I do not have a penis
A boy was squirming in a window display Saturday night. He was trying to be seductive, but with his plaid orange baggy pants and round baby face, it was hard to picture him down on his knees in rapture. Would I go that far for money? Would I work that hard for money? Can I just stare at a point, far off in the distance, rub my crotch against the glass, and lick my lips at the strangers passing by?

Not like it would matter anyway. We were in a largely gay neighborhood. I doubt anyone would pay to see me gyrate seductively because, yes it's true, I do not have a penis.

... but if I did. My name would be Patrick (not ever Pat for short). I would say things like, "Man, this is the fourth day in a row I've worn these boxers." and when someone would ask what I'm going to do about that, I'd respond, "Time to wear them inside out!" I'd go to musicals and think, "Why didn't I ever try to do that?" while I tap my feet in time to the music. I'd sit at home, picking through my CDs, wishing they were records instead. My favorite store would be the thrift store down the street, but I'd own a few J Crew sweaters here and there. I'd get sick of people asking me, "So, are you, uh, batting for the other team or what?" just because I like Wham! and have an appreciation for things like culture, fashion and Christopher Lowell. My dating strategy would be this: sit next to a cute girl and ask her if she did the homework. Or if she saw the new episode of Alias because chicks dig that show. I'd have more balls (literally) in that department, on the pure basis that I'm old-fashioned and think guys should ask girls out.

I'd still drive erratically, turning up the volume when the new Ted Leo song comes on the radio, and yelling at other people's cars: "Turn, you fucking motherfuckin' fuck!". Church would be a weekly thing, on the more stressful times, at least twice a week. I'd kneel and bow my head and think, I don't want war because I don't want to be sent to a strange, foreign land to kill strange, foreign people. I suppose that would make it easier to kill them, but that's not the way I would think. I'd put myself in their shoes; watching a dubbed Conan O'Brien and eating cornflakes when all of a sudden, a bomb drops in the middle of their living room, and their last thought would be: "What would Joan Rivers and Michael Jackson's baby look like?"

Because of my round baby face, I would be carded at bars and restaurants, straight through graduate school, through my late forties, until one morning in my fifty-second year. I finally find gray hair springing between the black ones, and I'd call my dad to say, "Guess what, I'm an old man just like you," and he'd say, "It's about time. Now go change your diaper." My wife and kids (two? three? four? most definitely more than one, I'd have a tendency to either spoil them rotten or treat them too harshly) would tease me about my old habit of sleeping with multiple pillows. "It's like staying with the Sheik at the pillow harem," they would say.

Because of my round baby face, I wouldn't even consider working at the strip club half an hour away. Just to make ends meet, I sell some of my CDs and cut back on eating at my favorite restaurants, Steak'n'Shake and Wendy's. It's not like it would matter anyway. It was in a largely gay neighborhood. I doubt anyone would pay to see me gyrate seductively because, yes it's true, while I would have a penis, it would be meant solely for Jennifer Garner and a lucky lady who, in this parallel universe, would be named Matilda.