The Wet Spot: 24 hours in the penis cage

I'm not so good when it comes to peer pressure.

I can't really explain what my deal is, but for some reason I've always been a lot like Marty McFly (because I refuse to let anyone call me "chicken," and because I'm a big fan of wearing sweet puffy vests. A BIG. F'ING. FAN).

Usually my little episodes of machismo are pretty harmless. There was one time when I ended up in an arm wrestling match against a homeless guy (he destroyed me, then pulled down his pants and shook his unit at me), but other than that I can honestly say that any time I've been peer pressured into doing something stupid, I never dealt with any long-term consequences. Until last weekend.

This past weekend I decided to take my friends up on a challenge that they laid out for me, and spent 24 hours wearing - the penis cage. Here's how it went down.

About a month ago a friend of mine was telling me about a new guy she had been going out with for a while. One night she decided that she was ready to have sex with him for the first time, and brought him back to her apartment to get down to business. They started messing around and she took his pants off, only to find that he was wearing a strange, plastic case around his dick with a padlock up around the base. He explained that he preferred to be dominated by his woman, before handing her over the key to the padlock and saying that he was "ready to behave." That was pretty much the end of the date.

I was about nine Coors Lights deep (the official beer of penis torture) while listening to this story and I decided to open my big, stupid (but sexy) mouth and say, "That sounds sweet. I would totally wear a penis cage."

Suddenly, my friends were all up in my business, telling me that there was no way I could go 24 hours wearing a penis cage, and offering to buy me one of these contraptions if I would be willing to wear it (believe it or not, these things are like $200).

One month later, I was standing in my bathroom locking myself into a clear plastic cage, hating Coors Light for helping me make another terrible life decision.

(Author's note: I should probably point out that this device isn't actually called a penis cage. The technical name is probably more along the lines of "male chastity belt," but seriously? How cool does "penis cage" sound? Try saying it out loud. See what I mean?)

Truthfully, the first couple of hours of my day weren't that bad. I had a couple of errands to run, and I was actually getting a kick out of standing next to middle-aged moms at the grocery store, checking out expiration dates on milk and knowing that my crotch was an impenetrable fortress (even more so than usual).

Then around 2:00 p.m., a friend of mine called and said he was over at the Stone Arch Art Fair and that I should come up and meet him. Without thinking, I walked out the door, hopped on my bike and start on my way. Bad move.

Clearly the folks who designed the penis cage were not the athletic type, as I learned the hard way. By the time I reached the Hennepin Bridge I was standing up, dry-humping the air and yelling, "Suck it, penis cage!" while a small child walked by with his face painted like a tiger, staring at me with a look that screamed, "I never want to grow up to be like you."

Finally, I made it to the art fair and found my friends waiting for me over by one of the concert stages. For a few minutes, it seemed like they had forgotten about our challenge and didn't say a word about the penis cage. But once we started walking around, one of them caught me adjusting myself and things went downhill quickly.

For the next couple of hours, they took turns running up to random people and asking if they had ever heard of a penis cage, or if they might be interested in flicking my package. Surprisingly, a lot of people took them up on the offer and took turns smacking my crotch before pointing and laughing. It was like high school all over again. Or Christmas with my family.

Oh, and did I mention it was like 1,000 degrees on Saturday? Let's just say things got really sweaty. And I did a LOT of scratching. Not cool.

Finally, around 6:30, I admitted defeat. I ran into the bathroom of Tuggs, pulled out the padlock key and started freeing myself. As a final death-blow of humiliation, a cop walked into the bathroom just as I was sliding the cage off of my piece, freeing myself from my chamber of shame. He took one look at me and walked out without saying a word.

To my friends who said I couldn't wear a penis cage for 24 hours straight; I admit it, you were right. And to those of you who may be thinking about taking the plunge and investing in a penis cage of your own, remember - there is no substitute for proper penile ventilation. You're welcome.