I do get questions about it, sometimes. I'm not Angelus. I mean, it's not like you know from looking at me, or that I show that often. Oftener than some people, but considering the exhausting regularity with which my entire family whips theirs out, I've got a dick atrophied from lack of use. According to one of my 'brothers,' forget groundhogs, you rub my staff on February 2 and we can predict weather based on whether the little guy achieves full firmness or not.

I don't know why, exactly. I mean, it's no lie at all to say my entire life is sex. Fucking, fucking every day, cocks and tongues and hands in every conceivable orifice and delightful reminders of that action all over-- jizz on a woman's full lips, the tangy scent of a fully-explored vagina on a man's hans and face. Wet, open-mouthed kisses as a way of greeting. You'd think I'd be constantly ready to go, panting for it like a starving dog, but I guess it could be women literally telling the crew to keep all sharp objects away from her new breast implants or men asking me for three different kinds of lube because they can only work well with that particular chemical mixture (they say while trying to swallow the blood from snorting their coke). Or maybe it's just one too many instances of stopping the camera, throwing the actors a towel, and readjusting the shots so we don't see the star's mole cluster. I guess there's some sense of balance. My cock remains surprisingly well-behaved.

Anyway, I don't like porn definitions. I can't define my cock based on my job. That's what my camera's for.

But what about your faction, or race, someone might ask? Yes, what about the fact that my cock is brought to you by the producers of orgies and incurable nymphomania? Rape, sodomy, and sexual deviation? In medieval times everyone thought that the devil's penis was the size of a goat's and his semen was icy cold-- all the better to torture and titillate his witchy minion bitches. Surely my demonic heritage gives my meat a bit of an extra kick?

I couldn't say, really. Junior here's just what he turned out to be: just under seven inches long, a thin fold of skin wrapped around the wet, dark-hued head when I'm not erect, shaft widening in the middle and balls nestled behind, comfortably situated like two smooth, delicate eggs, the skin elastic and gently ribbed over them, the entire noble organ dusted on top with a carpet of sandy brown hair, tapering from my navel to my testicles.

When it's fondled, it gets hard. When it's sucked, pulled, squeezed, rubbed, sheathed, or pinched it gets happy. When it's really happy, it releases a spurt or two of a salty whitish-clear liquid capable of passing on certain aspects of my genetic makeup to some unlucky female recipient's innards. Said liquid is not to be confused with the yellow or clear one, likewise salty, that is sometimes associated with it. I keep it comfortable, clean, and clear of smegma and stale piss.

It is, in short, a cock.

What, you expected something profound?