How big is tommy lee penis

Errol Flynn used to play the piano with his. Milton Berle's prevented him from dressing in miniskirts. Lenny Kravitz's led Madonna to beg him to "run naked in a rainstorm." Rudolph Nureyev appeared to be performing a perpetual pas de trois, and Don Johnson's has been described as resembling the large, wooden furniture he used to erect before his heyday on Miami Vice.

It is difficult to ascertain which men -- stars or not -- are blessed with the kind of equipment that John Holmes unfurled throughout 2,500 adult movies: As Kurt Vonnegut remarks in Slaughterhouse Five, "You never know who'll get one."

Tommy Lee, future reality-TV star and the drummer for the now-defunct and idiotically umlauted Mötley Crüe, on the other hand, is possessed, very visibly, of a penis that far outreaches the five inches doled out to average men.

This penis puppeteer debuted his piece in his and Pamela Anderson's private/public sex tapes, wherein he uses the thing itself to steer a boat and sound a horn among other, less nautical activities. He also propositioned Anderson by having it sing its own version of the Oscar Mayer song ("My baloney has a first name, it's L-A-R-G-E."). And he has just given it more voice in his new memoir, Tommyland, which features an interview with, and a series of random comments by, the appendage referred to simply as Dick.

In the interview, Tommy and Dick argue, and the latter asserts that "I got you everything and everyone you've ever had." And in spite of Tommy's threats to "put a fucking rubber on you if you don't shut up," Dick continues: "This is my life, this is my story."

And Dick has a point. Lee's career, from the clamant hell that is Crüe's entire oeuvre -- from Rattlesnake Shake to Slice of Your Pie -- through his wan incarnation as a rap-metalist, the nightmare-haired drummer's greatest skill (revolving drum kits included) has always been to inform the world that it is the manager of his act who's responsible for nailing all the Girls, Girls, Girls.

Lee gives excellent if unrepeatable advice about oral sex and ejaculate in his memoir, and is a loose, engaging raconteur. While the press kit declares that we should give a damn about the "emotionally difficult events that shaped him," discerning readers know that this book is of interest only because of Dick, and where he has been.

And, reading this light, if warranted, autobiographical hubris, one wonders how the tiny-penis men feel; if they are among his demographic, or if they are still too busy floating the lie that "it's not the size but how you use it." As to that deformed logic, consider ordering a foot-long and discovering a cocktail sausage buried in the bun, one that has been artfully employed as a fey little beret on a streak of mustard. Would you applaud the cook's imagination, or merely demand a refund?

I imagine all men big and small, and all women, naturally, fit into Lee's demographic, as the subject of the apparently wanton and arbitrary distribution of size and/or circumference is of interest to all sexual creatures (hence the otherwise mystifying status of Lee's continued success). Some claim that big feet and fingers are clues; others desperately try to convince their first dates to model a thong for fear of spending the evening, again, lying that it doesn't matter: No, it just doesn't matter. Neither does pleasure or stamina: Mating your socks works for me, babe.

Now, to be fair to the men who furtively collect enhancing creams and mechanisms -- who stockpile money toward the better-than-Rogaine-dream of surgical enhancement -- genital enormity, like all other gifts, can be and often is carelessly squandered, as certain men become so prideful they are like the housewife who always and only brings her award-winning upside-down apple-pineapple cake to the party, regardless of whether the hostess specifically asked for other, less spectacular, yet equally pleasing confections.

That said, it is always harder to cook from scratch, and it is the extraneous labour alone that must create, in part, the inordinate anxiety so many men feel about size. This anxiety is so acute in men that I am surprised it did not convince second-wave "herstory" feminists to cite penile variation as proof that God is a woman.

Women have always complained about noxious double standards regarding sex and gender, with good, if now-dulling, reason. Men can age into shiny-skulled belly bags, yet this never appears to prohibit their success in love. Men's idea of grooming involves a disposable razor and a damp washcloth. Men, worst of all, are able to inveigle women into bed under false pretenses: One minute you're starring in Body Heat; the next, in The Lair of the White Worm.

It is this final act of chicanery that women should sympathize with to some extent. While the French feminist theorist Luce Irigaray has made great hay of the culturally lamentable state of women's "non-specular" -- unseen -- genitals, not one such theorist has basked boldly in what it is to be possessed of perfect homogeneity, let alone the invisibility that prohibits one from the eventual and often terrifying act of letting it all hang out.

To his credit, Tommy Lee gives snaps to women's militant grooming rituals, and encourages men, at the very least, to drink pineapple juice (don't ask), shave their backs and "Walk a mile in her [stiletto]shoes, dude."

As charming as he is, and as ripe as our culture is for the mainstreamed owners of what Martin Amis once referred to as "acromegaly of the cock," Tommyland is still a small world after all. As Dick shouts, early on, "Hey, you talkin' to me? I'm the only one here!"

In Lee's case, as in the sad cases of Ron Jeremy and John Holmes, the one-eyed monster is

significant enough, but will always be a sideshow to men who, like Tom Jones, have the lead and also know how to swing it -- tunefully, brilliantly, and in tandem with the kind of talent that never folds, shrinks or shrivels beneath our basest scrutiny.