I love my penis.
I love its shape. I love holding it. I love when someone looks at it and for a few moments they feel the same way for it I do.
It has an unclipped stoic presence and is just about the only thing I like about myself. The rest of my body is complete horseshit and I fully recognize that as I’m sure others have too.
For one, I'm too petite to have the type of gut I do. It's like this little pouch that haunts my abdomen and no matter how strong my attempts at expelling it are, it lives there without remorse. Everyone else at 154.6 pounds has abs by default because this is an emaciated weight for 5'9. Not me though. Stupid, tubby boy Joe managed to pull off a gut.
I won't even get to the weird pubic hair on my shoulders or how my skin can’t quite commit to full whiteness or darkness. There is no racial category for me because of this and that’s rough in America because we’re so obsessed with being #TeamPolice or #TeamBlack. If I try to place myself in any one of these Twitter hashtags I come off looking goofy.
Thankfully my penis is the only saving grace in my life. I listen to Howard Stern bragging about how small his is and I feel bad. He has no idea what it’s like to look down and see something that truly makes you happy. When you have a penis you respect, on some days the sun shines a little brighter. My penis swoops in to save the day where the rest of my body has failed to hone any kind of self-respect.
It reminds me of Chris Evans’ Captain America when I wear a condom. With or without the red, white and blue costume getup, you still get a feel that it’s a sentinel of American freedom. It may not wield an unbreakable shield as Cap does but it has its own way of fighting for truth and justice.
The problem with loving your penis so much is you’re not really allowed to in our culture. It’s taboo. You see women talking about their “curves” and their “fit life” all over Instagram but when it comes to the male phalanx, planet earth’s bringer of war, peace and pleasure, you get the typical response of:
“YA KNOW ANYBODY WHO TALKS ABOUT IT SO MUCH PROBABLY ISN’T PACKING MUCH.”
Any comfort I have with being this open is all due to Boogie Nights. I had grown up on penile shaming my whole life and due to this I had no idea you can pridefully adore oneself so much. I understand Dirk Diggler is a fictional character but the way he flaunted it without shame, or popped it out with glee whenever someone asked, finally made me feel like I wasn’t alone.
Seeing Boogie Nights was like listening to the Beatles for the first time. Just as everything I knew about music changed the day I put on Abbey Road, how I felt about my penis changed after Dirk, without hesitiation, dropped his pants for Jack Horner in the kitchen. In that moment I knew I no longer had to skulk in the darkness and hide my affection for it. I could be proud too.
All the MySpace Kudos in the world go to Paul Thomas Anderson for creating strength in our community. He made my world feel like it can expand to the bright Cosmos of Amber Waves and Rollergirls.
On a smaller level Boogie Nights was my Roots. Any of us who hold our penis as a way to protect it from the elements finally had a movie. That scene where Dirk’s mom yelled at him for being a loser and he said NO, just as Kunta Kinte said NO to being called Tobey, was so empowering.
NO, my penis isn’t small because I love talking about it. Your hate will not change who I am for I shall still clutch it proudly in bed.
I try not to fall for click bait but when the movie magic behind Dirk’s million dollar foot long came out, I couldn’t tap my finger against the IPhone screen fast enough. Not since Houdini gave a little insight to a trick or when we finally got to see the shark in Jaws, has the lifting of a veil of secrecy been so important.
“It’s more powerful if you have to wait for it”, director Paul Thomas Anderson has said of the Paul McCartney of male hogs.
It doesn’t even matter if there’s an Illuminati at this point. The only secret we’ll ever need to know is out. Here’s how it was made in the words of Boogie Nights’ Special Makeup Effects Supervisor Howard Berger:
“We started creating the prosthetic by building a wire frame armature and then sculpting the penis in clay. And then we took a three-piece plaster mold and split it right down the center so it was one side, one side, and then there was a back plug that had the core that created the receptacle in the testicles.”
Or in the words of wrestling fans:
To everyone who worked on Diggler’s piece –and trust me when I say I speak on behalf of everyone who feels the way I do- I want to thank you. Generations of men everywhere were finally given a voice. We cried when Dirk couldn’t get it up because of drugs – because we’ve all been there. We smiled when he finally made his comeback – because we’ve all been there too. It just… The whole movie meant so much. If there’s a word that exceeds excelsior then someone please place it here in your head.
Spider-Man 2, which ironically starred Alfred Molina, was a good metaphorical piece about erectile dysfunction but sadly it didn’t quite capture what it means to love ones self and conquering any and all cock complexes the way Boogie Nights did toward the end. I understand Tobey’s Spider-Man was essentially a kids’ movie but I respect the effort regardless. Still, nothing will ever beat Boogie Nights.
It was done with such dignity and grace without downplaying the magnitude of what penises mean to the men who care about what they have.
Most of our days are dedicated to making our favorite friend happy. No movie will ever again have the ‘nads to have three hours of story centered around the cerebral cortex of male sexuality. It wasn’t soiled by throwing in a love interest or having a heel try to rain on Dirks’s parade. Boogie Nights simply put the spotlight on an issue that desperately needed a voice.
Where Sicilians have Godfather. Dicks have Boogie Nights.