The road less travelled is one which I myself have been down before.

As those who have been readers of Pink India Ink since the beginning will undoubtedly remember, I was not always happily coupled with The Man Who Is Now My Husband. Rather -- like so many young women in New York -- my early years in this city were spent unattached, gallivanting around, and, ahem, sampling the goods. And so it was that a few years ago (long before I joined the corporate softball team where I would meet the dashing Brad) I went through an unfortunate period of rampant singledom during which I indiscriminately dated, snogged, and slept with approximately 1 billion guys.

But wait, you are probably saying, that doesn't sound unfortunate! It sounds like grand fun!

And indeed, it might have been, but for one problematic fact: out of all the many, many men living in the city and surrounding environs of New York, I always managed to find myself dating the ones who had tiny little cocks.

There. I said it.

This is, of course, a popular subject -- one that has inspired countless tirades, blog posts, even hit songs! -- and as such, there's only so much I can add to the discussion. But suffice to say that, as a result of all these liaisons with petitely-peckered gentlemen, I found myself with an ever-expanding cache of "small penis" stories which made for great conversational fodder after a few drinks. (To this day, whenever the topic of dick size comes up, one of my girlfriends will say something about "The Roll of Dimes", an analogy once used to describe... well, you know.)

However, even as the hilarity mounted, my hideously bad luck in the penis-picking department started to make me very nervous. I had been fortunate thus far in that none of these guys were relationship material (for reasons having nothing to do with the topic at hand). But based on my experience, it seemed more and more likely that when I did finally meet someone worth spending significant time with, he would be so unsatisfactorily endowed that the romance would be doomed.

I was on the phone with my mother, describing the latest bad date, when my increasing worry over the situation finally reached a boiling point.
"This is awful!" I suddenly wailed. "Mom, what if I end up falling in love with a guy who has a really small penis?"

My mother, in a move that would unequivocally confirm her awesomeness in the talking-one-down-from-the-ledge department, simply said: "Oh, honey, come on. That would never happen."

Which, to my great relief, turned out to be true.

With all that's happened in the years since, it had been quite awhile since I thought about the potential problem of inadequate endowment among prospective suitors, and what a pall it can cast over the dating experience, and how worrisome it is to imagine oneself tumbling, through the vagaries of love, into a relationship which, for all its joy and warmth and companionship, brings with it a lifetime of sexual dissatisfaction.

And then, an intrepid Googler gave my memory a little jog:


To repeat some excellent advice once given me: Oh, honey. That would NEVER happen.