Little Squirrels Can Climb Tall Trees, Michael Murphy [best books to read for self development .txt] 📗

right hand dropped down to his crotch to scratch a spot behind his dick and in front of his balls and to loosen up his dick, which had been folded up inside the constraining jock. And he kept on talking. He must have thought either (A) I was an idiot, (B) I was a sex-crazed stalker who was going to rape him on the spot, or (C) I was actually paying attention to what he was saying rather than his body. And his dick. Did I mention his dick?

Now, all guys have dicks. I’d been in enough locker rooms to learn that fact. That plus I’d made it my lifelong goal to study dick. Dicks “R” Us could have been my motto. In this case the “us” was me.

Dicks. Loved the things. Loved ’em. Couldn’t get enough of them. What’s not to love? They were predictable in their design, consistent in their behavior. Oh yeah, loved those dicks. And then there was this one. Shudder. Was I having an orgasm? Oh, crap! No! Breathe!

Okay. You can do this! You’re gonna make it! Come on! I instructed myself with every ounce of self-control I could muster. But he just kept standing there, seemingly playing with his low-hanging balls as he talked. I mean, really! Who can talk presidential politics while prying their sweaty nuts away from their penis? Well, clearly this guy! That’s who! He seemed to be doing remarkably well at it. It was me who was having all kinds of problems. It was me who was one breath away from hyperventilating. It was me who was one hair away from dropping to my knees and wrapping my lips around the most delectable penis I’d ever seen. And remember, I was a professor of penis, a connoisseur of cock, a devotee of dick, an epicure of erections. I had made it my life’s work to worship the male member. And what a member this one was.

The man’s dick screamed perfection. From the tip of the large circumcised head to the arcing length that ran several inches toward a light brownish pubic bush that begged for a tongue to become entangled with it, a tongue to slather it with saliva. And those big, swinging, low-hanging nuts. If someone were to write a book dedicated to the world’s most perfect penis, I had just found the model to pose for the cover. No more calls, we have a winner!

My newest friend seemed to have a penis that was perfectly proportional to his body. In other words, there was a lot of it. More than a mouthful, I guessed. Which led to this huge debate going on inside my head between decency and respectability and simply gobbling it down to test my hypothesis that it was more than a mouthful. Data! I needed data! But I kept telling myself that I also needed to keep my teeth. Logic told me that dropping to my knees and sucking the guy’s dick—uninvited and in a locker room filled with mostly straight men—would probably not be conducive to staying alive with all of my teeth in place. Oh, but what a way to go! I’d die with a toothless smile on my face.

Somehow I maintained a poker face. How, I have no freaking idea! I had never played poker in my life, and I was certainly not noted for being perpetually calm and unexcitable. But I apparently did a respectable job because the guy just kept talking and laughing—and scratching his damned balls! Was he trying to kill me? I mean, really! At least get your hand out of your crotch, dude!

I looked at his ultrataut nipples again, now not so worried about checking out his chest. Since he was so tall, it was logical that I should look at what was more or less at my eye level. And also, I had to be careful. The damned things were so erect they could have put out one of my eyes. I needed to keep the things in sight. Either that or put up warning tape or those big red cones, something to warn away the innocent passerby.

It was at that moment that I came to believe in the existence of a deity. Yes, I was prepared to fall to my knees and worship… oh wait, wrong track. Deity, not Dick. Yes. Okay. Back on the appropriate track. I came to believe in a deity because—you ready for this?—I was able to say something semi-intelligent! I mean, I caught enough of what he was saying to be able to link two neurons together—other than the two neurons required to get an erection—and was able to remember something I had read. And I was able to make my lips move to form words. Oh, what I could do with my lips.

No! Focus! Words! Conversation! Intelligence! Respectability! PLEASE! I made my lips move to form words, which I spoke aloud. And whatever I said met with my new friend’s hearty approval because his face lit up with excitement and he lifted his right hand—yes, the one that had been fondling his testicles; yep, that’s the one—and stuck it out in my direction. I briefly wondered if he would be offended if I lifted that hand to my mouth and licked the digits. Part of my brain thought it would give me a hint of a taste of the Promised Land while being somewhat responsible.

Wow! The male brain sure didn’t work at peak levels when flooded with testosterone. Makes me wonder how we ever survived to the present day. Our forefathers must have gotten laid a lot or jerked off a lot to clear their brains and allow us to evolve into what we are today. Either that or they were just perpetually horny like me and made a whole lot of bad decisions because their brains were clouded with too much testosterone. I wondered briefly if women’s brains had a similar problem when their estrogen levels went off