(Author's Note: The historical and archaeological details are generally accurate, but not immune from narrative anachronisms or oversimplifications. You'll learn a little bit about Roman sexual culture, but nothing too educational.)
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Before we get to the loss of my toga, the reversal of my fortunes, and the capitulation of my masculinity, I should give you proper context of the time I live in, how I've lived in it, and the sexual consequences therein.
My father used to tell me that there were three simple rules in politics. These tenets situationally molded an official's ambition, messaging, and behavior to make for the perfect balance of public favor with elite approval. Keep the masses from storming your atrium and keep the selective appointments to local and imperial posts flowing steady. But how?
"Deliver gracious lies instead of outright refusals, pay due diligence to the gods, and don't leave your toga unattended at the baths."
The first two rules were likely a mixed plagiarism of Cicero and Caesar, but the latter arose from the scorched-earth combat of provincial politics. Our port city of Pompeii itself had only come into the Roman fold 145 years ago. We've gotten less of the imperfect meritocracy of the republic and more of the lawless intimidation of the empire.
Hence the warning is practical: if you are hesitant, or submissive, in the face of your enemy's attacks, you will be finished. Most prevalently, wealthy men in this commercial armpit of Italy could be forced to flee naked from public baths if bribed stooges swiped their manly robes. We aren't dainty, feminine pedophiles like the Greeks. We save those shows for heroic statuary, idealized and standardized to further distance ourselves from the reality. Except, for me personally, in one tragic, paradoxical aspect.
My name is Gnaeus Parvus Modestus, and for my first twenty-three years, the wealth and influence derived from my family fish sauce business, and our patronage of the cult of Isis, would have funded a roster of eastern servants to guard my clothing drawer on every bath outing. I use the Latin subjunctive hypothetical there because I very seldom went to the baths, shirking a crucial component of Roman social interaction.
I spoke earlier of the uniformly-designed statues so crucial to our political propaganda and masculine identity. Impossibly toned marble, bulging finished features, and tiny penises. Flaccid, docile members who found an overbearing encampment on an undifferentiated testicle sack, itself twice the penile length.
From the lunging forum bronze of Apollo to the deified Augustus' seated glare, underendowed idealizations abound, but with a twist that leaves little to hide behind - a good metalworker or sculptor wants to channel the emotion and context of the moment into every feature, so as to create a provocative scene. Apollo is running - he retracts naturally. The first emperor led many armies, and even in death the monotony of horseback riding takes an assuredly temporary toll on his genitals.
But I never served in the army. I was a laughable discus thrower at best. My manhood is just utterly inadequate. It is custom at birth for offspring with discernible deficiencies to be exposed for death on a mountain. Unlike a limp or missing limb, my genitals were so imperceptible that the doctors did not know what to make of it. My mother feared me a hermaphrodite - a freak stuck between irreconcilable dichotomies - and only reluctantly kept me alive.
For years in the morning, I rosed early and craned my head to my crotch, measuring reed in hand, to take measurements. To pray, to any deity I could invoke, that I would live up to the expectations of a man and become the father of my own house. And for years throughout the day, whenever I stuttered or shirked from some masculine challenge, my mother and sisters would tease me on the subject of my untenable endowment.
II.V unciae. (approximately 2.4 modern inches). It wavers indecisively as it wedges skyward, flexing first in its nestled cave before teetering out and up. In an assuredly patriarchal society, I have let this bar me from marriage. I have reneged on countless arranged dates. I fear that my exposure holds solemn significance much like a sacred tradition at Rome. The doors of the temple of Janus are opened, or my toga folds pool at my ankles, and my shameful cock brings about the end of peace.
It is true that us Romans can assign a comical and barbaric connotation to a large phallus. Hence the threshold of the noble Vetii house is adorned with a monstrosity of a hung Priapus (fertility god) fresco, which I pass jealously en route to the Forum daily. Even still, there are stout members at every middle class threshold and tavern entrance, imparting happiness, luck and hospitality to visitors. But as aforementioned, Greece hasn't ruled the day around here for several centuries. All women, at the least, aren't so shut-in that they can't form preferences and act on them. Women like large penises. The propaganda is a lie. What goes for size in the theater and the temple does not translate to the bedroom.
The one time I dared insert myself inside someone - Priscilla, the eldest daughter of a local prosecutor - she silently entombed herself in the folds of the cushions, shoulders just vibrating along, her breathing conservative during my thirty seconds of utter ecstasy. My greedy, inexperienced hands ran from her firm breasts to her supple thigh, trying to massage out some reaction where my endowment could not reach. I hadn't penetrated her, I could tell, and I was ashamed. My palm wandered in circles around the sweet space between her crotch and stomach. My member was imperceptible from the outside, and she seemed dry and unfragrant. Wanting, unsatisfied. I let that arrangement wither on the vine, but in truth Priscilla was a more than willing partner in its demise.
I had a hard time living up to the mold set by my father, now a retired Roman senator who had been the municipal consul at Pompeii for multiple terms, and guzzled spiced wine with the likes of Tiberius and Claudius. I'm naturally shy; my voice is high-pitched and accordingly unpredictable in its emphasis and discretion. My writing drive and singular work ethic have compensated for this, and decent marks along with my father's money have made me a municipal aedile. A job cushily poised on the upward trajectory of offices, but rife with controversy. I distribute water and grain. I maintain public buildings. Allocating sustenance and money makes for a lot of enemies.
