Sexting and Greg’s Emasculating Black Pole
I’m sure it’s merely a coincidence that on the same day that I decided to document a personal sexting adventure, NBA star, Greg Oden filled the world wide web with more black pole than a South LA Ed Hardy outlet. Regardless, it happened and beyond the flaccid confirmation that Greg and I have absolutely nothing in common, I knew the unveiling of his black-snake-soft was just the nudge I needed to personally manhandle the issue of sexting.
First thing first. Who to sext and what to send? Answering the first question is easy. The recipient of my digital junk show will be my ever loving and ever judging girlfriend. Since she’s been sleeping with me for over three years she’s become accustomed to letdowns and disappointments and seeing my beanbag on her BlackBerry will do little to change the course of our relationship. The risk for me surrounds the issue of who she’ll decide to forward it on to – her friends, my friends, her sisters – the list goes on and on but it’s that level of vulnerability that will undoubtedly garner me respect. Tackling the issue of what exactly to shoot and send quickly became a far more difficult task.
At first, I figured why not go the route of my man, Greg? What I soon realized is that the full torso mirror shot is far more flattering if, like Greg, you have Denzel’s forearm draped over your balls. From that distance, my pic was far more reminiscent of Buffalo Bill’s “I’d fuck me” moment from “Silence of the Lambs.” Yeah, the one where he tucks it back to look like a mangina. Aside from my soldier’s stage fright, there’s the issue of body hair that also seems to be drowning out my physical beauty. Plan B – tame the untamable fug that I’ve worked so hard to hide for the better part of 20 years.
For me, removing body hair is like drinking wine coolers. If no one’s watching, there’s a good chance I’ll just keep going until it’s all gone. Armed with clippers and my girl’s make-up scissors it was time to trim, but not after coming to the realization that every bit of my body hair was connected. My leg, bag, chest, ass, arm and back hair were all conspiring to ensure that unless fully clothed I would never get laid, and in some beach/pool situations, asked to leave. After briefly retreating to my wine coolers and Camel Crushs for moral support, it was time to mow.
One hour later and I feel like velcro. Hairless, yes, but with jagged stubble capable of adhering to any form of fabric within range. Making matters worse, the removal of my dark pelt has exposed a pastiness eerily familiar to spoiled skim milk. Manscaping is one thing, but applying self-tanner is an entirely different ball game. This would require a whole new strategy considering there’s only a small amount of Hawaiian Tropic and I’m not about to put clothes on over the stubble to get a fresh batch of self-tanner at Rite-Aid. That’s when brilliance struck. Self-tan my midsection and frame the shot to capture only the beige flesh tones.
A few minutes later and I was poised for the money shot. One slight benefit to the application was that self-tanning my man area queued some arousal, creating the illusion of maybe an inch or two extra. Okay, time to shoot. First shot – way too close and stubble visible. Second shot – too far away making it look like I had a reverse tan line. Third shot – nailed it. Using my iPhone, I was able to color correct and hide some of the blemishes, leaving me with a solid finished product.
Okay, moment of truth. Here comes my first ever sext, hun. All for you and with a note reading, “your love package awaits.” 3-2-1…send. Now the waiting begins. How long would it take for her to digest and respond? As it turns out, only a few minutes. Her response is as follows”
“If you’re trying to make yourself feel better by proving that some black men have small dicks, then well done retard. But please, for the love of God, don’t send me pictures of other men’s cocks.”
Wow, she really didn’t recognize the member she’s been sleeping next to for years. Yes, for obvious reasons I prefer sex in the dark, but that’s still no excuse for not being able to identify my Labowski.
Then, moments later, she responded again:
“Oh my, you’re an idiot. You just sexted me you sick fuck! That better be shoe polish and not the last of my self-tanner. Either way, little drummer boy here is hitting the airwaves. Thanks for making my day, hun. XOXO!”
Like a prairie fire, my sext spread widely out of control. Before long the nickname Gary Coleman – code for short, dark and nasty – become my new title. Other names like “Benjamin’s Button” and “Only the Tip” began to sprout up as well. At first, my collision course with personal insecurity left me gagging at random moments during the day. Then, ever so slowly, I began to feel empowered by my sext. Sexually charged whispers of “what’s Gary Coleman doing tonight,” from my girlfriend only further validated my decision. It wasn’t until a forwarded sext of my buddy’s modest junk appeared in my inbox that I realized my actions had triggered a movement. A movement with the power to set all the non Greg Odens free.