Here is another SAMPLE chapter from my collection of humor essays.
**This is a rough draft and subject to change**
There have been many times in my life I was convinced I was a boy trapped in a girl’s body. I’m physically female but my personality and behavior resembles that of a teenage boy.
Growing up, I preferred sports over dolls, t-shirts over dresses, and sitting spread eagle in a chair instead of crossing my legs like a woman with any dignity would. Beer will always be better than wine; chicken wings will always taste better than a chicken Caesar salad. Truth is, being ladylike is not one of my strong suits.
I would never go as far as Chastity Bono who got a sex change and legally changed her name because she felt so trapped in her own body. I think I can speak for everyone when I say I honestly thought she was a man before she announced to the world that she is now, physically and legally a man. Clearly, her sex change didn't change that much.
I would also never go to an insane extreme like that woman who became a man, a “pregnant man” no less, and was featured on TLC, having babies because his wife couldn’t. Listen pal, you’re not fooling anyone. You may look and sound like a man, but you still have a baby maker behind that vagina of yours. You’re not a medical miracle; you’re a mangina.
In fact, I love being a woman. I love everything about it. But I also take pride in my frat boy-like attitude hidden underneath my female exterior. Women are beautiful creatures (I am obviously exempt from this) and I would never trade my body for a man’s body.
The only exception to this is if a magic genie appeared and offered to exchange my vagina and give me a dick-for-a-day and granted me three wishes to accompany the exchange. That I would certainly accept.
If I had a penis for a whole day, there is so much I would do with it! It would be hard parting with my muffin, but some things need to be sacrificed when a magic genie appears outside of the movie Aladdin.
My first request—no balls. Balls are gross. Just the twig; not the berries. If I can still come without testicles, why would I need them? Having balls is like hanging things from my rearview mirror; it doesn't serve a purpose and are just decorative.
The first thing on my agenda would be naming my penis. Every dick needs a name, and no I would not name it Dick. How cliché. I would name it Fitzgerald (Fitz for short; he would be a cool, yet classy penis), introduce myself with a firm, yet welcoming handshake and let him hang loose, commando style in my pants. There’s no way I would constrict Fitzgerald with underwear. He deserves wide-open spaces where he could stretch out without being constricted.
Next I would measure Fitz. With a yard stick; not a ruler. My second request—I would have to be hung, similar to a Johnsonville summer sausage log. No cocktail wiener for me. Both Fitz and I deserve better than that.
After I am satisfied with the length and girth, I would masturbate for hours on end. My third and final request—unlimited orgasms. If Fitz and I were going to be pals for the same length of time it takes the Earth to make a full rotation, (or approximately the same time amount of time Britney Spears was married to that Jason guy), we were going to party like it was Y2K all over again. Except without the panic of people waiting for the world to end.
The point of masturbating for hours on end is to get accustomed to Fitz and figure out what we both enjoy. I know how it feels to rub my bean and pleasure myself as a woman, but I would have to teach Fitz tricks, shortcuts, and critical technique before I could take him out and introduce him to people.
After Fitz and I participate in a penile crash course, we would be ready to tackle the world and finally introduce him to a woman besides myself. Since I already sleep with a woman, I would have no problem sleeping with as many women as I possibly could.
Sleeping with a woman is something everyone should experience, male or female. With Fitz attached to my body, I would have to disguise myself as a man so straight girls would take me seriously (I would consider sleeping with a lesbian, but being one myself, I have discovered most gay women prefer the papaya over the banana at this particular time in their lives. I once enjoyed a bunch of bananas but now, I’m strictly a papaya gal).
In order to share Fitz with as many women as possible, I would have to find a place where a gaggle of women would be centrally located. Where would I look first?
The obvious option would be a bar. It might be a good place to start lady hunting, although I would only have a one in five chance that a woman would actually sleep with me within minutes of meeting me. Even at a college bar. I only had twenty-four hours; I couldn’t take the chance of being rejected. Fitz was eager for a beaver.
What about a sorority house? From my experience with sorority girls, they liked to play fast and loose and weren't afraid to spread their school spirit (legs). But they were also unpredictable and cesspools for STD’s. I wasn’t ready for Fitz to be afflicted with a disease besides sex addiction.
A Curves gym? It was possible, although I wouldn’t enjoy fucking a post-aerobic sweaty mess, and I’m pretty sure Fitz would not appreciate being forced down that slippery slope.
A Bed, Bath, & Beyond store? It seemed like a logical place. The store offers several different beds, college aged clerks and candles for mood lighting, but it was still a bad idea. A soaps, suds, & sheets store is not the place to experiment different body contortions and sexual positions with the customers and employees.
Where could I find women who would sleep with me willingly, as many times as I wanted?
The answer was in front of me this whole time—literally because as I write this, I’m watching the E! True Hollywood Story about Heidi Fleiss. I would have to visit a brothel. It seems like a perfect plan. I would have to find a moderately priced whorehouse, where the girls were easy, the prices were reasonable, and I wouldn’t get arrested. If I only had Fitz for one day, I wasn’t willing to get arrested and spend time in jail, although I’m sure I could find someone who would love to meet Fitz in jail.
Since I don’t live in Nevada, I would just have to risk being caught with Fitz in a prostitute’s mouth. If politicians could get away with it, surely I could as well. It was a small price to pay to share my dick-for-a-day with as many women as I could.
I would then drive to an ATM and empty my savings account, which wouldn’t amount to much (I’m a writer for Fitz’s sake). It wouldn’t matter; I was willing to spend the new bed or the down payment on a house to share my penis with hookers.
Fitz wouldn’t need the women to be beautiful either. Sure it’d be like finding money in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn in months, or scoring an extra soda from the vending machine when you only paid for one, but it wasn’t a necessity. Just an added bonus. A papaya was a papaya no matter how you cut it. The only thing he required was an audience with willing (and legal) participants.
After surrendering my life’s savings, I would then pick the woman with whom I would share Fitz with for the first time. She would have to be compliant with the missionary position. If I’m test driving Fitz for the first time, I want to make sure he performs correctly in the parking lot before I take him to the race track.
Of course Fitz would pass the test; he was attached to my body and as an amazing lover myself, Fitz wouldn’t let us down.
After I had my first woman, I would be ready for anything. Threesomes. Blow jobs. Anal (with women and/or men. Don’t judge me). Hand jobs (although I would prefer to skip that since I could do it myself). Sex toys. Role playing. S&M bondage. Foursomes. Group orgy. I would even consider shooting a porno flick with Fitz as the star. I would do it all.
Of course I wouldn’t sleep. I couldn’t take a break from sex; I only had one day. My goal was to drop the big “O” at least 100 times in the span of a day (and yes, that includes self-love). I wouldn’t give up until I met my goal. If Lance Armstrong can win the Tour de France 400 times with only one testicle while wearing a LiveStrong bracelet, surely I could come at least 100 times with just a penis and perhaps a cock ring.
When my twenty-four hours were up, I would be a changed woman. No longer would I wonder what it would be like to have a penis. I would know what it was like to pee while standing up (and not have it running down my leg). It would give new meaning to the phrase “blowing my load”. I would finally know how a hot dog felt in a bun; how a pig felt in a blanket. How a chocolate covered banana felt in a banana split. I would understand why a nut-cup was important to male athletes and fully grasp the concept of pitching a tent (something I struggle with when I go camping).
After returning my dick-for-a-day to the genie, he would return my papaya and I would greet her with two fingers, or even give her a vibrating toy as a welcome home present. I would appreciate the beauty of having a vagina and treasure her for the rest of my life.
Friends would ask “how does it feel hanging from your body?” And I would reply “similar to the set of twins hanging from your chest”.
“What does it feel like to get a blow job?” To that I would reply “Licking is always better than sucking”. Women have more erectile tissue than men; therefore, blow jobs don’t even compare to what women experience during oral sex.
“What does it feel like to be inside a woman?” That one was easy. “Ever been on a water slide?” I would respond.
“Don’t you want to have a penis for more than a day?” No brainer. I would say, “How much time can you realistically spend with your boyfriend/husband before you reach your boiling point?” They would look at me as if they had just had an epiphany. Yea, that’s what I thought.
Having a penis for a day would be phenomenal and it would answer many questions. The only reason I would ever want a penis for a day is strictly for sex, nothing else. But once it was gone, I would remember how proud I was of my muffin. I would realize the lawn isn’t always mowed on the other side, so why leave the yard at all?
Of course men and women experience different things with the gear they’re equipped with, but the feeling is basically the same. An orgasm is an orgasm. Sure, some are better than others (some are out of this world), but it doesn’t matter if you have a banana or a papaya. It doesn’t matter if you’re the branch or the stump; we’re all connected to the same tree.
I cherish the woman’s body I was born with. I’m glad I’m a woman. I am comfortable being a tomboy—drinking beer, wearing t-shirts, and playing video games—and anyone who doesn’t like it can meet Greta, my angry beaver, and take it up with her. I’ll even let you take her home for the day.