Chapter 1

What old Will Shakespeare was trying to say is that it's the properties of something rather than it's title that is important. Since the character of a rose is it's smell, a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.

Lynyrd Skynyrd reflected a different viewpoint. The man who would be there one minute and gone the next was called The Breeze. The property, the character; these determined the name.

Like Red, Tiny, Shorty, many names we are called reflect the most noticeable thing about us. But these are nothing like the one that draws the women and, on occasion, men to me, like a moth to a flame, like a bee to honey, and some would say like a fly to shit.

They call me Schlong.

I've had other sort-lived nicknames, all having something to do with my over-developed organ. I've been called the Beaver Cleaver, Moby Dick, the Big Kahuna, Cunt Stretcher, Chunky Monkey, and the Battering Ram, to name a few. When it's revealed for the first time to a woman, Oh My God, Oh Shit and Oh Fuck are common, though these are more opinions than descriptions.

But Schlong is the one that's always stuck.

I got it in the first week of junior high, when we took showers in PE. There was a big fat kid named Weinstein already showering off when I walked in, taking the towel I had around my waist off and laying it on the tiled wall. Weinstein's one claim to fame is that day when he took one look at me and said, "Fuck, look at that schlong." By the second week of school, I heard the name Schlong more than I heard my own, Mark Hawthorne. By the end of that week, I had a waiting list of girls who wanted to find out more about the schlong.

It bothered me that they were interested in me because of a part of my anatomy rather than my mind and who I was, deep down inside. For about as long as it took me to blink.

Back then, it was a mere 8" long. Since, it's almost doubled in size, extending a good two fingers past the end of a ruler. Not quite as big around as my wrist, but not far enough from it to quibble, though.

By the time I thought of keeping track of the women I'd had, there were too many to figure out. You know that story of the New York cabby who takes a woman to her destination and turns around after he pulls up to the curb? She's sitting in the back seat with her legs spread and says "How about taking it out in trade?" And he looks between her legs and whines, "Lady, ain't you got anything smaller?" A lot of woman have had that said about them after I was done with them.