Half-Cocked Canadian
Thursday, September 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Sasha at The Eye devotes part of this week’s advice column to the difficulties of a young man who is missing the glans portion of his penis, and who accordingly has a very difficult time finding sex partners or having an orgasm, even while masturbating. I was a bit disappointed in Sasha’s suggestions, which consisted of one useful suggestion aimed at helping the man find people unlikely to be horrified by his condition, plus three paragraphs aimed at helping him deal with the emotional trauma of having important bits missing. I’m no sex advice columnist, but somehow it seems like what the man could use most is some reliable advice on coming when he wants to.
Not to be too blunt about this, but the poor boy should have asked Dan Savage. A straight guy who knows very much about this is either uncommonly well-read or unusually adventurous, but “the truth is out there“.
Retreating rapidly behind the veil of literary example, there’s a character in Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle called “Half-Cocked Jack” (along with worse things) due to an unfortunate encounter with a fumble-fingered barber, a white-hot iron, and the French Pox. His good fortune it was to fall in with a young but very well-read harem slave-girl from Constantinople. When she observes his deficiency, she’s quick to point out that “certain arts have been taught to me from Books of India.” Later in the book, there’s a scene where she and Jack are lounging in a hot springs:
Eliza laughed gaily. “Fist? Jack, this is but two fingers. A fist would be more like — this!”
Jack felt his body being turned outside in — there was some thrashing and screaming that was cut short when his head accidentally submerged in the sulfurous water. Eliza got a grip on his hair and hauled his head back up into the cold air with her other hand.
“You’re sure this is how they do it in India?”
“Would you like to register … a complaint?”
“Aaugh! Never.”
“Remember, Jack: whenever serious and competant people need to get things done in the real world, all considerations of tradition and protocol fly out the window.”
There followed a long and mysterious procedure — tedious and yet somehow not.
“What’re you groping about for?” Jack muttered faintly. “My gall-bladder is just to the left.”
“I’m trying to locate a certain chakra — should be somewhere around here –”
“What’s a chakra?”
“You’ll know when I find it.”
Some time later, she did, and then the procedure took on greater intensity, to say the least. Suspended between Eliza’s two hands, like a scale in a market-place, Jack could feel his balance-point shifting as quantities of fluids were pumped between internal reservoirs, all in preparation for some Event. Finally, the crisis — Jack’s legs thrashed in the hot water as if his body were trying to flee, but he was staked, impaled. A bubble of numenous light, as if the sun were mistakenly attempting to rise inside his head. Some kind of Hindoo apocalypse played out. He died, went to Hell, ascended into Heaven, was reincarnated as various braying, screeching, and howling beasts, and repeated this cycle many times over. In the end he was reincarnated, just barely, as a Man. Not a very alert one.
“Did you get what you wanted?” she inquired. Very close to him.
Admittedly harem girls from Constantinople aren’t as easy to whistle up as they used to be, but why couldn’t Sasha (herself a serious and competant person) at least have pointed our half-cocked young man toward the purchase a prostate-massaging anal toy?
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