Last updated on 30/06/2026
I know this is going to sound ridiculous, given the amount of angst in our lives about how much sex we aren’t having, but I promise this is orthogonal. I need you to know that I’m really uncomfortable with how much you like my dick.
Look, it’s not like I don’t love what we do together. The way you make me feel is wonderful. When we’re together, its like nothing else in the world matters. When we’re not together, there’s a good chance that’s what I’m thinking about. It’s just, the thing is, I’m not super comfortable with my own equipment. Like, to the point where it’s hard for me to talk about what it is I have down there.
You don’t have that hang-up, mercifully, but I do, and it comes up in all of the dumbest ways. I’m never going to enjoy a blowjob, but I love it when you go down on me, even though in either event, you’re down there doing exactly the same things to me. Touching was… iffy for a long time. We finally managed to navigate how I liked to be touched, and you seemed to figure it out before I could for myself. So, you know, thanks for that.
And look, before you object, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to fuck you. Oh man, do I. It’s just that I’m not super concerned with how it goes down. Fingers, toys, me, whatever. It’s all fine as long as we’re both having fun. I wish there was a little more penetrating happening in the other direction, but that’s a different discussion.
The real meat of the problem (come on, you have to admit that one was funny) isn’t even sexual per se. It’s just that my penis and I have an uneasy relationship. It’s like Wesley and The Dread Pirate Roberts. “Good work today penis. Sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.” And I really, truly mean that. If I could wake up tomorrow morning with something else down there, I’d sign up in a heart beat. No more worrying about the line of my pants, the tense relationship between the vehicle through which sexual gratification comes and my own gender identity. Just, you know, all that bottom dysphoria shit resolved.
That isn’t the way it works though, is it? There’s surgery, and recovery. There’s immense cost and approvals. Then, surgery doesn’t always go well for everyone, does it? There could be complications and revisions. And you’re always the first to remind me of that.
And, and I hate this, but why are you doing that? Are you worried about medical outcomes for me? Do you recognize that sex is important to me, and sexual dysfunction would be disastrous to my mental health? Are you worried about the strain my recovery would put on our relationship, because you’re a very unhappy nurse? Or are you putting your thumb on the scale because you like my dick?
And here’s the crux of the thing. I can’t really trust you to be impartial here, because as we’ve established, you’re a member of my member’s fan club. There’s an outcome you’d prefer in all of these conversations, and that makes it hard for me to process my feelings and worries with you. I want to share all of my dick with you, not just the physical edifice, but the weird hangups and emotions and thoughts surrounding it. I’m gagging to have a discussion about the actual risks of sexual dysfunction and whether or not the amount of dysphoria I feel justifies rolling those bones, and a dozen things besides. I’ve got all this pent up processing to do, but it’s hard to have those conversations until I’m confident that you’ll be more concerned with how I feel about my dick than how you feel about it.