Ernie slumps further into his chair. “You’re ripped and hung and probably adopted and will rule the world by this time next year.”
Sigh. “Why would I be adopted?”
“All those mommies going on daytime TV looking for their babies’ daddies—you don’t need fancy paternity tests. Want to know who the father is?” Ernie waves his hand at my crotch. “Look at the dicks.”
Where in God’s name is this conversation going? “Look at the dicks?”
“Dicks tend to run in families. It’s basic physiology. Dad’s got a helmet, his sons tend to have helmets, too. If he’s got a giant Super Mario Bros. 1-up mushroom, his sons will have mushrooms. If he’s sporting a bulbous, shiny knob—”
“I get the idea—”
“Now, there are five basic kinds of dicks, which can be typed using the Triple-S, or S3, classification system: size, shape, shaft. Size and shape refer to the head. Shaft is self-explanatory.”
Dear God, he’s got a notepad out now, and is sketching out the details.
“Size. On a scale of one to four, a one means the head is smaller than the shaft, a two means head and shaft width is about equal, a three is a head that’s noticeably bulbous, and a four is a fucking baby’s arm holding a Red Delicious.
“Shape. One to five. A one is your standard dick head, somewhat tapered tip, slightly flared rim. Two would be the fucked-up Triangle. You see it predominantly in older porn videos. Nobody wants a two. Three is the proud Knob, not often flared, but almost always wider than the shaft, and more rounded than its competitors. Four is the mighty Helmet, flared along the rim, but as wide as the shaft all the way to the tip. Five would be the Bullet, elongated, stealthy, easy on penetration, though not ribbed for her pleasure.
“Shaft. Simples. One is small as fuck, five is a weapon of mass insemination.
“You, my friend, are a 3-3-5. Now, I ask you, have you ever seen your pops in the shower? Does he have a big and juicy 3-3-5? Because if not, you may want to entertain the possibility that you were switched at birth as the spawn of some random monster cock porn star—or your mom was messing around behind your daddy’s back.”
“Lots of guys have a 3-3-5, I’m sure—”
“Yeah, but this particular 3-3-5 just happens to be slung between your powerful little thighs.”
“—and I hardly think I’m a 3-3-5.”
“Oh, you’re a 3-3-5 all right, God-knob.” Ernie hands me his sketch. Dabs at a flake of dried blood dangling from one of his scorched eyelids.
I study the aforementioned penis types. He’s circled the ones that supposedly apply to me. “Dude, what is it with you and dicks?”
“Dicks are fun. Dicks are entertaining. Everyone likes looking at dicks. I’m simply comfortable enough with my masculinity to admit it.”
“So, you admit you like looking at dicks.”
“The point is, there were once privileges being exchanged between your mom and some dude who may or may not have been your currently-Asian daddy.”
“Screw you, Stay Puft,” I say. “My mom did not—my dad would never—my parents made me!”
“Your parents are Asian and Russian, neither of which are known for their enormously juicy wangs. Yet you’re as hung as I am fat—”
“No more talking about my wang.”
Ernie looks almost disappointed. “Your wang needs to be talked about, Theo. It needs to be showcased, wielded, performed upon a steady stream of bodacious babes on a daily basis—”
I crumble the sketch in my hand, never once breaking eye contact with Ernie. “No. More. Dicks.”
He blinks back at me. “Fine. Whatever.”
I drop the dick sheet into the wastebasket.
Stare fixedly at my feet. “Don’t tell anyone,” I say softly.
“About what?” Ernie asks.
“About…what you saw this morning. About my, uh, Triple-S rating.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s my own personal business, and I don’t need anyone to know about it. It’s bad enough the way everyone was looking at me when I was shirtless at Eva’s birthday party.”
“I would kill for the kind of publicity you got at Eva’s party!”
“Well, I wouldn’t.”
“What the shit’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me. I just want to be blissfully anonymous. Is that too much to ask?”
Still staring at my feet, it occurs to me that I can upload out of here anytime I want. Nonetheless, I stay. “I…don’t like the attention. I’m not, uh, comfortable with what it represents.”
“Oh, Gawd,” Ernie moans. “Are we having a pipe and tweed jacket moment? Feel free to drag the couch in from the living room and tell me all your problems, why don’t you?”
I glance toward the bedroom door, considering—
“Wow, bruh. Your computer kung fu may be strong, but your understanding of sarcasm leaves a butt-load to be desired.”
Right. “Can you please cover up?”
“No deal. Now, what, pray tell, does pretty girls paying attention to your fabulous bod represent?”
“You know,” I reply, looking at my feet again.
“I’m not a fucking mind reader.”
“Growing up. Girls. Dating. Sex. Relationships. All that used to be interesting in a ‘some day I want to do it’ kind of way. But suddenly with Mini on the scene, it’s all I can think about.”
Ernie looks incredulous. “That’s what’s bothering you? Being horny?”
Shrug. Swallow. Nod.
“Christ on a cracker! So you’re getting all big and sexy and have to rub one out five or six times a day just to maintain a semblance of sanity. Welcome to puberty, Hung Lee.”
“I don’t want to rub one out all the time! I don’t want to be all drooling and shaggy and barely managing a C average like all the older boys at school because I’m too distracted chasing after girls! I want…control. Simplicity. Serenity. Things are changing so quickly all of the sudden. I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“What, for an amazing career as a teenage sex god?”
“Not that, specifically. But everything else.”
Ernie scratches his chin. “Far be it from me to burst your bubble, but you do realize how weird that is, right? I mean, did your Kindergarten teacher try to touch your special area or something?”
“Well, you could’ve fooled me.”