Less Himself

“Everything is functioning. That is exactly what is so uncanny, that everything is functioning and that the functioning drives us more and more to even further functioning, and that technology tears men loose from the earth and uproots them.”
--Martin Heidegger, Der Speigel Interview

"Homo non intelligendo fit omnia [Man has become all he is without understanding what happened]."--Giambattista Vico, Opere

Man is less himself than ever before.

It happened as a consequence of his increased specialization and the speed and complexity of communication technology instrumental in making that specialization possible. Man is awash in stimuli, knowledge, resources and statistics to which he also supplies his tiny piece. Man no longer knows from whom or whence his ideas come. He is a tiny part of vast, faceless cooperation, with no one man having any grasp on the whole or its direction.

His specialization leads him to rely upon the others in all things. He does not live without them. He is all of them and none of them. The complexity of man’s systems requires of each man that the others are always included. Indeed, man is today mostly unknown to himself: lacking the breadth of skills to survive on his own, he lives out his life inside a complex and anonymous system he does never comprehend.

There are no longer faces or traditions, and where man is without a face and tradition he lacks any home.

He has relinquished his home, his neighbors, and his traditions for a place in something vast and inexpressible. He is thereby uprooted from the earth.


3 Cuchillos

I took the Transmilenio from Profamilia to the end of the line at Portal 80. It was 10pm as I walked along the busy carrera and then over the steel and concrete foot bridge to the other side. I was returning to the apartment after seeing Diego, a good friend I had not seen since San Juan, Argentina in March of the previous year. Ines was working late at the dentisteria and had told me to expect her after 11pm.

I was about to take the short cut behind a row of apartment houses and across the basketball court and then to pick up the calle our apartment was located on, when I saw ahead a girl in the blue baggy pants of the dentist’s uniform. I followed her a step and realized it was Ines. She was back early. I hurried up and joined her as she neared the corner.

She smiled and we kissed. She told me how happy she was to see me. As we turned down our calle I put my arm around her and took her two bags, the heavy one containing her dentistry equipment and the other her lunch container. She told me she was very hungry and very exhausted and she rested her head on my shoulder.

It was then that someone ran up beside me and passed me along the brick wall to my right, and I knew instantly what it was, thinking first to hit him as he passed but hesitating, and now stopped in front of me is a youth with a knife drawn back near his ear looking to strike down at me with it. He is right in distance to jab or cross him quick, before he gathered himself, and then to run, but there is another guy and he grabs Ines from behind, pressing a knife against her throat. And then a third is beside me, his knife out, and there is nothing now to do but let them take what they want.

The two of them back me against the brick wall and grab the two bags of Ines’ I am carrying. At either side of me, knives drawn, they start groping at my pockets demanding my cell phone. The one is feeling the thickness of my wallet in my other front pocket and is fumbling to get it out with his one hand, holding the knife on me with the other. Then with my wallet and cell phone and the two bags the three of them run and are gone around the corner.

I go to Ines. She is unhurt. The other youth took her cell phone but strangely did not take her purse or her wallet. She isn’t crying and she seems very calm. She says she is alright. It must have been the two bags, particularly the dentistry bag, that drew them to us. She tells me this is the first time this has happened to her. I have never been robbed before either, I say. I have been cold-cocked and had a gun drawn on me but none of them ever got anything off me.

I held her close as we walked back towards the apartment. I ran it back through my mind, first thinking how stupid I was to have not been paying attention. So what if it was a Wednesday at 10pm? The street was well lit but it was empty and there were so many dark side streets. I should have been more alert. We might have had a chance to run. I tried to see what I should have done, but with three of them and the one getting Ines’ back there was nothing to do. The first guy who had run past, holding the knife in front of me, I might have popped him and surprised him, but even if I had gotten him down I could not have been sure Ines would have run with me. You couldn’t leave a girl behind.

She still had her money and credit cards and her insurance would replace the phone. There was only 15,000 pesos in my wallet and my fake credit card. Another 40,000 pesos remained safely hidden in the secret pocket inside my jeans. The phone they had taken from me was a cheap, beat up model with only a few credits left on the sim card. It seemed we had gotten out of it pretty good.

Later we were sitting in the kitchen of the apartment when Ines explained that the dentistry equipment they had taken would cost 3 million pesos to replace. She could not work at the clinic without it. She could not borrow or rent another dentist’s equipment. The cost of the equipment shocked me, but it shocked me even more how unemotional she was about it. She spoke calmly and wasn’t shaken at all. After all, it is only dentist’s equipment, she said.

During the night she awoke complaining of a headache, but in the morning the headache was gone and we held each other in bed and we made love and then she showered and dressed for work. We talked again about what had happened and she spoke of it as calmly as the night before. She wasn’t scared. It hadn't touched her. I walked her to the door and we said goodbye. It was alright to walk the calle during the day, but at night, returning from work, she would now take a taxi from the Transmilenio station at Portal 80.


завръщане у дома


After his college graduation and against the advice of his mother, Simms went to Europe. Simms planned to ride by bicycle from Brussels to Bulgaria, and to live in Sofia until the money ran out. Simms was not on the road three months before the accident.

They told Simms that he crashed out descending a pass in the mountains north of Milano. The subdural hematoma had required a craniotomy and two burr holes were drilled into his skull to relieve the pressure on his swollen brain. Simms was hospitalized two months at Milano before being returned home to Chicago. The doctors told him his memory of the ride would not fully return. His bike and all his gear was lost.

All that remained was a single photograph included with a greeting card sent by a Belgian couple to his parent’s home that Christmas. In the south of France Simms met the couple after a long, hot climb in the Midi-Alps above Nice. They waived Simms down and offered him a lunch of cheese and sausage, bread, and fresh cherries. In the picture he is wearing a green wool turtleneck sweater and standing over his fully loaded bicycle in a pine forest. Nice and the Mediterranean do not show. The pine trees might have been the pines of the Wisconsin north woods. Simms is smiling broadly.

Soon after being returned to Chicago, Simms recommenced his training. He went riding on the bike paths around the city, he swung his kettle bell, he shadowboxed, he hit the heavy bag and jumped rope, he did pushups and situps and pullups, and he ran the hill at the park. He was slowly getting his body back into shape. He told his mother to tell no one that he had returned. He did not want to see any of the people he knew. He did not consider his being returned to America to be important. He wanted to maintain his European frame of mind and he did not want to be disturbed from it.

The way they lived was better in Europe. The buildings were old and beautiful and the people had history. In France he had enjoyed eating food for the first time. Just remembering the cassoulet made him hungry. And all those wines. You didn’t understand it if you haven’t been there. The Americans didn’t have anything on them. America was strip malls and parking lots. Americans were obese and badly dressed. After seeing and talking to French girls, he couldn’t tolerate American girls. He didn’t know how he tolerated American girls before. He didn’t want anything to do with American girls now.

When Simms walked through the neighborhood he watched the American girls going to work. They were large and serious and their skin was pasty and they did not wear makeup and many wore their hair short. After work the American girls went into the bars and intoxicated themselves and looked for men to have sex with. He knew what talking to them was like. She would ask what he did for a living and where he lived and if he owned his own place and then, if she wasn’t too drunk, she proceeded to test him in more subtle ways. It was a game. If he played the game correctly he would have sex with her. But sometimes her girlfriend came and dragged her off. That was how it worked in America.

Even if an American girl offered herself he didn’t want her. He was done with that. He didn’t feel any attraction for American girls. American girls were only interested in their careers and reality tv shows and shoe shopping. He didn’t need a girl anyway. He had training and study ahead of him. There wasn’t time for American girls. Besides, they wouldn’t like it that he lived at home. They wouldn’t like it that he didn’t have a job. That was how they judged you. He knew how it would go. He could tell lies but there was no getting around it when he needed a place to take her. He wondered what Bulgarian girls were like. He’d heard they had moustaches. They couldn’t all have moustaches though. If they were anything like French girls he would be happy. He’d get to Bulgaria finally and see for himself. Simms went out on a long ride and tried to forget about girls.

Each day when he finished his training, Simms practiced his Bulgarian and studied the country’s history. Afterwards he liked to listen to his little brother practice the cello. His little brother admired him very much and wanted to hear his European stories. His father was only mildly interested. His mother did not want to hear about it. Through the winter Simms trained and studied and he began to feel quite good again. He ordered new panniers, a sleeping bag and a tent. He began to think that in the summer he would return to Italy and resume his ride for Bulgaria.

One evening Simms was studying in his room when his brother knocked at the door and asked he come down to the dinner table. His mother and father were waiting for him. The table had not been cleared from dinner and his parents were finishing a bottle of wine. Simms took his seat across from his mother.

“Thanks for coming down, Billy,” his father said.

“Now, William,” began his mother, “Its time we had a talk about what you’re going to do.”

“Sure,” said Simms.

“Your father and I think that you should begin paying rent if you are going to stay here. We agreed that $250 per month is appropriate. It will help to motivate you to find a job.”

“Sure,” said Simms. He looked at his little brother and winked.

“William,” said his mother sternly, “We paid for a very expensive education for you and you graduated at the top of your class in the business school. The dean told us you could work at any of the top investment banks.”

“That was before,” said Simms.

“I am sure Goldman Sachs would still want you, William.”

“They wouldn’t. They only want you right when you graduate.”

His mother turned to his father.

“What do you plan to do then, Bill?” his father said.

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea.”

“I’m going to Bulgaria,” Simms said cheerfully.

“That’s enough, William,” said his mother, raising her voice. “We’ve heard just about enough of that. That little adventure is over and you’re going to get a job like everyone else.”

“Let’s not be too hard on the boy,” his father cautioned.

“No! I am going to be hard on him. He goes off not wearing a helmet and falls off his bicycle and we have to take care of his mess. Who do you think paid to fly you back here, William?”

Simms was quiet.

“I worked all those years with head injury patients and I always told you to wear a helmet and what do you go off and do? Where was your helmet, William?”

Simms thought to describe the feeling of the wind in his hair, barreling down a mountain, all that freedom and how Dennis Coello didn’t wear a helmet either. Neither did the Dutch. But he didn’t say anything. He knew from experience not to say anything.

“Well?” His mother glared at him.

“I’m going to Bulgaria,” Simms told her.

“No you’re not!” she shouted. She turned to his father, “Tell him! Tell him he’s not!”

His brother stood up from the table and left the kitchen.

“What’s in Bulgaria, Bill?” asked his father.

“It’s the cheapest country in Europe,” Simms said.

“Bill, I think you should consider working here awhile.”

“Its not what I want to do.”

“He’ll be eating out of garbage cans! Who does he think he is! In life you can’t do whatever you want to do!”

Simms looked calmly at the woman. She was red-faced and furious. He suddenly felt distant from the whole scene, like he was observing it all from far away. He watched the woman as she stood up from the table and drawing back her arm, swept it across the tabletop, sending the plates and glassware and utensils crashing onto the floor. It all seemed to happen in slow motion.

“You’ll see!” the woman shrieked, “You’ll see!”

“I want you out of this house tomorrow!” she screamed at him.

Simms watched her leave the kitchen. The man who was his father did not move. His head was down. Without looking at Simms, he stood up from the table and followed his wife upstairs. A door slammed. Moments later Simms heard her muffled yelling from their bedroom. Then it was quiet.

So that was it. He would have to leave. He was not in great shape but the roads were flat from Illinois in whichever direction he rode. He had gotten into shape on the road before and he would do it again. He would pack his panniers tonight and leave in the morning. There were good maps and America would be wonderful to see on a bicycle. There were forests to camp in and, though they were far off, there were mountains. Mountains, thought Simms, he was looking forward to seeing the mountains very much.


Children at Play

1. The parent does not understand how the child conquers his boredom. The parent does not understand what the child develops through play. What occurs when the child appears to scribble idly? How does his climbing on the swing set in the park do him any benefit? What does he learn from conducting a battle between plastic enemy soldiers on the living room floor?

2. The play of the child seems undirected by reason, disorderly and even wasteful to the adult observer. The parent is convinced it best to as early as possible send him to a school and engage him in programs. There a curriculum can be administered to the child. The child can take part in organized activities to learn teamwork and a proper response to authority. Implicit is the assumption that that which can be tested and quantified, a method of learning that is explained by trained education professionals, will improve the child and more quickly prepare him for economic life. Because it is assumed too that the child can learn little on his own outside such programs, or that what he may learn is inferior and will result in bad habits.

7. The child develops through play the self-sustaining creativity to conquer his boredom. The development of this ability is man’s most important: that he has the confidence in his creativity to overcome that which might destroy him.

19. Man has rejected boredom. Man fears his boredom and looks to suppress it through distractions, the purchasing of pleasures and entertainments. Yet he also dislikes the work that would keep him from boredom. He looks to disengage himself from both the boredom that emerges from his idleness as well as the expenditure of energy that comes from work. He wishes to be idle but not bored. In the absence of the self-sustaining creativity developed in childhood, he turns to drug use, overeating, shopping, video games, etc. as responses to the problem. Indeed, autistic man might very well be an evolutionary response to the problem.

24. Verily, it is by man’s creative response to his boredom that civilization is often advanced. Civilization does not advance upon men trained to submit to authority, team-players, and those who would avoid boredom at any cost through drugs or programmed distractions. Man’s experience of boredom is his challenge to greatness.


I Got To Tell My Wife

The cab was on Biscayne Boulevard when Nick looked into his wallet and discovered he had only a dollar. He didn’t have enough for the fare.

“Drop me off at 19th Street instead,” he instructed the cab driver. He could take out money from the bank on the corner and walk the last six blocks to the yellow building.

The streets were empty and the sky had begun to brighten. It was almost the next day. As the alcohol wore off Nick began to feel guilty. All the drinking they had done, how useless it was. It was all a waste, he thought. Nick didn’t even know why he did it. He started in with it and then he didn’t stop himself. He didn’t even enjoy it. It was all the same, the same people and places and nothing new really happened. Maybe there was a fight, or a girl, or something was said that shouldn’t have, but none of it was new. Nick wanted to get home, to lay down and go to sleep.

“This side is good?” asked the cabbie. They were approaching 19th Street.

“I need to get some money from that bank,” said Nick.

The cab stopped at the bus stop where a black man was sitting. The black man was leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He didn’t look up as Nick stepped out of the cab and passed him on his way to the bank.

Nick went inside the vestibule and saw the cash machines were off. The luck, he thought. He walked back to the cab and opened the door.

“We have to go to another bank. The machine is off.”

“Take this,” a voice spoke from behind Nick. It was the black man. The black man held out to Nick a handful of crumpled bills.

Nick looked at him and looked at the money.

“Take it. Pay for the cab,” said the black man.

Nick took the money. It was just enough to pay the driver. The cab drove away.

“Why’d you do it?” Nick asked the black man.

“Just keep going,” said the black man as he sat back down on the bench. He was dressed in a button down shirt and dress pants and did not seem much older than Nick.

“I done bad things,” he said. “I done bad things to white people,” he said. “I got to make up for the bad things I done. Don’t you worry about it. Keep going.”

Nick moved to sit down on the bench. Nick was curious what was wrong with him.

“Don’t you sit down,” the black man looked at Nick tensely.

Nick hesitated and then watching the black man he sat down carefully at the end of the bench.

“I told you not to sit next to me, sir,” the black man pleaded. “I told you to keep going, sir. I told you not to sit with me.”

“My name is Nicholas.”

“Sir, do you really want to talk to me?” The black man seemed to relax.

“Yes,” Nick answered.

“I fucked up bad,” he said. “I fucked up bad and I got to go home. I don’t know what to do. I got all this blow on me and I’m going to do it all and then go home.”

He produced a pink baggie of coke from his pocket. He handed it to Nick. Nick took out his apartment key, used it to dig out a bump and snorted it. He dug a bump for the other nostril, did it, and handed the baggie back.

“I ain’t done this shit in years. I ain’t done this shit or anything—” the black man broke off. “I can’t throw it away. I bought all these bags at the club. Good shit, not stepped on. Pure, y’know?”

“Its not bad,” Nick confirmed. His mouth was dry from the drinking and as the cocaine took effect his mouth felt even drier. He suddenly felt very awake. It was good cocaine.

“I spent $1400 tonight. I lost a $8000 watch my wife got me,” the black man paused, “I lost my wedding ring. I don’t know how I lost them. I got to go home. I just had twins, twin girls. I don’t do this shit no more, I don’t do this shit no more and I got to go home.” He put his key into the little baggie, snorted a bump and licked the rest from the key.

“How long are you married?” asked Nick.

“Eight years,” said the black man. “You don’t have to sit here, sir. You white. You don’t have to sit here.”

“You paid for my cab and I’m going to sit here,” Nick told him. Then Nick thought about it. He was married about eight years now too.

The sun had come up over the bay and there was morning traffic on the boulevard. It was going to be a hot day. Nick didn’t feel so badly now. The cocaine had awakened him. He didn’t need to sleep. It was Sunday morning.

The black man turned to Nick. He looked as if he was about to cry. “I fucked three bitches tonight. That white cracker bitch—excuse me. Excuse me, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Nick reassured him.

“I fucked three bitches at the club and I didn’t wear no protection and I don’t know what diseases I might have got. I got to go home and tell my wife that. I lost my watch and my ring and fucked three bitches and I don’t know where all that money went. How did I spend that money.”

He offered the coke. Nick keyed out another bump for himself.

“I’m not like this,” the black man continued. “God gave me a second chance and I did this. I was a junkie. I was on the street. I didn’t care for nobody and I ate off the street. I should be dead. I got shot five times. Glock 9 from five feet. I got a titanium plate in my skull, not metal so I can go through security at the airport.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead making a dull knocking sound. “I can’t show you the other places I been shot. That’s why I helped you. That’s why I got to help people. I’m responsible for all the bad shit I done, but God’s responsible for me living today. I’m not like this, what you see now. I’m not like this. I don’t do this.”

He took a bump from the pink baggie and licked his key. A bus stopped and the black man waved it on. “Can you sit with me till the next number three?”

“I’ll sit with you,” said Nick.

“I got a construction company. I got a $235,000 house in Aventura. This shirt I’m wearing, this shirt costs $300.” He tried to pull out the tag to show Nick.

“It’s a nice shirt.

“I got to do something for you.”


“I’m going to give you $200. You sitting with me and I’m going to give you $200. I don’t have it now but I’ll give it to you.”

“I don’t want it,” Nick said.

“I killed two people when I was a junkie. I didn’t care for nobody. That’s why I helped you and I got to help people.” He paused. “I could have killed you too,” he mumbled.

Nick’s heart beat faster.

“I don’t think so,” Nick said at last. He had to say something.

“Sure I could,” said the black man. He stared at Nick until Nick turned away.

A police car went by.

“I wish I was in jail tonight," he said. Then he said, “I think I gave you all my bus money for that cab.”

“There’s a cash machine down the street,” Nick replied.

“Will you come with me?”

Nick hesitated. If it was a plot to get his money it was the most elaborate one he had heard of. But still he wasn't sure. “Ok” he agreed, and he and the black man walked down the boulevard. At the bank the black man put his card in. No money came out. He showed the receipt to Nick. $3.47.

“I spent $1400 tonight.” He stared at the printout.

Nick took out his card and put it into the machine and punched in his code. If something was going to happen it should happen now. He completed the transaction and took out the $20 and gave it to the black man.

“Can I get a beer?” he asked Nick.


They walked together silently to the supermarket on NE 2nd Avenue. The black man went in and came out with a beer in a paper bag and gave Nick the change beyond what he needed for the bus fare.

“Can you sit with me a little longer? I got to finish the blow and then I’m going home.”

Back at the bus stop bench he dipped his key into the pink baggie and snorted. There was one final bump remaining.

“I want to meet you tomorrow and give you $200.”

“I don’t want your money.”

The black man cracked open the beer. A number three bus passed them without stopping.

“Then we got to meet tomorrow so I can pay you back,” he said.

The black man snorted the final bump from the baggie. He offered the can of beer to Nick and Nick took a long pull. The cold beer tasted delicious. Nick thought about how he loved the mornings at first light and how the city came alive. He didn't feel guilty at all.

“Can you walk me to the train so I can go downtown and get some Xanax? I got to come down. I need it to come down.”


Nick walked him to the Omni station on 15th Street.

“How much do you need?” Nick asked.

“Fifteen dollars.”

On the corner of 15th and Biscayne Nick counted out the money. There was $13 after the bus fare and beer and Nick handed it to the black man.

He looked at the money. “I can’t,” he said, trying to give it back.

Nick said, “Take it. A white guy and black guy passing money here doesn’t look good. Take it and get on that train.”

“Are you coming with me?” He looked desperate.

“No,” Nick told him. “You got to go alone.”

He brought out his phone. “Can I call you? Can we meet tomorrow?”

Nick gave his number.

“I’m going to call you,” the black man said.

“Everything will work out,” Nick lied. Nick turned and walked back up Biscayne in the direction of his apartment.

Nick was still sleeping that evening when his phone rang.


“It’s the guy from the bus stop.”

“How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Did you tell her?”


“All of it?”


“About the girls?”


“Are you going to?”


“I think you’re going to be okay.”

“Do you think so?”


“I’m going to call you later and give you my other number. Don’t call this number. It’s my work number.”


“I’ll call you later.”


Nick lay holding the phone and feeling very alone in the darkness. He could still smell the Haitian girl on his pillow. It was a smell that only black people have. He set the phone down. There wasn't anything to tell. Nick tried to go back to sleep.



Outside the salsa bar the group said goodbye. We kissed and hugged and plans were made for other days, and they got into taxis and drove away. I was standing alone on the corner when I heard Oye and someone call my name. It was the young homosexual from the boarding house.

We greeted each other and talked of where we had been that night, the great concert at Las Canchas, and he explained he was now going to a gay club. Where was it, I inquired politely. In the south of Cali, he told me. But it is not for you, he said. No, I said, such a place would not be of interest to me. No, it is not for you, he repeated. But there was a hopefulness in his tone that I might yet decide to accompany him.

We were interrupted by two black prostitutes yelling at each other as they walked past.

The young homosexual watched after the prostitutes nervously. “I have fear here, parcero.”

“Do not have fear. I have trained as a boxer.”

He smiled uneasily. “Yes, parce, but I still have fear. It is my first time in Cali.”

I heard footsteps and a bazucero came running around the corner and seeing us he stopped. The homosexual stepped back behind me and I shifted up onto the balls of my feet. The bazucero's clothing was filthy and his face and skin darkened by dirt and sun. He stood just out of my range leering at us, wide-eyed and shaky, but I didn't yet put up my hands. I looked hard at him and began to curse him in English. He frowned and mumbled something, took a step to leave, looked again at me strangely, and then broke into a run down the street.

"What did you say, parcero?"

"It is too vile and I would not translate it to you if I could. It would damage you to know it."

The gay youth forced a smile. “Still, we must find a taxi, parce. I do not like it here. I have much fear here.” I could see he was shaken.

“We will walk to La Sexta,” I assured him. “It will be more easy to find a taxi there.”

It was past 4 am and we walked briskly through the dark, palm tree lined streets. There were some beggars asleep in the entrance of a building and I caught the eye of a thief checking us as he passed on the other side of the street. Then I saw two security guards with batons and I knew we were close.

“I am the cousin of Oriana,” explained the gay youth. She was the daughter of the couple who ran the boarding house. “She said that I should not talk to you because I am a homosexual. She did not wish for you to be disturbed.”

“Homosexuals do not disturb me. I know them in my country and there is even one who is my friend. In my country the homosexual is not so disturbing.”

Parce, you are the friend of a homosexual?” It impressed him.

“That is what I have said.”

“I am very excited to go to this gay club.”

“For that you should be.”

“It is said to be a very exciting gay club. But it is not a place for you, parce.”


“I am going there alone,” he said now with confidence.

“With luck you will not be alone for long.”

The gay youth laughed. “Si, marica. I hope so.” He was more relaxed now.

We arrived at La Sexta and the first taxi I waved for was empty and it stopped.

“I am going now to the gay club,” he declared. “Parcero, can you do me the favor to take my bag? I will receive it from you tomorrow.”

I took his bag and we shook hands and I wished him much luck and I shut the taxi door behind him. As the taxi pulled away I saw his face in the window looking back at me.


Cock Size & Masturbation

The fun of talk is to explore, but much of it and all that is irresponsible should not be written. --Ernest Hemingway

1. A youth should be taught not to masturbate. He should be made to understand that such a habit can lead to a destructive loss of the juices essential to his masculine strength. The loss of these juices, when expelled habitually from his body through masturbation, will cause him to weaken, leaving him unenthused towards women, risk-taking, competition, and creation. His habitual masturbation leads to a withdrawal from the world. Indeed, accompanying each act of ejactulation is a bit of self-destruction.*

2. Equally important, the regular loss of his juices will affect the growth of both his musculature and genitalia. A youth may grow his cock and testicles in size by allowing the buildup of his juices and denying himself their release. It will lead to swelling and discomfort, but for a man to feel compelled to sex with women, to creation, and to competition, it is the buildup of his juices, often to dangerous and unsettling levels, that will force him to actively seek their release in the world. To masturbate regularly is to deny himself the worldly productivity, as well as genital growth, that these juices encourage.**

8. Men with larger cocks are more generally drawn to voluptuous women. The full breasts and ass on a woman are a mirror image of each other and the cleavage of the chest and the crack of the ass are especially exciting to the large-cocked man. They signal to him her sexuality, her commitment to femininity and her desire for him to dominate her physically. Her hips entrance him as well and to him her body is his opposite, prepared to receive all that he has to give, and she longs to be bent over for him, or to be beneath him, to be fully exposed to him, so that he can see and hold her breasts or ass in his hands and squeeze them as he thrusts into her.

9. The smaller cocked man, like the thin, narrow-hipped and tit-less woman, is more lacking in sexual desire. He lacks it because of a lowered level of testosterone, while the woman lacks it from sexual disinterest. Her desire to be thin is often a selfish desire and a woman’s selfishness always runs contrary to the sexual satisfaction of a man. The thin woman is selfish in bed and she is either a disinterested lover, or a wild one solely interested in her own pleasure. Contrast her with the voluptuous woman who's single interest is the giving of herself to the right man. It is she who understands how to love a man and looks to submit herself to him.


*It is the hormone prolactin that causes the decreased interest in women, competition and creativity in the world. The body releases prolactin following ejaculation to relax it and allow for the rebuilding of sperm levels. The frequent release of prolactin qualifies as a sort of male depressant leaving a man weak, empty and disinterested.

**Fortunately for me, it was at the end of my teen years that I first began to masturbate. The practice did not come naturally to me, and it was introduced to me on a theoretical level by the great writer, thinker and adventurer St. Maximin. By his own admission he was active then with his hands and had been for many years and he expounded upon the variety of excitement and experience that a man might discover by himself in the privacy of his own room or under the covers. Soon after this discussion I began the practice and discovered its pleasures and eventually began to incorporate various nudie magazines as a propaedeutic, as well as creams and balms. But because I had come to masturbation late, I was for many years able to benefit from the increased competition, risk-taking, desire, creativity, and genital growth that results from the unfulfilled urge to regularly release my juices.
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