06/01/2024
THE DESIGN FLAW OF THE P***S
When I finally get down to writing my memoirs, the title is going to be "The Legend of uLaro". The early chapters will be dedicated to finding where and when it all began.
Of the elders in my street in Newton who are familiar with the beginning of the legend, only one is still alive to tell. I would let him tell the story but he is not here right now. I do know though, that he would insist the early chapters be titled "Navel-gazing. Pen*s-gazing". Apparently, while all toddlers my age were into gazing at their navels, I was already inspecting my p***s.
This is how the story goes.
It was on the day I turned three years old. Back then being naked was not frowned upon and there were no dangers lurking in the shadows. I had just finished playing with water from the hose pipe and was about to take my nap on the "rooi stoep" in the front of my grandmother's house. Which is still home as we speak.
Those were the days of the "suikermier". The literal translation of "suikermier" is "sugar ant" and I doubt any of us has to this day figured out its real English name, let alone the scientific name of that creature. It was a big reddish black ant with a big head, a small middle, a behind as big as the head, and long legs. I think it was so-called because you always found it where there is something sweet like sugar or spilled honey or jam. While as a child I appreciated that these ants were attracted by the sweet nectar I never could figure out where they were just before. Legends who had ever helped themselves in the veld will tell a similar tale about those big ugly flies that suddenly appear out of nowhere to help themselves to your helpings.
Long story short. I got bitten by the "suikermier" on the tip of my p***s. The pain must have been so excruciating I'm told nearly the entire street reacted to my screaming. It was those days when an ambulance entered the location people would follow it to go "see for themselves". People did come to see for themselves as I was lifted into the ambulance.
Anyway, that's the story I was told when I started being curious about why my p***s looked different to other kids'. Apparently the doctors had no choice but to circumcise me at that age of three. I suppose the doctors must have told my folks "either the fo****in goes or the entire p***s goes", and for good measure, "including the balls".
I grew up thinking my folks had no right to make the decision they made about my life. It was my life. Why let my fo****in go when they had the other choice? Thanks to them I had to watch my friends, and sometimes play with their p***ses, pulling them back and forth, in and out of the fo****in mimicking a hydraulic tool. Their p***ses seemed to play along, gaining bulges as they were pulled (opposite effect = out) and pushed (opposite effect = in). So mentally excruciating I recall going to the boys' toilets only when I would be the only one.
I first appreciated my circumcised p***s in my mid teens when other boys would complain about "di zwets", a white, flaky substance that formed underneath their fo****ins and could be quite smelly and painful if not tended. Suddenly I was King but I became very proud of myself only in my late teens to early twenties when the Xhosa boys in the area would fight each other about one not being a "Doda" (pronounced "indoda") and the other being called a "Kwenkwe" (pronounced inkwenkwe). It turned out "doda" was a man and something to be proud of and "kwenkwe" was a boy and something to be ashamed of. It still did not explain the fighting until the distinction was explained that "doda" was circumcised and "kwenkwe" was not.
Still it did not explain the violence but there was the curious case of them being able to tell if a passing boy or man was a "doda" or a "kwenkwe". I mean duh!?!
I have only ever smoked w**d once in my life. It was that day in celebration after I just realised I have been a "doda" all my life. Since I was three years old, to be exact. A lot of things started making sense. I was always the one calling all the others to order when they were vulgar or doing things we shouldn't be doing. I have always been the one pointing out the dangers of what we are about to do. At the risk of never learning how to swim, I was always the one refusing that any of my friends swim at "Madolo". On football trips to Richie and Warrenton I was always the one staying sober to guard that the others don't do other things. In class I would hold back for all the other kids to catch up or to raise their hands before I finally raise mine and give the correct answer. The shackles of being a "doda"!! Or perhaps it was the w**d speaking?
It must have been the w**d because as we watched our Xhosa friends stick fighting and my high got to its highest, I asked elder Aze (an Afrikaans speaking Xhosa man who was fond of saying "ek is nie ň kaalkaffir nie") "wat is ñ kaalkaffir?". MHSRIP.
Then HIV/AIDS came. We learned that a circumcised p***s reduced the chances of being infected. Apparently the HI virus liked the moist beneath the fo****in and often lay there in wait into it can find its way into the p***s. I could only marvel at the wisdom of my folks. Thixo bawo!!
My p***s gazing was much more than boyish curiosity. It was the kind of curiosity that led the three wise men of the East to follow that Star. The kind of curiosity that led those Greek philosophers to Africa. The kind of curiosity that led humankind to so much development that we see today, including sending men into outerspace.
As I was growing up I became aware of other p***ses. I started gazing at these other p***ses as well. At first my gaze was blatant. With time I became discreet as I realised we were all gazing at each other's p***ses but the other boys were not as blatant. They would steal looks.
But I could tell the curiosity of the other boys was limited to the sizes of the others' p***ses. My curiosity went much deeper. Remember I have been doing it since I was three years old.
You know what they say about gazing at something long enough. They say if you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss will look back. They say if you look long enough into the darkness, the darkness will look back. They say you become the darkness and the darkness becomes you. I had looked and looked and looked at my p***s. I won't go as far as to say I became my p***s and my p***s became me. But yes, something moved in me. There was an attraction. At first it was curiosity. Then it became academic. Then scientific. And I realised it's power of procreation, it became biblical.
I stared at my p***s. My curiosity was all those things combined. And at others. I observed the sizes. I observed their slant. Some were crooked; others were straight. Some looked up; others looked down. Yet others looked sideways. Some had lost texture and had to be shaken hard; yet others could sq**rt long distances. Some were short; others were long. Some were thick; others were thin. Most had the fo****in; some were without the fo****in. Those with the fo****in had to be drawn out like hydraulic tools.
As one got older and exposed to the gym and its cloakrooms, it became more about how you carried your p***s. You could tell from the guys' walk in the cloakroom that they were conscious of their p***ses. Some pretended to not care; others walked with their breasts out, their manhood speaking for them.
When you stare at something long enough, it not only stares back. It teaches you something. I learned that the age old question of whether size matters is indeed a good question - to those that are yet to look at the p***s long enough. I learned some p***s philosophy. I learned some p***s mathematics.
Whoever designed the p***s, must have done a bit of philosophy and a bit of mathematics. The philosophy kept humankind to ask the question about the size - if it matters or not. The philosophy made both men and women to travel long distances at the behest of the p***s. The philosophy spoke to the longevity of the p***s, its "mortality".
The mathematics tell us there really is no difference in sizes. The mathematics tell us the difference is in the elasticity ("rate of hardening"). The mathematics distinguishes between the p***s in its flaccid state and the p***s in its erect state. The bigger the p***s in its flaccid state the more "maximum" it is. In other words in its erect state it won't gain in size (assume an elasticity of 1:1). What you see is what you get.
On the other hand, the smaller the p***s in its flaccid state, the more flexible is its elasticity (can be as much as 1:1000). In other words in its erect state it can gain in size up to a thousand times, depending on how well trained the p***s muscle is. What you see is what you want - possibilities.
My academic curiosity got the better of me and one day I asked some lady friends. They were all dismissive: "mcxm. After a while you get used to it then it's all back to square one". I also asked that other question. They all attested to the pinpoint accuracy, with one saying "pretty much like the fuel injector in a motor engine".
All of which leads to the question who designed the p***s?
***s
But who designed the p***s? All we know is that God created man but nothing is said of the p***s. And if you consider that the woman was created as an afterthought, the p***s design couldn't possibly have taken into account the possibility of s*x or procreation. Or generally what to do with it other than to relieve the full bladder. Could this be the reason why the p***s gets bored after a while? Could this explain why it lasts only a few minutes, even after spending so much money and time; travelled such long distances; risked your life, your family
So, who designed the p***s? What was the idea? What did they seek to achieve?
There are essentially two flaws in the design of the p***s. The first is that the p***s has or can easily develop a mind of its own.
I'm not suggesting that this is a great revelation. Many people, both men and women, have at times casually spoken of p***ses having minds of their own. For different reasons of course. Most men think they must explain why it wouldn't get up at that specific moment and the "mind of its own" excuse does the trick. Most women speak of that only in sarcastic tones, often suggesting that the man is a mere attachment to the p***s and not the other way round.
Granted, it may very well not have been the intention of the designer. What society needs to discuss instead is whether this can be used as a defence by the man in situations where their p***ses indeed acted independently.
The second flaw is the duality of functions of the p***s. As a tool for the satisfaction of women; and as a toy for men to taunt each other. Both these functional flaws have at various times threatened civilisation as we know it. Kingdoms and empires have hung on knife-edges while p***s issues were addressed. A President of the most powerful nation very nearly lost his job. Fathers have had to face off against sons. Brothers against brothers. Friends against friends. Comedians have suggested that had it not been for the quest to keep our p***ses provided for, man would not have needed to build mansions and fancy cars and would have happily still lived in caves.
Most of the troubles of the world today - in fact ever - have at their genesis a squabble about whose p***s is bigger than the other. If not about stray p***ses.
As for the balls, it is unclear why there had to be only two.
