Codpieces for the 21st Century

Ever since I had my penis bronzed, I’ve regretted the decision. It is heavy, cumbersome, and always cracking the porcelain of public urinals. What’s more, my relationship has suffered.

My girlfriend, Lonnie, thought it was a cute idea at first. In fact, it was more or less her idea. One of her regular customers at the Redondo Beach Bar Pub, a movie producer, came in wearing one, and she evidently got a sizable tip for complimenting him. Of course, a 14-carat gold codpiece, softer and more alluring than any other metal, can add appeal even to a middle-aged paunchster in Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and Birkenstock sandals. He gave her a special issue of Men’s Vogue magazine, which he happened to have rolled in his fanny pack, “Codpieces for the Twenty-first Century,” and she brought it back to our apartment that night.

Two weeks later, it was done. Lonnie even helped me pay for the dipping, a procedure I found more uncomfortable than getting my testicles snipped. At least with the vasectomy, I lay supine on a padded table, my legs raised in those stirrups used for pregnant women. Dipping my prick in liquid bronze, on the other hand, was an altogether awkward experience. I had to squat over a cauldron of the molten metal, supporting myself—get this—with a geriatrics walker!

My mistake, I think, was getting it done at Doctor Holler’s Skin Lab, the same back-alley tattoo parlor where I got Lonnie’s name inked on my left buttock. She wanted me to go to Sabrina’s Body Art Emporium, and, in retrospect, I should have listened. But I said no way, Honey. That would be like going to a beautician for a haircut, and I’m strictly a barber shop kind of guy, electric clippers, maybe a straight razor for the back of my neck, but absolutely no scissors. Scissors are for sissies, I told her.

The biggest problem I’m having, believe it or not, is cleanliness. I’m serious. I have to buff my bronze appendage three to five times a day, at least, because accumulations of dust can eat into the metal surface. Again, I am a victim of my own parsimony, having had it done at a cut-rate and disreputable agency. The better establishments lacquer the product to protect the finish. Lacquered bronze only needs dusting and an occasional wiping with a damp cloth. What’s more, for a nominal fee a board certified practice will offer maintenance insurance, which among other things allows you to have the lacquer replaced if it begins to crack.

So I dust it constantly with a soft cloth. Doctor Holler’s “Care & Cleaning Manual,” photocopied and bound with three rusty staples, cautions me against rubbing too vigorously, especially on any protruding parts. I’m not kidding. That’s almost a direct quote. It does, however, offer helpful advice on specifics:

If your bronze codpiece has been neglected for a long period of time and is covered with many days of weary grime, thoroughly clean it with a soft brush. Remove all dust from crevices and notches and then lightly rub the entire surface with a soft flannel cloth. To achieve a fantablulous luminescence, carefully wash with a solution of 1 tablespoon salt and 3 ½ quarts water. Rinse well.

Once a month, we recommend cleaning it with a Salt-Vinegar-Flour mixture, which is quite simple to prepare and apply. First, dissolve 1 teaspoon salt in 1 cup white vinegar. Add enough flour to make a doughy paste. Flatten the paste into a pancake and wrap it around your codpiece like a crepe or burrito shell. Let sit for 15 minutes to 1 hour. Rinse with clean, warm water, and polish dry. Polish with copper polish followed by glass wax. Doing this religiously will prolong the life-luster of the metal.

What are you doing in there, Lonnie hollers through the bathroom door. She doesn’t ask. Her voice doesn’t rise like an eyebrow at the end of the sentence. There is accusation in her tone. Her mouth is apparently so close to the panel that the door veritably trembles with her breath. I can hear her fingernails scratching three coats of paint and the locked doorknob rattling. She complains that I’m fixated, that I love my codpiece more than I love her. 

She says I’m spending too much time in the bathroom with it.

You’re dead wrong, I yell, looking up from my busy hands. I love you more than anything, Sweetheart, really I do. You don’t understand. I carry a burden now, fashionable, au currant, but cumbersome and tiring nonetheless, which, I might add, is partly of your making. After all, it was you, Dear Heart, who brought home that special issue of Men’s Vogue magazine, “Codpieces for the Twenty-first Century.” It was you who emptied your tip jug of thirty-five pounds in change. You said it would help my career—I’m currently a card carrying but unemployed member of the Writer’s Guild—and our love life.

Yeah, well, she says, I was wrong on both counts!

What worries me more than anything else is the quality of the alloy used by Doctor Holler—if that’s his real name. Most of these types, preying as they do on the social-emotional insecurities of their clients, assume aliases. He’s probably not a real doctor at all, or, worse, he’s a mere PhD. The shyster likely employs metal of the cheapest copper blend, perhaps even zinc. No doubt, he manufactures his pieces from a low-grade alloy imported from China. For all I know, there may be lead in the mixture.

The reason I’m spending so much time buffing my bronze codpiece these days is not simply that I’m an out-of-work writer with no ideas and too much time on my hands. It’s more than that. You see, I think my piece is infected with “Bronze disease,” one of the most serious hazards with this particular metal.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no hypochondriac, nor am I a paranoid Philip-K-Dickian type. I suspect, however, that Lonnie has been dosing my piece with a chloride water solution. I think she mixed it in the plastic spray bottle she uses for her Boston ferns, just enough bleach to get the job done but not enough for me to smell when I sniff the bottle. Anyway, I think she is misting my appendage while I’m sleeping, which I do in the nude, unfortunately, as it turns out.

Bronze disease takes the form of a sudden outbreak of small patches of corrosion and is distinguished by rough, light green spots. Doctor Holler’s manual warns that it occurs when chlorides and oxygen combine in a damp environment. Of course this has been one of the driest years on record for L.A., but Lonnie recently purchased a humidifier for our bedroom, which keeps so much moisture in the air that we sleep in perpetually damp sheets.

At first I was pleased with the green spots, mistaking them for the protective patina one sees on museum pieces or Civil War monuments. Then I realized that a true Verde develops only after decades of weathering, and I’ve had this codpiece for a mere three months. Except for the green spots, my bronze is still as shiny as a new penny. It hasn’t yet darkened, a natural and harmless and attractive result of the aging process. Doctor Holler’s manual says that to stop the disease I must wash the piece in repeated changes of boiling hot, distilled water, and that’s what I’m doing right now. You may have to soak the object for a week or more in distilled water, the manual says. If this treatment does not work, consult a museum expert about using a strong solution of sodium sesqui-carbonate or have your piece treated by a professional.

Lonnie’s knocking on the door again, telling me that she’s leaving for work and that I shouldn’t wait up because she’s meeting some girlfriends after and won’t be home till late. It’s a Wednesday, for pete's sake, I say. Where are you going on a Wednesday night? Oh, you know, Tokio, 310 Lounge, Little Temple, she says, her voice echoing as she walks away from the bathroom door. This is L.A., man, she says. There’s always something happening.

Then I hear the apartment door shut—not slam, but click as quietly as a secret kiss blown at a stranger.