Dear Dr. Perfect,

Quora says I can’t ask questions over there anymore because I sexualize everything, but my penis says that’s utter bullshit.

Who is right?

Signed,

An innocent asker whose penis has human rights

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Dear Innocent,

Ah, Quora, the veritable swap meat of life’s information superhighway. 

Navigating through the digital abyss takes time, patience, and the insight of experienced lonely professionals, typing away at the 300 words per minute. 

Of course, my numerous queries remain unanswered, languishing in limbo until a more advanced civilization emerges who can appreciate my cultured perspective on fine wines, 18th-century architecture, and finding a decent pair of fur socks. 

Until then, I must endure the anonymous Quora prattle that passes for engagement nowadays. Most “answers” are AI-driven responses based on surveys from spam accounts that promise penis enlargement. 

Or so I heard. 

That brings us to your current dilemma. 

No question should be off limits, especially regarding male genitalia. Most men regularly converse with their penises. Sometimes, only their penises. Such dependency naturally creates confusion. 

Your tendency to sexualize Quora content is a classic case of attention seeking, like shouting SEX in a crowded theater. People may take notice, but at what cost? Before you know it, you’re just another peddler of carnal banalities in an over-saturated market. 

An outright ban seems excessive, maybe overzealous, but take it as a sign. Your attempts to arouse, anger, and shock are probably best suited for a different venue, where one can appreciate such limitless debauchery.

You may be surprised to learn that I once dabbled in pseudo-sex therapy. Many years ago, an old publisher suggested that I spice things up to gain new readership amid a brief circulation lull. The mouthy slob spun around in his swivel chair to puff his cigar in my face.

“Ever think of doing a sex column?” he asked. 

Mistaking my initial hesitation for doubt, he continued. “When was the last time you got laid?” He set the cigar down and folded his hands. 

“I’ll have you know, I wrote the book on sex,” I confidentially pronounced. 

He grinned. “So, we’re talking a short read here.”

I stepped forward, fist balled. “Are you questioning my manhood?” 

“Not at all,” he said with a laugh.

I then threw him out the second-story window of his office atop a Buick Skylark. He was fine after a few weeks in the ICU, and all was well. 

Following his discharge from the hospital, I decided to honor his wishes and composed a sex column under an alias. We called it Dr. Spanky’s Sex Talk 101 for Imbeciles.

Some letters seemed typical, how to please your partner type stuff. Others, as expected, were downright strange. 

I tried to console the sex-starved, advise the sex-addicted, and ignore the ugly Puritans. I was depleted. The ravenous beasts were never satisfied. 

My publisher insisted on more innuendos and puns. Readers craved more dick jokes. Advertisers wanted more T&A. Despite the nice change of pace, I decided to pull out of the sex column business for good.

One letter in particular set me straight. “Helen” was tired of faking orgasms during sex with her husband of thirteen years. The passion was gone. The thought of having an affair proved exciting. 

“Should I leave my husband?” she asked. “I don’t want to hurt him otherwise.”

It wasn’t my place to say. I didn’t want to be responsible for the breakup of their marriage—or anyone else’s for that matter. The panorama of heartbreak was too heavy. 

So ended Dr. Spanky’s short-lived reign of sexual expertise. My publisher called me a coward and was promptly thrown from the window of his new third-story office. 

But he was fine. We’ll all be fine.

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Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.