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Can we talk about cat penises? Of course we can. Rather, I certainly can -- I already am -- but you should not feel obligated to read. Let me suit html to words and put a little LJ cut right here, so that those of you averse to zoophallic discussions can scroll right on by.
Typically, what people know about cat penises is that they are barbed. This barbing helps the male cat remain in flagrante delicto, so to speak. In general, the barbed cat penis is brought up in the context of jokes, usually which are vaguely imply to heterosexual women that they should be grateful for what they have, because that's a great way to get yourself laid.* I have to admit that I had never thought of a cat's penis other than in this context; before a couple of days ago, I had never googled images of cat penises, I had never attempted to metaphorically represent a cat's penis, and I had never had a cat's penis touch my wrist.
Let me backtrack.
About a month or so ago, I adopted a second cat from a local pet shop, which fosters animals from one of the city's no-kill shelters. I had adopted Malcolm from this shop, and frequently stop there to gaze at the kittens in the window. Booker, nee Brooklyn,** was a solemn-looking cat who had been in the window for a week or two. MOSS and I nicknamed him Sith Cat, because of his pointed chin, dark tabby striping, and large ears. After I had dithered about adopting a second cat for a while -- as company for Malcolm, as well as for myself -- I finally decided that I was ready to keep a second cat in the house. Scarcely a day after making this decision, I found myself walking home, which meant that I would pass the street on which the pet shop was located. "If Sith Cat is still there," I said to myself, "I will get him."
Sith Cat was still there, and -- some paperwork, some money, and a long conversation with his foster mom later -- he was mine.
When I adopted Malcolm, the store owners said that he was about eight to ten weeks, but the vet I took him to said that he was more like six. This is not a good age for kittens to be fixed, but he had already had his little tallywhackers taken out, as part of the rock-em-sock-em process at the shelter. Malcolm has never had any hormones flood his little bloodstream, and thus has never really seen any purpose to putting his penis out to take the springtime air. You can poke him right in his furry little nubbin, and no penis will result. He will look at you funny, mind, but no tentacle erupts from the furry mancave.
Booker, by contrast, was six months old when I adopted him, about a month or so ago. He is already a large cat -- nearly the same size as Malcolm, who is close to three years old -- and promises to get even bigger, if his ears, tail, and paws are any indication. He was not fixed at six weeks, I think; I suspect he was fixed closer to two or three months, after the tidal wave of hormones first knocked at his body's front door.
I didn't think of this. I was so used to Malcolm, who seems to have no cocktail weenie to speak of, no fleshy ballpoint pen concealed in his codpiece. When Booker flipped over onto his back in my lap, then, I gaily scratched his belly, resting -- as I am wont to do with Malcolm -- my wrist along his groin. He usually licks me when I rub his belly, but this time his licking had a slightly frenetic edge. Then something poked me in the wrist.
YES. IT WAS HIS PENIS.
"THAT'S YOUR PENIS," I observed. I hurriedly lifted my wrist -- experienced cat owners will note that I did not dump him off of my lap, or indeed stop scritching his belly -- and Booker quickly took the opportunity to go down and tongue-butt his rogue penis into its hiding place. He seemed astonished by his genitalia's disregard for social conventions, for the record. It was no accidental bestiality scenario; instead it was a little like his slip had shown. Since I have no manners whatsoever, I laughed and half-screamed "YOUR PENIS" for the next twenty to thirty minutes, interrupted only by phone calls to MOSS to exclaim, "IT WAS LIKE A HOT DOG TENTACLE. IN A PUFFY CRESCENT ROLL SLEEVE. HIS PENIS. OH MY GOD."
This, for the record, makes Malcolm's mating dance even funnier. Malcolm will hold on to Booker's nape with his teeth, massage the sides of Booker's body with his front paws (in gentle circular motions, very reiki-influenced), and attempt to balance his back feet on Booker's spine. It is like extremely inept surfing, if the surfer were to also attempt to bite his surfboard. And yet Booker is the one with the motion in his ocean!
All of this is to say: I remain immature. Carry on with your day!
(Pictures of Booker to come when I get them off of my phone and have access to some sort of image-resizing software.)
* - A lie.
** - The shelter tends to name their animals along themes. I understand this; naming one cat is a pain in the ass, naming hundreds must be unimaginably difficult. Booker's mother was named Soho, and her five kittens were named after other New York locations, including Brooklyn and Bronx (his brother). I can't say that I like the name Brooklyn for a cat -- it was also the name of a friend's cat in college, meaning that it Would Not Do -- but I didn't want to confuse the poor dear. My father eventually suggested Booker. This is fortuitous for two reasons: one, it is in keeping with my "Problematic Heroes of Oppressed Peoples" theme (Booker T. Washington, natch), and also it can also be mispronounced "Booger."
Typically, what people know about cat penises is that they are barbed. This barbing helps the male cat remain in flagrante delicto, so to speak. In general, the barbed cat penis is brought up in the context of jokes, usually which are vaguely imply to heterosexual women that they should be grateful for what they have, because that's a great way to get yourself laid.* I have to admit that I had never thought of a cat's penis other than in this context; before a couple of days ago, I had never googled images of cat penises, I had never attempted to metaphorically represent a cat's penis, and I had never had a cat's penis touch my wrist.
Let me backtrack.
About a month or so ago, I adopted a second cat from a local pet shop, which fosters animals from one of the city's no-kill shelters. I had adopted Malcolm from this shop, and frequently stop there to gaze at the kittens in the window. Booker, nee Brooklyn,** was a solemn-looking cat who had been in the window for a week or two. MOSS and I nicknamed him Sith Cat, because of his pointed chin, dark tabby striping, and large ears. After I had dithered about adopting a second cat for a while -- as company for Malcolm, as well as for myself -- I finally decided that I was ready to keep a second cat in the house. Scarcely a day after making this decision, I found myself walking home, which meant that I would pass the street on which the pet shop was located. "If Sith Cat is still there," I said to myself, "I will get him."
Sith Cat was still there, and -- some paperwork, some money, and a long conversation with his foster mom later -- he was mine.
When I adopted Malcolm, the store owners said that he was about eight to ten weeks, but the vet I took him to said that he was more like six. This is not a good age for kittens to be fixed, but he had already had his little tallywhackers taken out, as part of the rock-em-sock-em process at the shelter. Malcolm has never had any hormones flood his little bloodstream, and thus has never really seen any purpose to putting his penis out to take the springtime air. You can poke him right in his furry little nubbin, and no penis will result. He will look at you funny, mind, but no tentacle erupts from the furry mancave.
Booker, by contrast, was six months old when I adopted him, about a month or so ago. He is already a large cat -- nearly the same size as Malcolm, who is close to three years old -- and promises to get even bigger, if his ears, tail, and paws are any indication. He was not fixed at six weeks, I think; I suspect he was fixed closer to two or three months, after the tidal wave of hormones first knocked at his body's front door.
I didn't think of this. I was so used to Malcolm, who seems to have no cocktail weenie to speak of, no fleshy ballpoint pen concealed in his codpiece. When Booker flipped over onto his back in my lap, then, I gaily scratched his belly, resting -- as I am wont to do with Malcolm -- my wrist along his groin. He usually licks me when I rub his belly, but this time his licking had a slightly frenetic edge. Then something poked me in the wrist.
YES. IT WAS HIS PENIS.
"THAT'S YOUR PENIS," I observed. I hurriedly lifted my wrist -- experienced cat owners will note that I did not dump him off of my lap, or indeed stop scritching his belly -- and Booker quickly took the opportunity to go down and tongue-butt his rogue penis into its hiding place. He seemed astonished by his genitalia's disregard for social conventions, for the record. It was no accidental bestiality scenario; instead it was a little like his slip had shown. Since I have no manners whatsoever, I laughed and half-screamed "YOUR PENIS" for the next twenty to thirty minutes, interrupted only by phone calls to MOSS to exclaim, "IT WAS LIKE A HOT DOG TENTACLE. IN A PUFFY CRESCENT ROLL SLEEVE. HIS PENIS. OH MY GOD."
This, for the record, makes Malcolm's mating dance even funnier. Malcolm will hold on to Booker's nape with his teeth, massage the sides of Booker's body with his front paws (in gentle circular motions, very reiki-influenced), and attempt to balance his back feet on Booker's spine. It is like extremely inept surfing, if the surfer were to also attempt to bite his surfboard. And yet Booker is the one with the motion in his ocean!
All of this is to say: I remain immature. Carry on with your day!
(Pictures of Booker to come when I get them off of my phone and have access to some sort of image-resizing software.)
* - A lie.
** - The shelter tends to name their animals along themes. I understand this; naming one cat is a pain in the ass, naming hundreds must be unimaginably difficult. Booker's mother was named Soho, and her five kittens were named after other New York locations, including Brooklyn and Bronx (his brother). I can't say that I like the name Brooklyn for a cat -- it was also the name of a friend's cat in college, meaning that it Would Not Do -- but I didn't want to confuse the poor dear. My father eventually suggested Booker. This is fortuitous for two reasons: one, it is in keeping with my "Problematic Heroes of Oppressed Peoples" theme (Booker T. Washington, natch), and also it can also be mispronounced "Booger."