Mr. Stupidhead and The Alpha Cunt

It’s okay to be afraid. VERY afraid.

Recent­ly I was chat­ting with a few vanil­la lady friends dur­ing a writer’s con­fer­ence. Dur­ing a break they got into a good-natured argu­ment over who was the Alpha Cunt.

When I inquired about the Alpha Cunt, I was told that when a group of women spend a lot of time togeth­er, espe­cial­ly in a hotel or dorm sit­u­a­tion, their peri­ods begin to synchronize.

So whichev­er cunt winds up set­ting the sched­ule is the Alpha Cunt.

I nev­er found out how Alpha Cunt sta­tus is achieved — thumb wrestling? Tam­pon duels at dawn? Do they get wrist rock­ets and shoot water bal­loons and condoms?

Lily has been no help on this issue; when her month­ly lands I enjoy a lot of jokes about crime scenes in panties until the week is up. No help­ful cunt com­bat info, though.

As for my naughty bits, I have, like many guys, giv­en them a nick­name. Guys don’t seem to get orga­nized or com­pete with an anal­o­gous dom­i­nance tri­al — we just leap into a free-for-all.

Unlike most guys who do this, though, I have not named my junk Cap­tain Amer­i­ca, King Kong, or Schwing! He’s not Genghis Khan; he’s not Jack Ham­mer. My junk is not named with a weapon des­ig­na­tion (“Get that Spooge­mas­ter Mark IV stocked and locked, sol­dier!”) No; he’s not named after any pow­er tools or sports heroes or any­thing like that.

His name — brace your­self — is Mr. Stu­pid­head. He’s a guy, see, and he has a much small­er head than the one I keep up above my shoul­ders. And boy, is he ever stu­pid.

If he sees a hole he thinks he might explore, plan­ning and exe­cu­tion con­sists most­ly of stick­ing  Mr. Stu­pid­head in the hole to see what happens.

I’m no genius, but my oth­er head is miles ahead of Mr. Stu­pid­head in intel­li­gence and com­mon sense. Let’s stick Mr. Stu­pid­head in a garbage dis­pos­al — it might be fun! Stick Mr. Stu­pid­head in the crazy woman from down­stairs in the hotel bar — he does­n’t have any pet rab­bits any­way. Stick Mr. Stu­pid­head in a knot­hole in the fence. Hey, why not!

Think I’m exag­ger­at­ing? How often on the news do you see a guy who got him­self stuck in a park bench or vac­u­um clean­er or a pow­er tool or some­thing? That’s Mr. Stu­pid­head­’s (inbred) cousins at work.

I have in fact been forced to demote Mr. Stu­pid­head below my oth­er one. This seems coun­ter­in­tu­itive, because my oth­er head often has ques­tions and dither­ing thoughts and rumi­na­tion about how to pro­ceed, while Mr. Stu­pid­head, at first blush, seems the con­sum­mate, con­fi­dent leader. “Let’s go!” he says. “They’s holes need fillin’!”

But a clos­er exam­i­na­tion reveals that Mr. Stu­pid­head­’s “plans” con­sist almost entire­ly of div­ing into holes, with no long-term strat­e­gy or goals. Let­ting Mr. Stu­pid­head do any think­ing or deci­sion-mak­ing seems a clear recipe for disaster.

So for the fore­see­able future, Mr. Stu­pid­head will be sub­or­di­nate to my and my mis­tress’ terms and con­di­tions, and will enjoy very lit­tle auton­o­my or nego­ti­at­ing abil­i­ty — until and unless he demon­strates respon­si­bil­i­ty and self-con­trol. And I’m not too con­fi­dent of that.