The Phallusy, A Penis in Five Parts: Part Two: Dropping the Ball(s)
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Old Edna at the nursing home tells old Harry that if he shows her his penis, she can tell him his age.
He pulls down his pants, and she looks and says, “You’re 88.” “Wow,” he says. “How did you guess that?” “You told me yesterday,” Edna replied.
It would be my own private New Year’s Rockin’ Eve with my very own Dick (Clark) doing the countdown as my balls dropped.
I was approaching “The Change”. I’d been excited. Thought I was prepared. I had been invited to the “Puberty Party” and now, thanks to Dr. Z, was afraid I wasn’t dressed for the occasion. I’d been curious about my body. Always studying it, particularly now as I was entering puberty, aware of every development, every new hair in strange hidden places. Why would there need to be hair between my legs or starting inside and around my butthole? Why was there hair around my butthole, catching “things” as they came out. Apparently, the universe just needed an extra place to stash some hair. There seemed to be hair everywhere.
And my penis really was changing. Growing. And the balls below had begun to hang lower and larger, dropping in concert with my voice, as it fell its first octave, on its way to the deeper voice I have now. My slightly lower eleven-year-old voice which answered Dr. Z, “Yeah. My penis is great!”
The most private, ever-sanctified part of my body. The part that I’d been told, at least in words, was mine and mine alone to share with others as I saw fit. Which, as a young Southern Baptist male, meant keeping it hidden, locked away until my wedding night. That’s a very long and lonely game of hide and seek. Really just a game of hide.
It was more like a game of “I’ve-got-something-incredible-happening-between-my-legs, something-that-makes-me-feel-vital-and-alive-and-connected-to-the-very-source-of-life-and-joy, something-that-shouts-that-it-wants-to-be-shared-and-celebrated, and I-want-you-to-come-and-get-it!” That kind of game.
But instead, I’m going to hide it while I’m eleven or twelve or 20 going on 30, and you can count to a bazillion, before you come and find me and my penis, after years and years, hidden in the dark corner of a shame-filled closet. Because as a devout Southern Baptist young man, and later not-so-young man, I’d been taught that the only way was to wait til marriage. That was God’s plan. Or, so I was told.
But this couldn’t have been God’s plan. While the Almighty was storing all that excess hair in and around my b-hole, She/He also stored all these extra nerve endings up and down the shaft and on and around the head of my penis. Surely that wasn’t put there just to be held in reserve to only be explored and celebrated with one person and only after being bound in the bonds of holy matrimony. That’s the recipe for at least one person’s, and more likely a couple’s shared sexual dysfunctions! It was certainly my recipe.
Before that day with Dr. Z, I remember being the happiest of kids. I never thought twice about my body being anything but perfect. Not in comparison to anyone else’s. I was uniquely me as my friends were uniquely them. We were tall and short, able-bodied and disabled, hearing and hearing-impaired, black, brown, white, yellow, heavy and thin, fast and not so fast, good throwers or jumpers or kick-ball kickers and thinkers, good joke tellers and singers, shy and out-going, neatly pressed newly-bought-outfits and wrinkled and worn hand-me-downs, gay, straight, trans, queer. I was just a kid who hadn’t been taught yet that I could or should be anything other than the sweet mess-of-a-kid that I was.
Where did that kid go? Did the church scare him out of me? Did my Dad terribly mislead me? Can I re-capture any of the lost innocence? Can I “simply” stop the self-criticism? Accept and even celebrate who I am?
I was just entering puberty and had started to go through the changes. My voice and new hairiness were dead give-aways. Dr. Z told me. Mom told me. Hell, when Mom spoke with perfect strangers and told them my age, even they smiled and told me that bigger things were about to happen.
Everyone else seemed excited and confident and completely wise to this mystery which I was entering. And I was stepping into this mystery thinking something was wrong with me, lacking in me. It was a terrible way to start the adventure. And I had no choice but to stumble blindly on.
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Part Two: Dropping the Ball(s) is the second in a five essay series, The Phallusy: A Penis in Five Parts, actor Cooper Thornton’s lifelong journey to accept, love, and celebrate every bit of himself. The WHOLE package, especially including the “package” part of the package.
Thanks for reading. In many of my essays I mention or go into depth about my journey with depression. It’s helped me to know that I’m not alone. If you or someone you know struggles with depression, talk about it. Help remove the stigma. You can call any one of the hotlines out there or visit a very helpful site like youfeellikeshit.com. Please know you deserve care and love and that even though it seems there is no light at the end of the tunnel, the darkness will pass.