When I was eighteen years old, I nervously, fearfully went to see my family doctor. I didn’t want to have this conversation, dear Q did I ever not want to, but my condition was severely affecting me, and I was worried that something might be really wrong with me. And it’s a good thing I gathered up the nerve, because I was in fact very sick and in need of professional attention. You see, I had small penis syndrome.
Is it just me, or do we have a freaking pill for everything? Have a headache? Pop a pill. Heartburn slowing you down? That’s a pill, son. Can’t seem to nod off? Take this and, hell, don’t call me in the morning, because those things are so effective you’ll probably still be asleep at that time.
For all that I talk about the importance of having game and using it to pick up women, be it for a night of sex or an indeterminate period of dating a steady girlfriend, I really have nothing against masturbation. Sometimes you’re home alone without an actual woman close to hand, and you either don’t have the time or simply can’t be bothered to go and find one. Yet you want to get your rocks off, and that’s alright.
Sex has been around since quite literally the beginning, and our obsession with that particular bodily function has led us to muck around with it quite a bit over the millennia, subject to the ever-changing whims of any given era’s ascendant culture. We’ve restricted it; we’ve cut it loose. We’ve celebrated it; we’ve hidden it under veils of shame. And we’ve argued so much for so long over whether people who have the same parts ought to be having sex with each other, that by today I think it’s safe to say we’re all sick of hearing about it.
For many men, the size of the penis is a strong preoccupation, relating both to their own member and, for comparison’s sake, that of other men. If a man perceives his size to be inadequate, which is an alarmingly common male concern, the quest to level up his “Billy Below the Belt” could easily take on the character of an obsession.