Liking dick isn't my most definitive quality. It's just a part of me, not to minimize it or anything, it is quite major and usually determines where I travel when I go out of town. Dick in New York not acting right? Head to DC. Little Richard got a problem in Oakland? Plan your vacation around a trip to LA.

There has been dick around since the beginning of time and the good thing is that there will always be dick around. The bad thing about dick too is that there always is and always will be dick around. And dicks know that and subsequently act worthy of their appendages by chasing some other dick or accusing you of feeling on some other dick even when you know you haven't been caught this time. Yea, dick detail is a difficult duty. But I like it. I even have a story about a guy I used to go out with whose name was Dick.

I forget how we met. Usually I just approach men that I find attractive in a public setting, mace in hand and ask them if they go out with dudes. Most of them say no, half of those really mean yes, and a few agree to go out with me. I've only had to spray a few guys who tried to get puffed up and call me a faggot. But once they were on the ground screaming, I'd leave my card with my email address on it amongst their belongings because I knew they were the main ones who would be into kinky, angry, I'm a repressed Catholic-Muslim-Orthodox Jew homosex.

Yea, so Dick and I met. He was a straight edge atheist vegan. Sometimes he'd be into anarchy so we'd go out to gay clubs and purposely clash, refuse to ingest E, and be really nice to people we had never met. We were banned from all of the top notch dance spots in the metropole - Obnoxi, Twinkie, Viagra Martini - and the police even started following us around, calling our wishing you goodness and love tactics, "insurgent."

Dick was good as dicks go. He was probably about six feet two inches tall and weighed in around one hundred and eighty pounds. He had a job that paid well enough to avoid having a "I've secretly been in love with you for ten years" roommate, but not well enough to afford a fabulous apartment with a view and no infestations. Dick made meager paper. And he didn't look it, but he was a big dick, which in looking back on things, led to all of our problems.

Well, in the beginning my ass was the problem. Dick had too much dick and I had yet to surrender my cornhole to anything more than a well-lubed finger or a couple of anal beads. And with Dick I could comfortably place three and a half fingers along the girth of the dick. Too much dick. We tried to start slow. I said the world would be a lot easier if his ass just got used to my dick or if we just continued to suck dick. But Dick wasn't hearing any such thing. He called our impasse a chance for me to "prove my love to him."

Love never hurt so much in my life. Rather than work my way up to Dick's three and a half-fingered dick, I decided that I would just take it all in at once. And instead of being that sensual lover that everyone dreams about who caresses and soothes and smoothly caps the night off with some good rhythms and just right prostate stimulation, Dick spat on his shit and began drilling for mine. I didn't speak to him afterward for three days. But Dick knew how to work things so he went out and purchased some weed. Not the typical I have no connections weed, but some really good stuff. He knew that I never smoked the cheap buds because of my asthma.

So the second time Dick nailed my ass I was high enough to actually have a bit of fun and move my ass around and almost believe that I was a competent ass flexer-flincher. I bobbed and weaved, stuck and moved, played red light, green light. Dick seemed to be a few gyrations short of getting whipped. And I knew that all I needed was some practice - perhaps some vegetable lifting - and Dick would cater to my every whim. Unfortunately, it wasn't too long afterward that Dick had me totally strung out. I was on my knees praying to the dick.

I don't know if I can describe how it happened exactly. One day after sex I just stopped feeling my teeth. Plain and simple. Dick had done darn well by me. And sex for me became an addiction. I had to have him whenever and wherever possible. In the bathroom at the local bookstore conglomerate, in the bathroom at the corner deli conglomerate, in the bathroom of our apartment whenever I was done taking a shit. I had to have the dick.

This need for sex turned ugly because I also became clingy. I was like one of those girls with big hair whose man had turned them out and they ceased keeping themselves together. Hair would be all over the place. I'd go out in public looking like garbage. I wouldn't eat and loss weight, but would spend time in the gym doing squats. At social events I always remained within an eight feet radius of Dick. And if someone else even attempted to share a glance or a smile, it was on. I found myself in many a squabble because of Dick's dick.

I nearly decked some cheap tramp from my job because he said that he should have gone to the club with me on the night that I met my dick. Like he would have pulled it. Fucking bitch. When I spilled red wine on his white linen Capri pants I flashed a smile as my dick pulled me away from the scene. Next time I'll put gum in his hair. On another occasion some transsexual chick was all in my man's grill at an AIDS benefit concert. She was a big bitch, so I let her get her flirt straight on. (I'm not a dumb bitch) But maybe it was the maturation and expression of my obsessive personality traits that drove Dick into the ass of another.

I don't even recall how I found out. No. I remember exactly how I found out. I was supposed to head out of town for a business conference, well, a pretend business conference. I lied to Dick and told him I was going out of town so that I could surprise him with an apartment filled with orange rose petals and Mimosas when he got home from work. Why did Dick walk into our apartment with some Jane Doe trannie tramp from the street? And I know you might ask how do I know that this trick was a hustler, to which I'll just say that we can all recognize commerce just like they know who is trade. I honestly don't remember how the bottle of Clorox ended up in my hand. But it was on. Tears were shed. Skin was blistered. Dick and Jane ran off into the night in separate directions as I screamed at both that I would "boil their nuts alive!" or something like that.

Dick didn't return to our apartment for several hours. He was surprised that I had time to change the locks upon his return. I listened to him stand outside and beg for a long while. He whined about how he was lonely and insecure and thought I might be cheating on him with hot dick at work and he only got some hustler to do the job. I asked him about our commitment to monogamous barebacking having gone through six months of testing. He told me that he didn't plan to even kiss the Jane, he just wanted his dick sucked. That's all. I asked him why all the trannies. He said that I was too much of a man for him sometimes and he didn't feel like he measured up. I opened the door. Dick kissed me. I turned my head away to be bitchy and difficult and he put my hand on his dick. We went through our bedsheets like bleach.

About three months after we made up Dick hit me the first time. Well, I should clarify that statement. It was three months later that Dick hit me hard. He had popped me a couple of times before, but everytime he did it he was drunk and lamenting over his father. He'd end up crying on my shoulder and eventually striking me in that chest pounding, TV movie sort of way. And with Oprah-like idiocy, I tried to be understanding and giving during and after each crisis. This incident, however, was different because Dick wasn't intoxicated. And I think it had a lot to do with his present guilt, rather than past issues over his father. Dick had started coming home late. He lost interest in twice a day sex. He just wasn't himself. But rather than admit that I had sniffed out his possible infidelity, I remained silent, giving, and cheerful. It was my hope that Dick would stop his whoring and return to loving.

Instead of appreciating my attitude, Dick was peeved that I didn't have a bad one. He would continually attempt to start arguments with me about whatever, to which I would just deflect his aggression and remain cheerful and perky. One night he complained that the carrots I made were undercooked and I told him that I would put the pot roast and the carrots back in the oven and let them marinate further. I reached for his plate with a pleasant and gentle smile and he slapped the shit out of me. I fell to the ground and covered myself and he immediately crouched down beside me and began apologizing and talking about how much he hated himself. I rose and went to pack my overnight bag. I didn't feel safe in the apartment alone with him. But Dick came into the bedroom and started kissing me. I didn't want any part of him. But then he started rubbing his dick against me. And he whispered that I could fuck him this time if I wanted to. Of course I didn't, but being given the option was enough to convince me to stay. And the dick was good, probably some of the best dick Dick had ever given to me.

The final straw came about half a year later when I kicked Dick's dick to the curb for good. I had had enough. Actually, I hadn't gotten enough. At twenty-five I started commemorating my birth anniversary over the course of an entire month. You'd be surprised how many free drinks and pleasant stares you get from workers in the food service industry when you tell them, "I'm celebrating my birthday today!"

Anyway, I was in the midst of my fourth annual "spring thaw" when my favorite fruit fly from college, Shanika, came out east for a visit. Dick had been on his best behavior since "the slapping thing" - no hitting, no blatant cheating - and had even agreed to attend couple's therapy once a week at the Pentecostal church down the street. But Shanika took one look at my living situation and suggested that I needed more. To help me find "what I was searching for" Shanika took me out shopping. We hit all of my favorite stores, Lendi, Frauda, and Hoocci. Then Shanika said that she had to make a personal stop and we ventured into the Burgundy Beaver. I had always assumed that like Victoria's Secretions, Burgundy Beaver was just another run of the mill temple of Pisces and not a place for the discriminating gay man. Instead, I discovered that Shanika had set me up on a blind date, for there, waiting behind the counter for me, was Buddy. His full name was the Lotus Jelly Empyrean Paramour Booty Buddy. Buddy Love for short. He was wrapped in gold tissue paper with an extra set of batteries taped to his plastic casing. I took one look at Buddy and after a large breath, I exhaled.

From that point on, Dick became an eyesore. I still let him get the goods every now and then, but Dick's dick didn't do it for me any longer. Buddy was a greedy, all consuming lover. He had varying speeds, rotating angles, and incredible stamina. And Buddy was insanely jealous of any other dick, which caused tension. After two weeks of love triangle nonsense, Dick came to me one night and said that he accidentally left my Teena Marie CD at work. I wouldn't be able to go to the gym and workout to "You Make Love Like Springtime" like I had planned. I told Dick to get his shit and get the hell out. Dick didn't believe me until I began throwing his belongings out into the hallway of our apartment building. Dick asked me what he did wrong and I told him everything. Dick pulled out his heavy dick and I started to laugh. On his way out the door, Dick screamed that I'd miss the dick. Not sure who he meant by that, but I didn't care at that point. I had all that I would ever need. I called the twenty-four hour locksmith as I lit some candles in my bedroom. I figured that I could spend some quality time with Buddy before getting the keys to my new life.

©2001 John Corbett - Contributor's Bio