Aunt Becky, Have You Ever Seen A Grown Man Naked?
…well, no, no I hadn’t.
At least, not until I was in Paris.
I was fourteen years old, on tour overseas with my traveling youth orchestra and I’d taken an extended vacation to Paris after the other musicians had gone home. My cousin lived there, you see, and I’d gone to visit him.
(this is me with a non-flasher, my boyfriend, Alex)
(no, my son is not named after him)
(although he was a really nice guy)
Along with my First Experience With Nutella (one which has turned into a full-blown Love Affair), I saw the sights and sounds of the city, including the Mona Lisa and several men, fully naked. Everywhere I went, it seemed, grown men wanted to take off their pants and show me what appeared to be hairy sausages.
I was suitably underwhelmed. These canned Japanese Mushroom-thingies were supposed to make want to have The Sex? I was baffled. I didn’t want The Sex; I wanted a barf bag and a kicky pair of shoes. A busy street, in the subway, outside the Louvre, it seemed that even graveyards were fair game for The Flashing of Aunt Becky.
One rainy day, between meals of steak frites and Nutella crepes, we chose to visit the Père Lachaise Cemetery. My mother, always a bit morbid, wanted to see where a bunch of famous people were buried. I myself wanted assurance that Jim Morrison was, dead, and therefore unable to produce any more of his horrible poetry. Even there, standing between a mausoleum and a grave, a flasher showed me his penis.
To this day, I’ve never seen so many men willing to drop trou and pull out their wangs.
Or, I should say, I hadn’t seen so many men interested in flashing me until I produced two sons of my very own.
And if they grow up to flash their penises (penii?) on the street, well, unlike dressing my son in a tutu, I will have a problem with that.
————
Pranksters, I wanted to say thank you for getting my back yesterday (I should have called that post: Go Ask Aunt Becky: TRAIN-WRECK Edition) There’s very little that gets under my skin more than being improperly accused of something I haven’t – and wouldn’t – do.
I can compose books of sonnets, odes, and entire blogs filled with The Error of My Ways but I take offense, not at being called a shitty mother, but being called out for something I hadn’t done.
When I filmed the video, I expected the “U R gonna make UR son GAY” crowd to come knocking at my door. I had my Delete Finger Ready for their onslaughts.
But this, it was like being accused of “having naturally blond hair” or “being a good writer.” Something that is simply untrue.
So Pranksters, I thank you deeply for reaffirming something I already knew. I have the best, smartest, most full of the awesome community of Pranksters on the Internet.
(I consider you guys family, by the by)(I don’t actually care if that sounds creepy).
When you get to a certain age, your shame disappears. To this day, if someone wants to see what lil B looks like, I’ll show em.
And WHOA! I had no idea you were the same age as me! And DOUBLE WHOA! I went to Europe with *my* band in 96! Granted, France is more exciting than Switzerland and Austria, but at least we had better chocolate.
Think of all the horrible ‘band camp’ stories we could share now… and thanks to you, I’m going to miss having my flute for the rest of the day. Making music used to be my ultimate form of therapy.
It’s like this Aunt Becky. Someone messes with you that means they mess with us. Someone messes with us, they are in trouble.
And not only am I jealous of your witty humor and good looks but you’ve traveled to another country? All the way across the ocean country?? Wow. I’ve barely left this sad state Missouri. I was 21 the first time I traveled more than 100 miles from my birthplace! Jealous.
And when I click ‘hit me, yo!’, my comment shows up on the page but after I leave and come back to see if you commented (or anyone else, or just to read what your readers commented so I could visit them too and stalk them too) my comment isn’t there anymore……but then the next day (sometimes day) it’s there. Also, I can’t ever comment when I use firefox……..I have to switch to InternetExploder…I mean explorer
This very handy (!) tidbit should be included in every Lonely Planet guide to Paris. OR perhaps the Lonely Man Guide Paris.
Hey no wonder. Look at the sweetest girl you’ve ever seen there on the boat with her boyfriend. Even so, 3 or 4 (or however many there were) dick flashers in Paris is surprising and illuminating. Also, you don’t say, but I expect me as a 14 year old girl you would not just be underwhelmed but angry. In your place I would have been.
Is it wrong that I would still prefer Nutella to most penises? Cuz… Nutella is AWESOME. Also, I hope you confirmed Jim Morrison’s death. Cuz I like to think the world is past the twenty minute “grooving” interlude in music era.
I’d go with penii – it has such a nice sound to it.
I suspect that our overwhelming OMG BABIES need is supposed to get us over our pointing-and-laughing fit at the male genitalia.
Holy crap, you were hot back then! (And no doubt you still are.)
All I got back in 1995, when I was in 6th grade, were girls that all looked the same, with the same makeup, the same eyeliner, the same boredom all year from looking at that mini-cult every day.
It extended through the rest of middle school, but thankfully dropped off in high school.
I think the plural of penis should be penii (penises is just too weird)!
And yes, your Prankters have your back, no matter what. Haters gon’ hate. Wonder if putting a pink tutu on my dog will make him gay? No? Same way with kids…not going to make them gay. *facepalm for the morons of this world*
What is it about those things (penii) that makes men think we seriously are just dying to see them? Or what about showing them makes them so happy? They truly aren’t exactly cute.
I don’t get.
So what do you think the first cell phone picture that got sent from phone to phone was of anyway?
Apparently you have Sausage Factory Magnetism that dates back to your teens and spans the Atlantic.
I got flashed in Rome. On Christmas Eve. But I was looking the wrong way and only my sister saw it.
I didn’t watch your Momversation, but anonymous’ comment did not ring true at all. What an idiot.
First time on the puter for TWO weeks. I read yesterday’s post though and thought, ummm no. I seriously doubt she said anything of the sort.
I have been in the hospital for 2 weeks, and have seen more strange peen that I ever want to in my life.
(hospital stay I will write about on Band Back Together, have a feeling it will ring like Girl Interrupted)
You have me beat. The oddest thing I had happen was having this creepy older guy (I was 21 and I’m guessing he was 40+) repeatedly invite me to the nudist beach.
OMG I would so rather have a nutella crepe over a fuzzy fungi…although, I suppose they do come in handy sometimes. Unfortunately, in this houseful of males, penii (yes, I like that saying) sightings are far more frequent than necessary.
Excuse me, I have to go to the store to buy some nutella…
I have a “friend” (those are air-quotes) whose move to secure the deal when he brought a girl back to “his place” (his mother’s home) was to whip his dick out. He married the first girl it worked on. His thought process was “I know what I want, so I’m going to get straight to the point” (no air-quotes that time, that’s a real quote).
I’ve often wondered about the whole “show your junk to pick up a chick” move (though I’ve zero doubt that it would lead to many a one-night stand for a woman to show her junk to a guy). I have to imagine, if you’re truly “talented” (air-quotes, again, this writing on the internet is hard), that you might score what you want once in a blue moon. But, well, wieners are funny-looking.
I’ve no issues showing off to someone who asks to see, it’s kind of hot that way, but you never just “whip it out,” that’s plain creepy.
I remember when I was in sixth grade a boy in 8th grade flashed me his cocktail weiner and I ran screaming! Maybe that was why I thought long and hard about being a nun! It gave me nightmares! What a way to remember Paris, lol!
Megan (aka 1 Funky Woman ~ not a nun)
The only thing I’m going to comment on here is the fact that I, much like a billion creepy stalkers, KNOW we are meant to be bff. At least on The Internet. Why? You, unlike a confusingly large and *clearly* questionable part of the populace, realize Jim Morrison wrote horrendously bad tripe. I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve shaken my fist at the sky and shouted “it isn’t GOOD, it’s AWFUL!” especially in my fancy poetry classes when people said he was their favorite poet. Kudos, ma’am. I hope you shouted “You’re no !” as you skipped merrily ’round the cemetery.
Guys and their junk – it’s a love affair I can’t understand.
Also, you are well loved. Like a teddy bear, not a sex slave.
Just look at it with a considering look on your face, then say, “5.3 and I don’t care what the Russian judge says.”
It’s sort of like baboons who turn their red behinds toward the opposite sex to get their attention, don’t you think? I had a FIRST date with a guy and at my door (uh, no, my parents’ door), he whips out this hard-on like that’s going to be the clincher in making MY life better. “Look what you’ve done to me!” he says. (Uh, no, I didn’t even kiss you good-night. You did that on your own and I want no part of it. WHO ARE YOU!?!?!? to me, that is, this is a first date, NEVER to be followed by another.) I can only hope that you believe me when I say that I was under extremely tight control to NOT slam the door on his ‘predicament.’ Geesh!