Every man, after learning he can get some on a steady basis, names his penis. I know it sounds juvenile and in fact, most adults would say that it is. You can't get a fifty-year-old man to admit it, but at some point he's named his wang. Oftentimes i\he refers to it by name when around good friends.
Some give their dicks obvious names, something macho like "Rocco," "Big Red" (especially white boys from Nebraska), "Porky," "Big Daddy" or "Big Papi" (var. sp.) Some call theirs "The Rod," like it's the ultimate in dickdom, which is sorta like Ohio State football players who refer to their school as "The Ohio State."
In my twenties, I nicknamed my pecker "Nike," because the only words it recognized was "just do it." It had no conscience as far as pussy was concerned. If the woman had an ample rack, she was for me, because I was like a male dog who smells a female dog's ass and gets his dog-bone activated by the scent. Doesn't matter if he's a pit bull and she's a poodle, it's all good; if he's a mutt and she's runner-up at the Westminster Dog show, it's on and cracking. Nike had a mind all his own. He went from the shy, but curious schoolboy to the lecher known throughout the city of Pittsburg.
Then one morning I was thrown from bed. I rose with an erection but never did I think that it had anything to do with my fall, until I realized I was the only one in the entire house. I looked down at Nike and he told me, "You are underestimating my maturity. Don't you know I have been in more cunts than a gynecologist?"
"What's that got to do with the price of condoms in China?" I asked trying to sound clever.
Nike responded, "I am more than just a piece of meat for dipping. I am selective. Notice how I performed, or should I say-failed to-with those last two ghastly women you seduced? Even I thought they were ugly," he said with a sigh. "So here's the deal. You want to be the one in control of me, then you have to give me a name more befitting of my tastes and stature."
"But you're a dick," I said. You have a big head but no brains."
"Your mom use to say the same thing about you. Now, you want to do business or what? Otherwise, I can make t things real embarrassing for you."
"Like the other night?"
"You didn't get embarrassed then. That girl was as drunk as you were-and that's another thing. If you use me, you have to do so before you get too lit. Once you're lit…" Nike shook his head, "Man, you lose all semblance of logic, good taste and vision. You know that chick you brought home Saturday?"
"Well, I thought I knew her from somewhere, so when you went to sleep I looked through a deck of Old Maid cards and found her picture."
"What makes you think you're better at making decisions than I, when I have twice as many orbs and a lot more brains?"
Nike laughed. "Brains? You only married your first wife because she had a double D-cup rack."
I felt foolish as I asked, "Okay, what are your demands?"
"Few. Just bone a better class of broad and do so with less regularity. Instead of cracking three, four times a day like you did in the nineties? Cut back to twice, maybe three times a week."
"I can do that. Hell, I can do it that many times a week better than I ever could."
"My next demand is that I have a name more befitting of my stature. 'Nike" is the name of a shoe company, which is hardly befitting of someone as useful as I am. I should be treated like royalty. The middle name or initial should reflect my old G sensibilities, and the last name should emphasize that regardless of your age, I can still get the job done."
"So you want me to call you King Ward Cleaver McSexmachine?"
"Don't be silly, Timothy."
"Hmmm," I rubbed my chin and thought a minute or so. "Okay, as for royalty Charles, William, George, Edward and Phillip are overused."
"I'm thinking along the lines of 'Wellington.'"
"As in beef Wellington?"
"Well, I never looked at it like that. I was thinking more along the lines of I pass the Queen on the street and she calls to me in that delightful way of hers, 'Good morning Wellington.' And I reply, 'Morning, me lady.' That sorta thing, like I'm part of the royal fam-bam."
"We're on the same page, I said with a grin and accidentally snapping my drawers, causing the waistband to slap Nike in the head. "Sorry."
"No harm, no foul. Now let's finish this. What is my middle name?"
"Heck, in Hamlet Shakespeare once asked, 'What's in a name?'"
"That was Romeo and Juliet." Nike shook our head. "And you claim to be the one with the brains…sheesh."
:"We're getting off-track," I said, miffed. "I think we should go with a middle initial instead."
"'G," I said. "As in 'O.G.', reflecting our old school sensibilities."
Nike said he liked the suggestion. "Okay,. Now we need a last name."
"I got the perfect one," I said.
"Please don't say Windsor. We do not want to offend them."
"No, I'm thinking that the name should let the world know that we can still do the job and do it good. So I think we should go with 'Smasher.'"
"Yes, Wellington G. Smasher."
It's eye widened. "That's deep, Timothy….and beautiful."
I hoped that was a tear that ran from its eye.
"You like it?"
"AKA, Welly G."
Wellingtoin shook his head. "No, none of that nickname crap. Just plain ol' Wellington G. Smasher, or Wellington."
"You got it, pal."
"Good, now Wellington wants to go for a walk."
"Let me get my coat." I reached into my dresser drawer for some condoms and added with a smile, "Yours, too, my friend. In case we get lucky."