The problem with fathers, phones and phalluses
After having the same cell phone for about 11 years, my dad recently invested in an iPhone. While he takes delight in using it to film and photograph everything he does, his new purchase is a bit concerning at times.
About eight years ago, I broke up with a long-term boyfriend whom, for the sake of this story, we’ll refer to as Duck. It was an intense but ultimately unhealthy relationship that I needed to get out of my system as quickly as possible.
A few days after it was officially over, I started spending some quality intimate time with a fellow who was notorious for having an exceptionally large…um… thing between his legs Comically so, in fact. It was so hilariously enormous that I dubbed him with the nickname “Mr. Monster Cock”.
One day, while walking through a park with said fellow, I ran into my friend Dave’s girlfriend and her dog. Although I’d spoken to most of my close friends about my recent flings, not many people had yet met Mr. Monster Cock and were starting to question his existence.
I made a point of stopping to chat with Dave’s girlfriend and introducing her to my new companion (by his formal name, of course.)
A few hours later, I texted Dave.
Your lady met Mr. Monster Cock. He exists! He and his giant cock most certainly exist!
He never responded.
A few days later, I met up with Dave to hang out with him and his dog and watch Top Model.
“Hey,” I said. “You never responded to my text about Mr. Monster Cock.”
“What text?” he asked. “I never got a text from you.”
This was a time before iPhones existed, when texts weren’t conveniently displayed as conversations and could be easily tracked and monitored. No, my shitty cell phone could barely store 15 texts at a time. I had to constantly delete my “sent” files.
Dave and I quickly realized — to my horror — that I’d sent that somewhat indiscreet text to the wrong person. Shit. I quickly looked up my contacts to see who could have possibly received it
I looked at the possible options. None of them were good.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!
My musings about Mr. Monster Cock had either been sent to a) my dad or b) my ex-boyfriend. Great.
Dave nearly pissed himself laughing, while I went pale with shock.
To this day, I’ve never figured out who actually got that text. My ex-boyfriend Duck and I didn’t end on good terms, but if it was sent to him, he never brought it up as ammunition in the many arguments we had after we split up.
As for my dad… If he received that message, I’m assuming that he didn’t understand what was going on. He’s slow when it comes to a lot of things. But I don’t know for sure. I’ve never had it in me to ask him.
So what can I learn from this experience? Especially now, in the age of snapping and sending dismembered private parts to potential suitors?
It’s pretty simple. Be really, really careful whom you send that shit to. A world of embarrassing possibilities await you if you don’t. Like trying to explain your interest in monster cocks to your suddenly iPhone-savvy dad.
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