When I was a kid, I remember being superlatively confused whenever I would see movies and TV shows depicting a male character taking – or being interested in taking – panties from a woman he’d had sex with. Why, my naive mind wondered, would men want women’s clothes? Were they going to take the panties home and wear them themselves? And even if that was what they were planning, why steal the garments from their girlfriend? Wouldn’t department stores sell panties to male customers the same as they would to female ones?
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.
Looking back on human history, we’ve always had sex dolls. I mean, how could we not? Nothing on Earth is going to stop a teenage boy from getting it on with his pillow, and before pillows were invented, you just know those horny little caveteens were carving holes in whatever fruit had the softest, warmest pulp inside.
From there, it’s a small step to building vaguely human-shaped figures out of pillows or fruit, or whatever, and going to town on those. We’ve just been getting better and better at making these increasingly lifelike ever since, with the advent of currency certainly helping things along, because there is some serious money to be made in sex dolls. So much, in fact, that by today we are real good at making fake women.
It’s hard to imagine an anatomical issue that men get more energized, passionate, and anxious over than the size of their own penis. It’s a bit odd, if you think about it. Despite the fact that neither effort nor skill could possibly be factors in this equation, tremendous pride is derived from having a generous endowment below the belt.
For better or worse, I find it reasonably obvious that full immersion virtual reality is the future of human sexuality. It isn’t going to happen overnight, and I don’t even think it’s going to happen over the next few years. Technologically, we just aren’t there yet. But we will be soon, probably sooner than most people think, and when we are, the upsides are hard to ignore.