– starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - TWO WEEKS LATER - DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

I just came out of therapy. This is how it went with my therapist, Brenda.

Therapist: Hi, Neil.

Neil: Hello, Brenda.

Therapist: How are you doing?

Neil: I want to show you something on the computer. My blog post today. I wrote it last night.

We both sit by her desktop.

Neil: Friday is my birthday.

Therapist: Happy early birthday.

Neil: This is sort of embarrassing, but I asked readers to send in photos of their bras.

Therapist: I’m reading that.

Neil: Now, I’m thinking the whole thing is just crazy. Why would I ask for women’s bras?

Therapist: Why do you think?

Neil: Maybe I’m just feeling horny and lonely now that I’m moving out soon.

Therapist: Then you wouldn’t just ask for bras hanging on towel racks, would you? It probably is deeper than that.

Neil: Well, what else could it be?

Therapist: Maybe the bra represents… women… blah blah… nurturing… we all… blah blah… need love… you are a man… blah blah… sexuality important… need comfort… mother… and breasts… blah blah…

Neil: Hmmm… if I asked you to show me your bra, would you do it?

Therapist: Sure.

Brenda lifts up her blouse to show me her frilly pink bra.

Neil: Thanks, Brenda.

Therapist: Anytime, Neil. But time’s up!

OK — I’ve heard some grumbling about my bra birthday idea. I don’t want to seem like I am disrespecting women or getting female bloggers in trouble with their husbands. But I do want you to celebrate my birthday with me. And I don’t want the guys to feel left out. So, I’m going to expand my photo idea to things THAT MAKE ME HAPPY.

These include, PHOTOS OF:

1) Bras (with or without the women in them)

2) Bagels

3) NYC Street Scenes

4) Pizza

5) ABBA

6) Books by Charles Dickens

7) Cool Men’s Belts

Sophia and I had the worst flight back to Los Angeles. Sophia had a cold. The obnoxious couple in front of us had a crying baby. The airplane was cramped. When we arrived in Los Angeles, LAX was backed up because of the RAIN! We waited in the airplane for two and half hours!

This morning, back at Redondo Beach, Sophia is sick in bed, drugged up on cold medicine. She turned to me as she woke up from an unrestful sleep.

Sophia: “I had a weird dream. But it was so vivid. Like it was real.”

Neil: “About what?”

Sophia: “About the laptop. It was broken.”

Neil: “A virus?”

Sophia: “No, it was physically broken. And I really wanted to use the laptop, but every time I would lift up the top, it would just fall down and do nothing. Like it was weak. It was totally frustrating.”

Neil: “Could you turn it on?”

Sophia: “Of course I can turn it on, that’s not the problem. I kept working on it, over and over again, trying to keep it up. It was as if my life was depending on it. I kept on trying to prop it up. But the top would just fall down, useless. Up, down, up, down. And then I got tired of trying to make it go up, because it would just stay up for a second, then flop down again.”

Neil: “That’s a weird dream to have about your laptop.”

Sophia: “Yeah, it was especially weird because I was actually trying to use YOUR laptop.”

Neil: “My laptop?”

Sophia: “Isn’t that weird? Why would I have this dream?”

Neil: “Hmmm… You know, maybe you should take another Contac, go back to sleep, and hopefully you’ll forget we ever had this conversation.”

P.S. — Hey, what do you want? I can’t write heartfelt pieces about Kissena Boulevard forever!

Sophia, Flushing

I enjoy getting comments which read “Oh, Neil, that was so funny. You made me morning.” I like them so much, I hate bringing up times when I’m feeling a little down. I’ve only been in New York for one day, and while I should be absolutely joyous, I’m feeling sort of blue. I’m not sure if it is the bleak sky, the cold, or just missing therapy this week. Even seeing my Mom and eating the perfect bagels hasn’t broken me out of the rut.

Bagels, Flushing

My screenplay pitch is still on the backburner while the writer’s strike continues. It is hard convincing yourself that you have the “greatest comedy story ever written” for more than a month before you start having doubts. There are a couple of big expense concerns coming up, and thinking about money makes me anxious.

On Monday, at LAX, we had a hour to kill before our flight, so I watched travelers running around, catching fights. It is big world out there, with so many countries and cities I want to see. Will I get to visit everywhere I want? Will I have the time? The money? Today, I found my old stamp collection in my closet. I had organized all of my international stamps into little envelopes titled France, India, Madagascar, etc. I must have been around ten years old. Some of the countries on the list, mostly African ones, don’t even exist anymore! I’m sure I dreamed of traveling to all of these places one day. Now, I’m less sure of myself. Maybe I won’t ever get to Madagascar after all! And that would be sad. Time is moving too fast.

Time also plays games with the mind. Although my mother had done a great job in redecorating the apartment in the last year, the memory of my father is still strong. Everywhere you look, there is a part of him, from his collection of slides he took in the army or massive collection of ties. His essence is here. While it is nice that his presence is felt, it is sad that he is not here in person.

A familiar view from my old room while lying on the bed

I’m glad Sophia came along to New York. She’s always fun (except for the traveling by plane part where she brings too much luggage). Still, we are theoretically moving closer to the date when I will move out of the house. We both think it would be good to take a break and have some alone time. My therapist didn’t even think it was a good idea to travel to New York together, but what fun would it be without her? Sophia is sleeping right now, and I’m feeling all sorts of emotional ups and downs about our future.

The confusion over our relationship has created problems for my sex life and my dreams are becoming more anxiety-ridden by the day. Last night, I combined all my fears about writing, Hollywood, and sex in to one big stew of bizarre dreaming:

In the dream, I had just spoken to this movie producer on the phone. The writer’s guild strike was still going on, so my pitch was postponed again. I needed to quickly make more money, so I looked in the newspaper. I ended up getting a job with a CSI crime unit. I was hired to be a special “closer.” My daily assignment: I would go down on a female suspect, and from her taste, I would learn all these facts about her. “She’s 32, runs two miles a day, and loves Cheerios,” I would say to the police captain as I lifted my head up from between her thighs. “She’s a graduate of Princeton with a B.A. in Religion and she is lying about hitting her husband over the head with that baseball bat.” My authority was never questioned and this Princeton religious studies graduate was thrown in jail for committing murder. Rather than feeling good about myself, I fretted about my “interrogation.” I had the nagging feeling that I tasted her incorrectly and put the wrong woman behind bars.

After this dream, I woke up with a terrible headache. And now there’s two more weeks without therapy! God help us all.

Tomorrow, we’re going to MOCA, and maybe meeting Tamar of Mining Nuggets for coffee (that is if she’s not afraid of me after hearing about my dream). Email me if you live in New York and know of some cool things going on or restaurants that you love.

She looked down at me, but could only see the top of my head, resting comfortably between her legs.  She moaned as the rest of my face was deep inside, pleasuring her vajayjay.

Not a very good beginning to my latest erotic story, is it?!   I’m so out of it.   Until I saw this article yesterday in the New York Times, I had never heard of the word “vajayjay.”  Apparently, this euphemism for vagina got “her” start on a TV show.

It began on Feb. 12, 2006, when viewers of the ABC series “Grey’s Anatomy” heard the character Miranda Bailey, a pregnant doctor who had gone into labor, admonish a male intern, “Stop looking at my vajayjay.”

Now do you understand why the TV writers are on strike?  Without them, we would still be crude and calling it a p***y?

Oprah then used the term on her show, catapulting the term into the public domain like Jerry Seinfeld’s wife’s lame cooking book.

As you all know, I write about my Penis a lot.  I actually use the word “Penis.”  That’s what it is called in the English language.  If I want to be a little saucy, I might say c**k, but I tend to use asterisks.  I’m very prim and proper at heart.  I’m not a believer in letting it all “hang out.”  I’d prefer a burlesque show to a strip joint.  I’d rather keep the non-asterisks for private, like for those special moments when the women is quietly murmuring, “Give me your f**king c**k!  Harder!”  I believe in keeping some of the mystery out of the public realm.

If Penis = Vagina, c**k = p***y.  Vagina might be a tad clinical to some, mostly because it isn’t truly the interesting part of the anatomy, or specific enough.  Althoug most women hate it, I personally like the word pussy (there, I said it!) because it is sexy, and women are mysterious, like cats.

Whatever the term, I really really hate “vajayjay.”  It reminds me of childish terms like wee-wee for the penis   Women, please — do not use the term in the bedroom.  Any man will lose his will to live if he hears you scream, “I love the way your wee-wee feels in my vajayjay.”

Neil’s Penis:  Please, No!!!!

Last night, I awoke from a dream at 3AM.  I couldn’t fall back asleep because my mind was working overtime, trying to decipher one of mankind’s greatest secret since the Celestine Prophecy:

How many women can one man make love to at one time?

As someone who took AP Calculus in high school, I used my math skills to come upon the number SIX:  a man can — with no tools other than his body — make love to six women at once — with his penis, his mouth, his right hand, his left hand, his right foot, and his left foot.    This seems to be the man’s physical limit, unless he has some unusual appendage, like a third hand. 

As if wasting my time on this scenario wsn’t crazy enough, I spent another hour drawing “mathematical charts” and “architectural blueprints” to verify this important discovery to myself.

Therapy has had two opposite effects.   It has motivated me to be more productive and organized, hence my post two days ago on how to be better organized.  Thank you!    Therapy has also made me incredibly self-absorbed, which is perfect for procrastination.   I never knew I could be so interesting to myself!   So, rather than working today, I spent most of the day mulling my own existence.  

First, let me ask you something.  I don’t know about your therapist, but my one hour session is really fifty minutes, because “Barbara” needs ten minutes to write her notes.   Does your therapist do the same?  I like Barbara a lot, but this business practice sounds a bit like the plumber charging you labor costs for his time filling out the paperwork.    Maybe I’m just grumpy because fifty minutes is not enough for me.  I’ve even started to skip the pleasantries of talking about the weather for a couple of minutes because I can feel the clock ticking.   When I walk out of therapy after such short sessions, I feel unfulfilled, as if I just went to a beautiful, naked Thai masseuse who rubbed by entire body in sensual oil, then told me to “get the hell out” so she could watch “Oprah.”  After my session today, I was in such a crazed mood to talk… to talk about myself.  Unfortunately, for many of you on my email list, there is the little invention called IM.  Please accept my apologies — all twenty of you — who I IMed with today while you were in the office.  At first, I was polite, meekly saying, “Hi there! How are you?” and then when you answered, I knew I had you trapped. 

“So, I just got back from therapy and it was very interesting.  I’m beginning to realize that I…. and that I… and… is the best for me… and… more sex… more for me… what I want… me…me…me…oh, right, your grandmother is dying… I remember when my grandmother was dying… me… me… and I was fourteen… and there I was, with my penis… me… aren’t I interesting?   What?  You have a job? … when I grow up, I want to be…”

I use Trillian for my IM messages, because the application can work on Gmail, Yahoo, MSN, and AOL simultaneously, so I had the entire world covered today.  Is it my imagination — or is everyone  on my IM list “invisible” tonight?   Oh, well, maybe everyone is just watching TV.   I can’t imagine that you would “hide” from me.

Barbara is a traditional therapist and she believes in all that crap about everything stemming from your childhood.   OK, I shouldn’t say “crap.”  I actually believe it too, but I am using humor as a “defense mechanism.”  How do you like them apples?  Defense-mechanism!   Don’t I sound self-actualized?  I know my stuff! 

When I look through my blog, I see themes that are played over and over.   I don’t mean that I use the same stories over and over again.  I do that, too, hoping most of the readers from 2005 have disappeared by now.  I mean that many of my posts have a certain world view that relates to my own neuroses.  One of them has to do with gender issues in my marriage.    Over and over, we’ve seen that Sophia is outwardly the strong one, while I sit at home, listening to ABBA.   Who wants a wimpy husband?  Gender roles affect our home, our family, and our relationship.  

Since these issues didn’t play much of a role in my life until I married Sophia, I saw it as a “marital” problem, but Barbara is helping me realize that you can’t really fix a couple; you can only fix yourself.   The seeds of my behavior were planted in me way before I had met Sophia.  I learned about gender roles and marriage from my own parents.  My confusion over a “man’s role” in society were already bouncing around my head as a child, my brain crowded with images of Clint Eastwood and James Bond battling it out with sweater-wearing Bill Cosby.

When I was at USC Film School, my final thesis film was a broad comedy called “Little Artie.”  It was just a little funny film, but when I mentioned the plot-line to Barbara, she was surprised that the story foreshadowed my relationship with Sophia — and I hadn’t even met her yet.   It feels pretentious analyzing my “work” as if I am Ingmar Bergman, but I’m surprised how unaware I was of the similarities. 

Is this how little I know myself?

Little Artie:

Artie and Elaine are a married couple.  They have a little dog named Little Artie, and they treat him as their child, like many pet-owners do when they don’t have children.

Note:  While it seemed funny at the time, it now seems a bit odd that I named the two characters, Artie and Elaine, since my parents’ REAL names are… Artie and Elaine!  And who would be Little Artie then?

In the story, Artie works as a curator at an art gallery.  He is peace-loving , cultured “liberal.”   Elaine is training to be a black belt in karate.  She is more conservative and believes in self-defense, and is more aggressive in the bedroom.   They get along great, except for differing opinions on how to “raise” their dog, Little Artie.   Artie wants him to be a loving pet, while Elaine wants him to be stronger, able to take care of the family if there is danger.   Later, while they are at work, their home is burglarized and the dog stands there watching all the furniture disappear.  When they come home and see their empty home, Artie and Elaine have a big fight.  Elaine insists that Little Artie go to “guard dog school” to get him into shape, while Artie refuses to allow this.  The argument gets intense and they file for divorce.  The question remains — who gets the dog?  At this point, the dog runs into the dog house in the backyard and refuses to come out for either of them.   The couple goes to court and the judge rules that whoever can get him out of the doghouse first can keep him.  And then there is some crazy comedy!  Well, except for the parts that fell flat.  There’s some new “lovers,” and a karate fight finale (I used a real fight coordinator) between Artie’s two rival women at an art gallery opening.  At the end, Artie and Elaine learn to compromise — Little Artie needs to be both strong AND sensitive.

Anyway, that’s therapy — week seven.
 

(Typography pin-up girl by Taylor Lane)

Queen of Spain wrote a provocative piece today dispensing tips to women on giving oral sex to their men.  This is probably one of the most important issues in the world today, because I feel that if there was more oral sex in the world, there would be world peace.

As a prominent male blogger, I thought it was important to take a page from Erin’s book, and give my MALE readers important tips on pleasing a woman orally. 

Men have the harder job.  Women are built differently.  They are more complex.  The interesting stuff isn’t just hanging there, in full view.  That’s why, if a man can learn to please his woman orally, she will do ANYTHING FOR YOU.  The trouble is that most men do not have a clue on how to bring their woman to the point of no return, exclusively through oral technique.  Not every man has the experience and patience that I do in making his woman scream for more.

Neilochka’s Three Rules for Pleasing Her Orally

1)  Take a Shower

2)  Brush your Teeth

3)  Take her to the Cheesecake Factory and let her order the White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Cheesecake.  It’s a whole less time-consuming pleasing her orally this way than spending all night with your face between her thighs   This way, it’s a guaranteed success!   Women absolutely love cake!  They appreciate it more when it is your suggestion to order the cake because it tells the woman that she looks perfect the way she is, and that you are not worried about her gaining weight.  That is a major turn-on.  You might even get a blow-job on the way home, and then you can just spend the rest of the night watching reruns of the Simpsons on TV.  Well, not me.  But maybe you.  

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  I Don’t Understand Women  (Nothing has changed!)

This is a cautionary tale. I write this as a warning to other men. Do NOT do what I have done.

The trouble began, like most things in the world, in Saskatchewan, Canada.

Here’s part of Savia’s last post:

Remember when Madam Diva sent me her breast in the interoffice mail? And I challenged Neil to send me a watercolour of his talking penis? And then he said he would, but didn’t? And then I twitter taunted him and called him a watercolour c**ck tease? Well, he came through (so to speak), just for me.

Oy. A cartoon version of my talking Penis on someone else’s blog! (NSFW! — I drew this and I feel ashamed). I can only imagine my upcoming therapy session:

Therapist: “In your last post about men, your thoughts about women sound very adolescent.”

Neil: “I know.”

Therapist: “You shouldn’t let a woman sway your emotions one way or another. You need to be YOU.”

Neil: “Right. Right.”

Therapist: “And you need to learn to say “NO” to women. Don’t be a pushover and let them run your life.”

Neil: “Yes, uh… well, I wanted to bring that up…”

Therapist: “Yes?”

Neil: “Well, there is this crazy female blogger in Canada named Savia… well, she’s cute, and she, uh, likes to collect naughty drawings, and asked me to send her a drawing of my talking Penis…”

Therapist: “How immature. Of course you told her that was impossible. You’re an adult who doesn’t do those sorts of things. A college-educated man. Besides, there are no such things as talking Penises.”

Neil: “Yes, of course. Talking Penises don’t really exist, but…”

Therapist: “Oh no…”

Neil: “…but she seemed so disappointed when I said no. And you know how I hate to disappoint a woman.

Therapist: “Neil…”

Neil: “She was crying on Twitter, for godsakes! I didn’t realize that she was actually going to put it on her blog. I thought it was just for her. Thank God I’ve never made a sex video. I would never be able to go on YouTube again!”

Therapist: “Why? Neil. Why would you do something like that? Why would you send something so personal to a person you hardly know?”

Neil: “I don’t know.”

Neil’s Penis: “I know! I know. Even a Fifth Grader knows the answer to that one. He’s hoping to one day get into her pants!”

Neil: “Shut up, Penis!”

Therapist: “Who are you talking to, Neil?”

Neil: “No one… no one…”

I wasn’t going to link this cartoon, but Savia started crying and nagging on Twitter again, saying that NO ONE ever links to her, and that she would be very disappointed if I didn’t give her a link.

Damn women!

As I’m writing this post, I almost deleted it. I felt incredibly shy about this whole Talking Penis Cartoon Scandal. But don’t I write about my talking Penis all the time?! I mean, it wasn’t as if I put a photo of my real penis online? Why was I so puritanical? Was I worried about Sophia’s reaction? My mother’s? Frankly, the drawing wasn’t even a credible representation of my talking Penis. He would never wear a tie. But then, again, I rarely wear a tie, either, but I was wearing one last week when Sophia and I met a bunch of bloggers in Hollywood last week when Dave from Blogography came to town (Sophia and I came straight from Yom Kippur services).

Neil meets blogger SJ for the first time at the blog-meet!  Notice the shirt and tie!

My real problem with my talking Penis cartoon was that I felt as if I was objectifying myself. Someone might come to Savia’s site and actually think more fondly of my talking Penis than me. I perfectly understand how this can happen. How many times have I stared at a women’s full breasts, mesmerized, wanting to hold them, kiss them, do anything to them, and completely forgot that there was a woman attached? I wouldn’t want people meeting me the first time and shaking my hand and saying, “Nice to meet you, Penis… I mean Neil.”

Let this be my punishment for all the years of objectifying women and their tits and asses. Now, I understand how you feel.

Please, while I might enjoy the attention somewhat, I am not just a Talking Penis.

I am a MAN!