Warning: contains graphic material. MAN IN PANTS. And out of them.
Some might wonder what it is, to be a feature writer for women’s magazines. You won’t, after reading this.
So, funny story.
I write professionally for women’s magazines and my job has given me the opportunity to write about the most incredible people. Most people are amazing human beings. They humble me with their strength and courage in the face of the shittiest of circumstances.
But not this guy.
I run a website through which people can contact me and tell me their story. If I think their story has potential, we’ll work together. I’m the kind of writer who tries to find the story in pretty much anything, so forgive me. Also, see previous musings on my
gullibility trusting nature.
I’m emailed a story submission, along the lines of:
‘People think if you’re really well endowed, it’s a blessing, but actually it’s a curse. I’d like to tell my story so people understand how hard it is.’
No pun intended.
This chap tells me his penis is 13 inches soft, which I presume is about the same as my husband’s, because I have no idea what 13 inches looks like, or if this is a particularly big penis. I’m sure he was expecting a bigger reaction, but I didn’t have my ruler with me.
It was only after we got off the phone that I found a measuring tape and realised this guy had a ruddy huge schlong.
Let’s call him John. As in, Long John. John tells me that girlfriends have left him. That going swimming only ends in mothers scowling at him when his massive tackle accidentally peeps out of his trunks in front of their children. That he can’t wear normal jeans and people stare at him on the bus. His friends call him The Human Tri-pod.
I feel for this guy. He’s softly spoken and I’m an idiot. Especially considering:
‘Can I send you a picture?’
My husband tells me under no circumstances can I agree to being sent a picture of this guy’s willy wonka. I tell my husband it’s all for a good cause, but husband is suspicious and thinks this guy is a perv. Tells me to keep things professional.
John laments, no one but girlfriends have ever seen this beef thermometer (plus kids in swimming pools.) He wants me to see it, as a professional, to see what I think.
Alarm bells? I’m an honourable journalist and this guy has a gentle, sincere voice. I truly believe he’s dealing with a difficult dong.
‘John, I don’t need to see it, let’s keep things professional.’
Uninvited, he sends me some pictures, in his pants. It’s big. As expected.
He calls: ‘What did you think?’
‘Yep. It’s big, as you said. I’ll pitch your story.’ I refuse to engage in any kind of chat about what I personally think of his penis, and focus instead on how tough it’s been for him to have an anaconda in his pants, when he works in marketing and lives in Slough. This guy doesn’t want to be a porn star, he’s just a humble guy with massive trunk junk.
I pitch the story, but magazines say no. Maybe if he had a girlfriend, they say. I pitch to a popular tabloid newspaper, who tell me yes please. If he’s telling the truth, then his penis is bigger than the current record holder, and that’s the kind of breaking news this tabloid are all over.
He accepts their offer. One clause:
‘John, they’ll need to send a doctor from Harley Street to verify,’ I say. Because of course they do. This is a national newspaper, they’re not going to make so bold a claim as to have found the next big thing (wahay) without verification.
He tells me that’s okay.
Then… he goes awol.
Embarrassing for me because my editor is expecting the story she’s proposed to buy. I have to explain that he’s disappeared.
Luckily, she’s a sweetheart and we laugh it off. Rest assured there were a lot of puns in our email exchanges. Even more than I googled for this blog.
A year goes by. I’m abroad trying to have a little hollibobs with my sister and my mum. We’re in a cafe when my phone rings.
‘Hi, I’m trying to send a message through your website but it won’t work,’ says the man’s voice. ‘Just wanted to tell my story about how it’s really difficult to have a big penis.’
I mean, come on.
‘John, it’s me. Remember?’
‘Oh yeah. I’m ready to share the story now.’
‘Really? Because last time you went awol and it really doesn’t do me any favours with my editor. If you’re really ready now, I need to know you’re not going to go disappear again.’
Oh no, don’t worry Kim, your Feature Writer of the Year award is definitely ready to be given a friend, this guy is ready to commit.
‘The thing is,’ he says. And really, at this stage, any idiot would have smelt a rat. But please, remember I have complete faith that anyone contacting me would have no reason to get any pleasure out of lying to me, plus, what do I know about penises? Men have them, I don’t know how they bloody work. So don’t judge me:
‘It’s grown,’ he says. ‘Do you remember how big it was before?’
Kate Adie never had to put up with this shit.
‘Yes, I remember how big it was before. 13 inches?’ I say, embarrassed because I’m in a cafe with my mum and sister and I have a finger in one ear, a coffee in one hand, and I’m hoping no-one can hear me say such incriminating things as: ‘Yes I remember how big it was before. 13 inches.’
Apparently, John’s penis had grown to 16 inches soft, and 21 stupid gullible idiot inches hard.
I have learned so much in my years as a journalist. Throw any medical condition at me and I’ve probably done a story on it and can engage with you on a semi-professional level about chromosomes, genes and cells. But tell me your grown-man penis has mysteriously advanced by three inches and I’ll just go ahead and believe you.
‘Some kind of growth spurt.’
Well, the paper will love it all the more, I figure.
‘Shall I send a picture?’ he asks. I assure him it’s not necessary.
Two minutes later a picture of the massive man muscle arrives in my inbox. I’ve added the pixelation and the stars, to try and keep this family friendly.
Divine intervention stops me contacting my editor and embarrassing myself again. (I really have won awards for my journalism, I feel this needs to be acknowledged right now.)
Instead, and only because I’m on holiday and trying not to work, I email my husband.
I forward the picture on to him and title it: ‘Guess who’s back.’
That’s all I need to say. I don’t send my husband many pictures of penises, so he’ll know who owns this one.
Husband is a photographer. Photographers suffer plagiarism, just like writers. One tool in a photographer’s arsenal, is to do a ‘reverse image search’ and check no one has stolen their pictures. Husband does a reverse image search. Finds original picture.
Husband emails me the original picture: ‘Nice photoshop-job. He’s lying.’
Face is not the same face as previous pictures John has sent me, and as well as going through some kind of Nicolas Cage / John Travolta Face / Off, he’s had laser tattoo removal on the big old tatt he had on his chest previously. Mysterious.
Not to mention the elephant in the room. The penis is three times bigger than in the original picture. Note, same bedding.
I feel used, weirdly abused, and the most gullible I’ve ever felt. I mean, this is like a zillion times worse than that time my husband fooled me into thinking our mini bantam chicken had laid a massive goose egg.
You’d think, working in my world, that I come across (no pun intended, seriously, so many sex puns) many liars and weirdos. But I truly don’t. My world is filled with people who are the most sincere, lovely, incredible people to walk this world. This is only the second time that I know of, that I’ve been lied to. And I feel really ruddy odd about it. What was he getting out of it?
Probably, while I gave him a bended ear and wrote notes on the calamity of having a trouser snake so huge it touches your knee, he was having a good old throttle-shake. I’m sure he contacted all the real life story-selling websites, and I was the only dumb-ass foolish enough to give him time. Well done me.
So there you have it. A day in the life of a real-life feature writer. Not an average sized day, but then, not an average sized penis, amiiiiright John?