picture wasn’t so pristine. I lived in a dirty fucking house with too many other brats who, along with myself, did too many fucking drugs. I had been across the country twice on tour with punk bands where I was mostly stuck and hungry, and worst of all was my unfortunate three-way with my straight, fat, drunk, cokehead roommates. UGH! I thought of my strong, proud Mexican mother—she wouldn’t put up with this shit and neither should I. Catholic guilt kicked up in my ass something fierce. I t
ook a shower and renounced my punk rock lifestyle. I made preparations to become a Catholic priest. At first things went swimmingly. All the old ladies at my church made me hella tasty cookies and shit. I think they were charmed by the young priesthood thing and how sexy it was. Things spiraled downward when I met that really hot priest. In retrospect, I think that romance with the priest was a bad idea. In the end, I maxed out four credit cards just so we could jerk off in religious sabbaticals in Mexico, Hawaii, and New Zealand. In the end, he admitted he had creepy intentions for the younger altar boys and I was fucking beside myself. Make me feel old? Fuck that. I turned that creepy old fucker in and thanked Jesus for giving me the wisdom to know I was better off in the first place. I finally gave my soul back to rock and roll and it really was a relief. I missed sucking dick.

  7. It was foolish to believe he wasn’t evil just because he was wearing glasses. Mistakes were made. He invited me home; on the way we had the smallest of talks. In seven minutes, I learned that he was studying art (not doing it), was an only child, a Libra, hated his father, and felt optimistic about his bullshit job. I decided I liked him. Maybe we’d be boyfriends. Long story short, he fucked me, I liked it, and two hours later he asked me to leave and avoided all my phone calls. I felt brazen and abandoned. That liar said he liked me! If I had known it was going to be that casual I would’ve made him use a rubber. This scenario kept repeating in my life until I finally got some good sense and started conducting myself like a grown man. I lived by two rules. Don’t give up the cookies on the first date unless you know there’s not going to be a second, and if he don’t want to use a rubber make him buy you a house, a ring, and a washing machine first. I saw that asshole in the park a year later and we buried all bad feelings and smoked a bowl.

 

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