When I was younger, not that I’m completely over the hill, I used to wonder if the days of my dick were numbered. Not like a parable, not like the hairs of your head, but the days of its usefulness. Now it’s obvious that if most of the male population of the western hemisphere didn’t worry about this dilemma, they should have. The stocks of drug companies have soared in the last five years from drugs that make middle-aged dicks work. And let’s face it… a dick that doesn’t work is no dick at all

But before I get a-head of myself, back to my dick….

Because after all is said and done, that’s all that really matters. It is all about me after all. Isn’t it?

Not to be too graphic here, but I used to wonder as a youth if my loaded pistol was only loaded with a finite number of shots. If I spent too much time wanking off, when I got married, or “whatever,” would all of those wasted shots come back to haunt me when I was able to take aim at something warmer than a hot water bottle. But as it would work out, and as with most things in life, the truth is stranger than fiction.

Now that I’m past the middle of my 40’s, my main concern isn’t my Johnson… it’s my hands. The little Johnny works pretty well. No problem there. But my hands are a different story. I have a condition that has undoubtedly haunted generations of my family through the ages called Dupuytren’s contracture. Without going into a long song and dance, if I live long enough my hands will become mostly unusable. So instead of worrying about the loss of my dick, I worry about the loss of my hands. Boy ain’t that a ball buster.

Let’s face it. I don’t have some sweet young honey to drag my balls across to make my tally-whacker all that important. And even if I did, it’s not like I make a living at it. On the other hand, and I do mean that literally, playing the guitar, songwriting and writing has become much, much more important to me as the years have gathered dust.

I know that with every keystroke of the keyboard and every time I play guitar to write a song or practice something, the use of my hands slowly fades away. So it’s not the fondling of my dick that causes the whither, it’s the quickening of my hands that forces the dither. One day, no matter how brilliant or insipid my thoughts may be, I won’t be able to write them down. No matter how commercially viable or aesthetically timeless or uniquely vapid my songwriting is, the fingers won’t glide across the fretboard like they used to. It’s just another one of the sweet ironies of life, that’s not all that sweet after all.