It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 4

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygeine mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: A Tale of Two Penises

While there are many penis stories out there in the world, there are two tall tails in particular that need to be addressed: The Wedding Crasher, and The Magnum.

Current Husband and I were blissfully married on a lovely August day fourteen years ago. Between my sorority, his fraternity, and our respective high school friends, we were well aware things could get out of hand quickly at the reception. We considered this to be alarming, since a large contingent of Catholics, Lutherans, Methodists and Mennonites would be attending as well, so I decided a few people needed to be addressed prior to the ceremony.

One friend of CH was notorious for having his picture taken with his rather large, flaccid member poking out of his fly. He generally tried to get these pictures taken at sorority house parties, grandparent anniversaries, and bar mitzvahs. I pulled him aside before the wedding and said, "You won't be doing one of your dick pics at my wedding, correct?" And he looked very innocently at me and said, "Julie. This is your special day." And with that, I knew he was going to try.

On a quick side note, our photographer also happened to be the University of Iowa sports photographer, so we got some great action shots, but not much of what we actually asked for. My mom, fearing the worst, put disposable cameras on all of the tables at the reception. To future brides, I say definitely do the disposable cameras, they were a riot, and definitely spend some extra cash on the photographer, because all you have left when it's over is a dress, your photos, and your memories.

At the reception, things seemed to be going well. Mr. Johnson appeared to be under control and having fun, and fortunately my photographer left his camera in the car and was dancing with his wife. Mr. J approached me and said, "Hey, let's get a last picture of us together before you consummate your marriage!" And I thought, "Hey, that's funny, let's!" Snap. The photo was taken, and suddenly, I got it. I looked at him and said, "You aren't going to take a picture with your deal out are you?" and he smirked as he said, "I think I just did." Ish.

Fast forward to my mom in Nebraska, getting the pictures developed. She brings home the envelopes. She opens them. She starts thumbing through them. "Oh, Julie and Grandma," and "CH and his mom, how sweet," and "What the f**k is THAT!?!" One week later, my mom had that photo copied and enlarged (as if it needed it) and was showing it to her friends. Her daughter, the blushing bride in a questionably shaded white dress, and a guy who wasn't the groom, smiling, hand on his hip and his gargantuan appendage saying cheese. Classy.

The next Tall Tail I have to tell is about a member we call "The Magnum."

A while back, a friend of mine in our small town needed me to buy condoms, because she was active but afraid people would talk if they saw her buying birth control. (Take a moment to recognize that she, nor I, seemed to care much what people thought if I bought them. Okay, I was married, so I guess I got a pass, but why wasn't CH buying them?) I decided that instead of getting her stocked for the month, I was going to get her taken care of for a year, so I went to my big-city warehouse store and bought the biggest box of condoms I could find. I presented them to my friend, knowing that I gave the gift that kept on giving...sex without pregnancy. Hero time

The next week, my friend gave the mega-box of rubbers back to me. I asked her what was wrong with them - Did they break up? No. Are they defective? No. Did he suffer an industrial accident? No. Finally, she could take no more. She was the deepest red I have ever seen on cheeks, and was practically crying. The story could stay inside her soul no longer.

"So we are messing around. And then it's time to wrap it up, so to speak. And he's impressed that I have so many. So he puts it on and BOING! it flies off across the room! Literally springs off of him! We try another one - BOING! Same thing! And he asks me where I got these things, that they are so small they belong in a Cracker Jack box! Where did you get these mini-circus-condoms!?!"

After much persuasion, she realized that these were what normal men wear. But she, the big cat hunter, had found herself a man who needed his gloves in an XL. He needed The Magnum. We drove to the largest city within an hour of us, and bought the much-coveted Magnum size condoms. We didn't speak of that trip, but every time I saw him after that, I pictured Tom Selleck hopping into his Ferrari in Hawaii and saying goodbye to Higgins, because he was Magnum, P.I. And I couldn't look him in the eye without laughing, because I knew his gun was fully loaded.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and Happy Halloween!