Seven Days to a Larger Penis

In honor of Jamie Foxx.

DAY 1. Sitting happily on my couch I scan the newspaper, not thinking for a moment about my penis. In the top right corner of one page there’s a tiny ad headlined “FOR MEN ONLY! Penile Expansion Procedure.” I wonder if the “FOR MEN ONLY!” part is really necessary, since I know very few women with tiny penises. The ad has no specifics, but is dotted with phrases like “Confidentiality Assured”, “Same Day Results”, and “Mastercard/Visa” that could just as easily describe a dry cleaner. I wonder if I’ll ever be curious enough to call and I jot down the number.

TEN MINUTES LATER: I call. Genial but caring “Stan” tells me that penile expansion is a simple and safe outpatient procedure. One afternoon I go to a doctor’s office where fat cells are extracted from my abdomen and injected into my circumcision scar, if I’ve got one. There’s a pregnant pause, and I wonder if I am supposed to fill it with my own pertinent penis facts. Just as I decide I’ll tell “Stan” about mine if he tells me about his, he jumps back in. The procedure is strictly decorative, he says, conjuring up in my mind a surgical Bob Mackie, and I make a mental note to tell him I’m allergic to sequins.

In no way will the operation affect any of my average daily penis activities, “Stan” says. Daily penis activities? I ask. My typical schedule consists entirely of hanging, interrupted by brief periods of indecision. I’m wondering if “Stan”’s has sporting events or birthday parties to attend that mine hasn’t been invited to. The width increases, not the length, and the head of the penis isn’t enlarged, just the shaft. I’m picturing my penis looking like a skinny bald man in a puffy jacket.

“Stan” says my penis will increase up to an inch and a half in circumference, and I try to remember the mathematical formula that’ll give me the diameter. I can’t. I blame my old math teacher: if he’d taught these equations using sex organs instead of pies I’d be Stephen J. Hawking today. “Stan” says he’ll mail further information and he says goodbye in that way people do when they know you’ve got a small penis.

I dig out my old algebra book and find the equation: the circumference of a circle is two pi times the radius. Pointing my solar-powered calculator toward a lamp I discover that adding an inch and a half to the circumference increases the diameter 0.4774637 of an inch. Hmm. I’m more impressed by my mathematical ability than by the thought of adding less than half an inch to my penis width.

DAY 2: I get a brochure in the mail from “Stan” that looks like a cardboard walk-in closet with “For Men Only” written across it. Behind the first door is a patient’s testimonial: “I now have a new life and I am fine.” I wonder why in every advertisement I’ve ever seen for tummy tucks or nose jobs there are patient photos printed but in this brochure there are no BEFORE and AFTER penises. There’s a letter enclosed, though, that says a video is available, “for viewing in the privacy of your home”. I wonder why they add this line: are they afraid of accidentally sending it to someone with Jumbotron access? Would some unscrupulous Broadway producer use this footage to mount some sort of penis revue? I send in a check to cover the deposit.

DAY 3: The video arrives in the mail. The good news is, nowhere on the package are the words HERE’S THE PENIS ENLARGEMENT VIDEO YOU SENT FOR. The bad news is, there are still no before or after shots.

The first testimonial comes from a sweaty, shaky man who looks like Nixon when he resigned. His conversation veers inexplicably and repeatedly to his penis. Whereas the milestones in most people’s lives are birth, marriage, children and death, his are all penis-this and penis-that. There’s the day he realized he was short-changed, the embarrassing showers in gym class, distracting the women he slept with using dim lighting and sleight-of-hand, and, finally, that wonderful day when trained technicians relocated his abdominal fat. He beams and boasts that he grew from 3 1/4” to 5” in circumference. I get out the calculator again: this guy’s gained 0.5570409 inch increase in diameter, and he’s smiling like Ed McMahon’s running towards him with a giant check.

The second interviewee is wearing big sunglasses and a fake beard but curiously his wife sits undisguised at his side. Both smile. He says, now that I’ve had the operation I’m as happy as a lark. A lark with an enormous penis, his smile says.

Next, a cartoon drawing of a person appears. One arrow points to where the fat will be sucked out, and another points to where the fat will be stuffed in. A line-drawing of a penis appears, resembling a 50’s style kidney-shaped coffee table, but it is too thin to hold many drinks. It doubles in size to show the expected effect of the redistributed fat, and now it’s big enough to hold the lunch buffet at Caesar’s Palace. The video ends without credits for make-up, costuming, or grip.

The letter enclosed with the video instructs me to return it at my convenience to a nearby clinic.

DAY 4: I go to the clinic. The receptionist tells me that the only person who can refund my deposit is out, but will return soon. I take a seat and read a copy of “Travel & Leisure” from 1989. Glancing around the southwestern-style room I wonder if all the visitors think the pink wall sconces look like ceramic vaginas or if it’s just me.

Another customer enters with a World-Class bulge, trousers-wise. I’m about to tell him he’s in the wrong damn place when the receptionist greets him and says the doctor will be with him in a moment. He sits next to me and reads an old “National Geographic,” oblivious to the pink wall vaginas. I sneak a surreptitious glance at his puffy pants, searching for clues. Is he embarrassed and over-stuffing, or is he apres-surgery and swollen? Just as I gather the courage to inquire, the receptionist says they can mail me the deposit refund. I agree and exit, hearing someone on the phone promising the caller “IN BY 10, OUT BY 2”. Hah! If they’re anything like my drycleaner he’ll see Pat Boone in “Naked Boys Singing!” before he gets his dick back.

DAY 5: I scan newspaper ads again, and the male cosmetic surgery advertisements have multiplied like rabbits. One ad is headlined “MEDICAL BREAKTHROUGH” and promises an increase in penis length. I call, and “John” explains the process. The suspensory ligament holds the penis aloft and stable, he says, and for $3000 they’ll slice mine clean in two. As a result my penis, no longer held back, will plop down and out. I could gain two inches, he says, but he also casually mentions the drawbacks: since my penis won’t be held in place it’ll bounce around a bit, and since it won’t be held up it’ll usually point down. This scares me. I wonder if I’ll have to jump and down to get a blowjob.

Other ads leave me more confused than informed. One advertises “injections for erections,” which sounds like bad Cole Porter while being short on details: I mean, does the shot cause erections or cure them? When I’m excited, jabbing a needle in my bits is one of the last things I’d do, right before “Phone Tyne Daly.” Another offers “scrotum enhancement.” Now, Webster’s says “enhancement” is “to make greater in value or attractiveness”. I hear the word a lot when I go to Home Depot or Lumber City, but I can’t think of anything I could do that’d make my balls better looking or increase their resale value.

I spot one ad that offers something called “The Circle Device” that lengthens the penis non-surgically for just $89. I write away.

DAY 6: I receive the information about “The Circle Device”. Though it’s vaguely described, it’s still scary enough to make the Pope cross his legs. “... [A]fter five minutes you will not realize your [sic] wearing it”, and “... their [sic] is virtually no limit to the length you can stretch your penis.” What happens if I forget I’m wearing it and I leave it on too long? Will I have to get a bigger car? “The CIRCLE DEVICE has a unique circular design with a hinge to allow for expansion ... “, “... weighs approximately 10 oz.”, “... will not be noticeable under normal pants.” Pardon me? Something weighing 10 ounces that’s hinged around my penis will not be noticeable? I look around my apartment for something weighing 10 ounces and find only Stouffer’s Frozen Lasagna.

As I stand there trying not to imagine noodles in meat sauce dangling from my penis I wonder why nobody’s offering before-and-after photos. I picture my penis looking like a bald man in a big coat, bouncing around like one of those plastic dogs on the back dashboards of Chevys while I’m in the throes of desire. I wonder if, though “... after five minutes you will not realize your [sic] wearing” the CIRCLE DEVICE, you’ll spend four minutes and fifty-nine seconds stuffing your mouth with everything pill-shaped in your medicine chest.

When I come to, the refrigerator door is still open and lasagna juice is coagulating around my feet.

DAY 7: I remember that tight t-shirts and horizontal stripes make French sailors look big and muscular, so I go to the store to find the tightest striped condoms that money can buy.