Times were my penis had a mind of its own; now it has a computer and internet connection.

Every few months my editor will email me asking where my column is. Insisting that I’ve met my deadline, I’ll look through my “sent” folder to prove it. Sure enough, the column was submitted but from one of my many porn email accounts and likely filtered into her trash.

Luckily my editor has a sense of humour about such things. I would too were these isolated incidents.

Gay men are schizophrenic on a good day; the internet, like drugs and alcohol, is an enabler. I can’t speak for all of us, but I have a separate email address for each of my online profiles to keep track of my multiple personalities.

Logic dictates I monitor my aliases remotely, but that involves typing a URL, remembering a username and password… No, I prefer the convenience of having my propositions delivered directly to my hard drive.

My editor is now familiar with my various noms de plume; my boss is not. There has been many an email exchange about important work matters between herself and someone named HungPrkNChz that go unmentioned.

Recently, one of my instructors at BCIT responded to a homework question with, “Who the hell are you and how did you get my email?”

If only it ended there.

A word of warning to Mac users: go into System Preferences and double check the picture on your account profile.

Last year I was having trouble with outgoing mail. To test it, I sent myself an email. The next morning the email arrived with a picture of my penis in the header. Curse that Photobooth application!

It dawned on me that if I could see this, then so could other Mac users I had emailed. As it happened, I was working on a project with Out on Screen, an office that runs entirely on Mac.

Through squinted eyes I searched my outbox to see what my correspondence looked like since the incriminating photo was taken. I heaved a sigh of relief when I learned I had caught my runaway penis in time.

What’s crazy is that it was no small feat to fix it. It’s like my dick and my laptop are working in tandem to get me.

“Why were you emailing a picture of your penis?” my neighbour asked, her eyelids fluttering as they often do when she learns of another detail in the sordid lives of gay men.

“Don’t lesbians post pictures of breasts and vaginas?”

“That’s vulgar.”

Not as vulgar as carrying on a serious conversation as HungPrkNChz. Sometimes the only difference between a flasher and me is the trench coat.