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.