I’m looking for magazines for thirteen year old girls.
Yes, you read that right. If you didn’t, here it is again.
I’m looking for magazines for thirteen year old girls.
Possibly not the wisest combination of words to tap into Google on a company computer when I’m supposed to be working, but fuck it. I do things my own way.
The reason I’m looking for magazines for thirteen year old girls is that I’ve recently read about a new magazine for girls who like climbing trees, are interested in science, who don’t particularly want every last item of clothing in their wardrobe to be pink.
Unfortunately, this magazine is aimed at the six to ten year old market, but I don’t have a six to ten year old daughter, I have a thirteen year old daughter.
In case you might not know, thirteen year old girls are interested in a lot of other different things that six to ten year old girls aren’t yet aware of.
But at the same time, there are plenty of thirteen year old girls who are into climbing trees, studying the sciences, and other areas of the colour spectrum that are not wholly devoted to pink.
As a dad you’ve got to keep up, or at least try to. If you don’t try, you’ll soon find yourself affectionately trying to hide a treat packet of Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons in your daughter’s hoody pocket only to find it already occupied by a packet of rubber johnnies and ten Marlboro lights. That can come as a nasty surprise for a dad who has failed to keep up.
So I try to keep up.
There are magazines for thirteen year old girls out there, but they are aimed at girls who want a pony, who have a funny feeling in their tummy when they see a boy band, who are interested in make-up.
My thirteen year old daughter isn’t like that.
My thirteen year old daughter is interested in Manga comics, YouTube comedy shows, science, art, nature. She can hardly be arsed to brush her hair before she leaves the house, never mind daube on a load of make up. She wears beat-up Converse pumps because you can’t climb trees in heels.
This might change soon – I’m well aware of that. But for now I’m happy to research magazines that are aimed at girls like her.
So I hit Google.
I type in ‘Magazines For Thirteen Year Old Girls’ and click ‘Search’.
I scroll down.
All the usual crap.
And then I glance to a little picture at the top right of the screen.
I rub my eyes.
I look again.
What the fuck?
As you can see, Google seems to think that ‘The Little Book of Big Penis’ is appropriate reading material for your average thirteen year old girl.
Personally, I beg to differ.
I can’t see ‘The Little Book of Big Penis’ blending in well with the other books on her shelf, especially as she is rather squeamish about the various workings of the human anatomy and this particular book could well be the stuff of nightmares for a sensitive type.
What the fuck is Google thinking? On what level did it’s creepy algorithms decide that what my daughter really needed in her delicate, adolescent life is a book solely devoted to huge meaty wangers?
I mutter, ‘Fucking Hell…”
A voice behind me says, “Something wrong, Luci?”
It’s Monica the account handler. Monica is unusual in The Factory in that she is normal, funny and intelligent. She looks about nineteen and has done for twenty years or so. She sometimes comes to the studio to swear about colleagues she hates and she can swear almost as well as I can.
Monica likes romance books, but not the Mills & Boon type. She likes a good fuck scene in a book, something a bit steamy. She downloads them onto her Kindle so people think she’s reading Harry Potter or The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, when really she’s deep into the third book in the ‘Throb’ series about a muscular bloke seducing bored women and banging them in various unusual and exciting ways, written by a bored woman who writes under a pseudonym and basically wants a muscular man to bang her in unusual and exciting ways.
Monica hates the Fifty Shades’ books. She call them ‘fucking bullshit’.
In a factory full of ‘fucking bullshit’, talking to Monica is like putting your face in a bunch of flowers. It’s refreshing.
I say to Monica, “Look at this.”
She scans the web page, nodding, then glances up to the right.
“Oh my!” she says, and leans forward for a closer look.
She mutters, “Oh my God…” then adjusts her glasses.
She says, “Can you, can you just enlarge that a bit?”
I sigh and increase the image size. The cover of the book is easier to see now. You can see the thick cock filling the tiny white pants much more easily.
Monica mutters, “Oh my oh my.”
I glance at her. Her eyes are wide and she has a half smile on her little face.
I say, “Erm… In your opinion, Monica, is this appropriate reading material for a thirteen year old girl?”
She shakes her head. “No, Luci, but it’s bang on for a girl my age.”
She drinks in the picture of bulging manhood.
I’m leaning sideways at an awkward angle so that she can get closer, really get an eyeful.
“Oh my…” She breathes.
I say, “Steady on.”
Monica stands up. “Do me a favour, Luci – send me that on an email, will you?”
I sigh. “Yeah, alright.”
Monica smiles a winning smile and hurries away.
Intense Ginger Bloke leans over the partition.
“What was she gettin’ all giddy about?”
“A big cock,” I reply.
Intense Ginger Bloke looks alarmed. I explain about my Google search and what it’s thrown up. He has a good chuckle.
He says, “Bloody Hell, if she’s that giddy about the cover, imagine what she’d be like with the book!”
I have a small lightbulb moment.
I say, “Indeed,” and click the keyboard.
A moment later I say, “I’ve bought it.”
Intense Ginger Bloke looks up. “Bought what?”
“The book,” I say.
“What, The cock book?” asks Intense Ginger Bloke incredulously.
“Yup,” I say.
Intense Ginger Bloke goes bright red and pisses himself laughing. When he calms down he asks, “What are you going to do with it?”
I stare at him. “I’m going to put it under my pillow at night and wank over big cocks before I go to sleep.”
Intense Ginger Bloke goes pale and stares at me. “Whaaa…?”
“I’m kidding,” I say. “I’m going to give it to Monica. If a lass gets that fizzy over a little picture, I reckon the whole book will do her good.”
Intense Ginger Bloke likes that. “Ha! I can’t wait to see her face! What you reckon the book’s like then? Is it… you know… just knobs and that?”
I shrug. “Dunno. I suppose so. I reckon it’s just bit of fun. Something lasses might buy for each other for a laugh. Comedy stuff. I’ve not really thought that far ahead, if I’m honest.”
Intense Ginger Bloke is chuckling to himself as he taps on his keyboard. “That’s well funny, that is. Cock book! Ha! Mind you, I wouldn’t want that landing on my doormat.”
I look up. “What was that?”
He says, “I said that I wouldn’t fancy a book of cocks landing up on my doormat. Our lass wouldn’t be best pleased. I wouldn’t know what to say to her! Ha ha!”
I frown. “Well… I hadn’t really thought that far ahead…”
Intense Ginger Bloke continues, “And once I’d convinced our lass that the cock book wasn’t for me, I’d then have to explain how I’d bought it as a present for a lass at work! Ha ha!”
He continues to work, chuckling to himself.
I’m not laughing though.
I begin to realise that I might have made a mistake.
I hadn’t thought how a present like that might be misconstrued on many levels. All I’d thought about was the shock factor, the look on her face when she saw the book, but I realise I’ll have to be bloody careful or the cock book might explode in my face.
It isn’t that funny anymore.
Over the next few days I watch the post like a hawk. If the book arrives in a clear plastic bag I’ll have to leave the country and set up shop in Brazil or somewhere like that. Luckily Amazon are more sensitive than that. On the Thursday afternoon I find a brown cardboard envelope sitting on the kitchen sideboard at home.
“Parcel for you, love,” says my wife.
I’d thought this through. I pick it up and walk off with it.
“What is it?” She asks.
“Book,” I reply.
That was that.
I buy a lot of books, you see. I don’t read all of them, I just like buying books. The Japanese have a word for the act of buying books you never read. It’s called ‘Tsundoku’.
I’m not sure cock books come under this category.
Basically, my wife has come to tolerate a steady stream of slender parcels containing books I should read but never do.
I hide the parcel in my work bag under all the crap I regularly cart from home to work and back again without ever using. I don’t open the parcel. I don’t want to be caught furtively thumbing the pages of a cock book by the dim light of the hallway lamp by my wife. I don’t want to explain that I’ve been buying pictures of penises for a girl at work. I feel guilty and ashamed, even though I’ve technically done nothing wrong and my intentions were sort-of innocent.
I hide the cock book like the piece of filthy contraband that it is.
Next morning I get up in the dark and ride my bike to work, the bag containing the book tucked in my pannier.
The office is deserted, but it’s still too big a risk. I slide the parcel into the pocket of my navy blue work issue cargo pants and go to the toilets.
Locked in the safety of a cubicle, I open the parcel.
I’m prepared to stare at a lot of dick pics, not the ideal way to start a Friday morning at 6.10am, I’ll grant you, but I know it has to be done. Still, nothing could prepare me for what is actually between the covers of this cheeky looking volume.
“Fucking Hell,” I mutter.
It’s pretty strong stuff. Lots and lots of pretty impressive lengths. Tight balls, sagging balls, shaven, thick thatches of pubes, black, white, erect, flaccid, you name the cock, the cock was there.
Like these two players:
And check out the pair of cheeky sportsmen in this spread:
And I wonder what was going through the minds of these fine gents when they posed for this pair of images:
Obviously I’ve edited the images subtly to avoid offending the more gentle sensibilities of some of my readers, but you get the general feel of the book.
But now I have a real problem on my hands.
This is surely too spicy to be giving to a female work colleague in jest. I can’t just shove a book cram full of cocks into the hands of a woman and, with a flat, dead gaze, say to her, ‘Got you this. Hope you like it.’
It’s the sort of behavior that gets a bloke arrested, gets him a restraining order, get’s him put on the Sex Offenders Register for life.
I don’t want to be put on the Sex Offenders Register for life.
My C.V. looks shit enough as it is.
So what the fuck do I do with The Little Book of Big Penis?
I can’t just sling it in a hedge. A young lad hoping to find some bramble porn might find it and be left with an inferiority complex for the rest of his days.
I can’t bin it – it’s against all my principles to bin any book. I ca’t really donate it to a charity shop. Not exactly appropriate material for the shelves of Scope or Oxfam.
I can’t take it home. We’ve already discussed how my wife might react if The Little Book of Big Penis found it’s way onto the coffee table, and we’ve ascertained that it’s not ideal reading material for a thirteen year old girl.
I suddenly worry that there’s security cameras in the bathroom.
I can imagine being sat in a meeting room with all the managers looking serious while grainy footage of me sitting on a shitter thumbing through a book of massive cocks during work hours is played on an overhead projector.
I fumble the book back into the cardboard sleeve, ram it back into my pocket and go back to my desk.
I put the book in my drawer and lock it.
Intense Ginger Bloke is there. He slurps his tea, belches, says, “You get that cock book then?”
He says, “You gonna give it to her then?”
I say, “Dunno.”
He says, “You should. It’ll be funny.”
I say, “I’m not sure it will.”
He says, “It will be for me.”
I say, “Yeah, I bet it will.”
We both start to work.
The day goes on and I forget about the book for a while. It’s a busy day and for once I’m glad of a heavy workload. Soulless Boss is off today so that’s at least something to be thankful for.
Then Monica turns up.
She briefs a job in to Intense Ginger Bloke and I keep my head down.
When they’re finished, Intense Ginger Bloke looks at me and says, “Oh, yeah, Monica – Luci has got something for you.”
You Intense Ginger Bastard.
My heart sinks.
Monica comes round to my side of the desk and smiles brightly, looking slightly puzzled. “Something for me? Cool! What is it?”
There’s no escaping it.
It’s going to happen.
On autopilot I unlock the drawer.
I take out the parcel.
I hold it for a moment and look at Monica and say, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’m so, so sorry.”
I hand her the parcel.
She opens it, peeks inside. Opens the book.
“OH MY GOD!” She squeaks, almost dropping the parcel.
Intense Ginger Bloke is pissing himself.
I hiss, “Keep it down!! I don’t want every fucker in the office to know about it!!”
Monica’s eyes are bulging. Her mouth hangs open. She looks at me like I’m a violent sex offender.
I say, “I’m sorry it’s just that I showed you that little picture and you found it funny so I thought it would be funny to buy it but I thought it would be just a bit cheeky and I didn’t think there’d be so many cocks and such big ones and all so very ANGRY looking cocks too so please don’t report it to the relevant authorities because I didn’t intend it as something…. sexy?”
She stares at me. Then stares at the parcel. She peeks inside again and gasps again, slamming it shut.
She whispers, “I… I can’t accept this.”
I say, “I realise that now.”
She hands it back to me and bursts out laughing.
She says, “You daft twat, Luci!”
She walks away, shaking her head.
I look at Intense Ginger Bloke. He is bright red and tears are streaming down his face.
“I say, You cunt. You fucking cunt.”
He doesn’t care a bit.
I try to get back to work.
Half an hour later another lass from the offices comes over. It’s Katy. She’s Monica’s friend. She says, “Hi Luci. Monica says I’ve got to ask if I can see your book.”
I look at Intense Ginger Bloke. His face is a picture. It’s like Christmas morning for him.
“Show her,” he giggles. “Show her your book.”
I sigh and take it out of my drawer.
Katy takes it out of the parcel, opens the book…
“Oh my! Oh… My!” She goggles at what she sees.
I rapidly explain my mistake, assure her that I’m not a sex pest.
She hands me back the book and walks away, shaking her head.
I die a little bit inside.
As the day goes on a steady stream of female employees approach me and ask to look at the book.
Monica comes back and asks for another look.
Katy comes back for seconds too.
Certain pages get folded over and other women turn up to look at page thirty seven, eighty four, sixteen.
Throughout the afternoon dozens of female office workers drop by to peruse the selection of massive penises I have to offer.
Occasionally the book is borrowed for twenty minutes and comes back to me in a slightly shabbier state than when it left. Post It Note bookmarks appear.
I have become the office pornographer.
I am providing the women of The Factory with the one things their work day has been lacking, that little something that spices up their day.
I’m giving them cock.