All of us, at some time or another, wonders how the “other half” lives. You know… the half with the twigs and berries and whatnot? As women, it’s an interesting concept, imagining what we would do if we could spend one day walking around inside a man’s skin, without any commitment or repercussions.
What would my own day be like if I woke up as a man tomorrow morning? Well, let’s see…
First order of business: the morning pee. It’s wintertime, so I’m obligated to go outside and write my name in the snow. With my pee. From my penis.
It’s much harder than it looks. Writing in the snow, I mean.
After coming back inside, I strip naked and marvel at my studly physique in the mirror. Yeah, I’m taking the liberty of assuming that I’d wake up as a hot guy, because deep down inside I’m still a woman, so naturally that’s what I’d want to have happen. This is my fantasy, and in it I look like The Rock.
I get my dick hard so I can measure it for posterity. Turns out it’s a grower, not a show-er, which is a damn good thing. I gotta tell you, I was a little scared when I stood outside in the cold because it looked like a sad, misplaced thumb. But no – it’s quite impressive now. Smooth, with a head that’s not dis-proportionally big. Nice. Curves very slightly to the right, but hey, we can’t all be perfect. I hang a towel on it just to see if it will stay there (it does), and then I swing it to and fro while I flex my muscles.
Speaking of fro… the towel falls off and I notice that I could probably stand a bit of manscaping. My pubes resemble the gnarly brambles that surrounded Sleeping Beauty’s fortress, except the beauty that has sprung from the middle of my own brambles is anything but asleep. I’ll get to them soon, right after I masturbate. I’m not going to waste a single moment of this day because it. Is. Awesommmmmme. Unnhhhhhhh.
I accidentally jizz on the hardwood floor. Wow, that was fast. And weird. Sort of looks like abstract art. “Is that a Jackson Pollock?” I ask myself out loud. “Nope!” I proudly answer. “It’s by an up-and-coming artist named Jacksoff Mycock!”
I laugh loudly at my own joke and make a mental note to remember that my orgasms make an explosive mess now.
I trim the forest and take a shower, masturbating again because why the fuck not? Soap is really fun. I admit it’s a little surreal, stroking a cock that’s attached to my own body, but I find that it adds something to the excitement. This is going to be a great day.
I get dressed – without wasting any time on makeup – and I’m ready to face the world as a man. A manly man. A manly man who’s going to do all sorts of manly things.
I decide to go out and chum it up with all the guys I know. I make the rounds, talking about bitches and hos, Monday Night Football (I couldn’t believe how many home runs that one team made! Holy shit, guys!), intermittently adjusting my package while we all slap each other’s backs in commiseration. Oddly enough, this male bonding ritual is not awkward at all; I decide it must be all the testosterone that makes it feel so righteous.
In conversation, I casually bring up some not-at-all-random chick; a chick that I know that they know. Her name is Alison and she’s got this wild hair that’s bluish-purple and she’s also got a damn fine rack. I tell them I’d like to tap that ass.
I then take note of all the guys who agree with the assessment that I am highly doable. I figure I can use that information as leverage when I get my boobs back later.
Time’s just flying by. It’s now mid-afternoon and I haven’t yet done my workout. Gotta stay fit. I high-five my manly pals and go out for a jog.
Without a bra.
“OH SWEET FREEDOM!” I feel like shouting from the rooftops. I whip my shirt off, right there in the great wide open for all the world to see, just because I can. I put it back on before my nipples get frostbitten off, but it’s an exciting moment nonetheless.
As I run, I think about what I should do with the rest of my day. Sex. Christ, this is what it’s like living inside a man’s body? I just thought about sex like three minutes ago, what the fuck?
A woman. I need to find a woman who’s willing to do the deed with me – that’s all there is to it. I feel pretty confident that my husband would sanction this sort of affair. He’s 100% heterosexual and he isn’t going to be at all interested in what’s going on between my legs on this particular day, not to mention he would never deny me such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Now that I think about it, he’d probably be into the idea of a threesome.
I wonder where I should go to pick up a hot piece of ass (Panera Bread? Walmart?) and I start to have doubts. Fear creeps into the base of my skull, invading the back of my mind. When I find a hot piece of ass, what do I do? Do I wink at it? Do I club it over the head and drag it home with me like they did in the olden days? When I get it home, what then? What if I’m a premature ejaculator? Oh my gods, what if I can’t even get it up? Or what if the room is too cold and it crawls back inside itself like a frightened turtle?! That would just be the worst!
By the end of my run, I completely chicken out and forget the whole thing because I’ve been struck by a wicked case of performance anxiety. I settle on driving to the grocery store for a warm apple pie, instead. I return home to the comfy recliner that awaits me.
Pie in my lap and a smile on my face, I eat the whole damn pie. Every. Last. Bite. (What did you think I was going to do with it, you pervert? Stick my dick in it? Oh. Yeah, dammit. That might have been really nice, actually. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?)
Too fat and sassy to get up and go back to the store for more pie, I give my testicles a good scratching. And then I begin to have some dangerous thoughts.
The menfolk say that getting hit in the balls is as painful as birthing a child. I always thought that was a crock of shit. No fucking way that a nut crunch is worse than firing off a vaginal torpedo.
I decide to test it out for myself.
I consider my options. I don’t think a fist punch will be enough to get the job done so I settle on a closed umbrella. It’s heavy, but not too cumbersome. It’s perfect. I lay down on the floor with my legs spread apart, take a deep breath, aim for the middle and with a mighty *thwack!* …
OW, MY BALLS! Holy fucking hellsticks afire IT HURTS!
Waves of nausea overtake me and I nearly pass out from the trauma. I’m unable to move for several minutes, curled up in a fetal position on the floor with the umbrella beside me, mocking my pain.
Okay. I’ll admit it. During those first few minutes, it’s pretty bad. Beyond horrible, really. If that pain lasted the length of a typical labor and birth, I could totally see it being tied for the win.
By this point, I’m exhausted. It’s early, but I’m spent. I consider dressing myself up as a woman to see what I would look like as a drag queen, but I’m just too tired. I hobble back to my recliner and flip on the tv to relax. It’s the end of my day as a man… one of the best days of my life. Eventually, I fall asleep with my hand in my pants, sore and satiated.
(And when I wake up the next morning, I grab my tits just to make sure they’ve come back to mama, safe and sound.)