Men Like to Show Me Their Penises

I have been flashed 3 1/2 times in my life . . . which, I've been told, is way more than normal (what exactly constitutes a "normal" amount of flashing is beyond me).

Apparently, men just like to show me their junk. I must have a face that screams, "I would like to see your penis." Various strangers have presented their genitalia to me proudly, with complete aplomb, despite the fact that said genitalia is not very impressive (and I should know . . . I've seen my fair share of penises in my day).

I can vividly remember the first time a strange dude capriciously showed me his package. I was in college, and my friend H and I were chillin on our front porch, post-football game, trying to decide where to drink next. Along comes this white mini-van driven by a horribly unattractive shirtless man. The mini-van circled our block about 3 or 4 times before stopping, and out gets ugly shirtless man, revealing that he is, actually, ugly naked man. Oh, except he was wearing shoes . . . and I believe possibly also socks.

H and I decide that this audacious display of ugly, naked man-flesh must be stopped; so we, as good citizens, called the police. Within minutes, an officer showed up at our door inquiring about our ordeal with the now aptly named 'nature boy.' To aid in the capture of this nasty, nasty fugitive, I provided the officer with a description of the ugly naked man. He was roughly the same height, build and age as the officer, with the same dark hair. In fact, the only discernible difference between the two was that the officer was wearing a uniform, whereas 'nature boy' was wearing excessive body-hair. I also dutifully informed the officer that 'nature boy' had a very insubstantial pecker, but I don't think the officer wrote that down.

I almost made it through college without being flashed again. (This is clearly not to be confused with the idea that I made it through college without seeing another penis . . . because that, unfortunately, is very far from the truth.) The night I graduated from college, someone roused me from my slumber by ringing our doorbell at 2 am. Being as it was graduation, and my house was right up the block from the local bar, I assumed it was someone I knew swinging by on the way home from the Ho (it's a bar, not a slut).

So I plodded downstairs to answer the door for what turned out to be another flasher. He was young, clean-cut and looked like your average college student . . . except he wasn't wearing any pants or underwear, and he was pushing his monstrous, purplish hard-on against the window of my front door. Instinctively, I screamed, "Penis!" and ran upstairs and went back to bed. I didn't bother to call the cops this time because I was moving soon anyway. He can continue to terrorize underclassmen with his veined boner for all I care.

The half-a-flash occurred one New Year's Eve in Times Square when one of the girls I was with asked a kilt-wearing Scotsman what he wore under his kilt. Rather than answer with words, he was kind enough to show us. I got less than an eyeful of little, flaccid, Scottish wiener. Clearly the Scots are not well-endowed, which would explain their affinity for blowing bagpipes as opposed to johnsons. This flashing only counts as a half, since it lacked the elements of unexpected spontaneity that characterize the traditional full-flash. If you ask someone to flash you, and they do, it only counts as a half.

My final flash, thus far, came compliments of a real pro - "The Shadyside Stroker." I was standing at the bus stop one morning, waiting for my shuttle to the bad place (which is what I lovingly dubbed my office back before I became the unemployed loser I am today). A real sexy, mid-80s Chrysler Le Baron was lingering at the stop sign for an unnecessarily long period of time. I peeked through the passenger-side window expecting to see some pathetically stooped octogenarian or other inherently bad driver. Instead, I saw a balding pervert going to town on his exposed joystick. Fortunately, a school bus (of all things) pulled up behind the wanker, forcing him to move on and share his talents with other revolted females.

I have never in my life experienced the urge to randomly display my vagina to an unsuspecting fellow. Just another one of those wacky differences between men and women I guess.