One of the great
hypocrisies of our age is that while men who talk about women’s breasts, or
ogle them from near or afar, are criticised for being sexist, women do not
suffer the same treatment when it comes to talking about penises (or should
that be penii? Anyway, that’s another linguistic discussion altogether).
I have never made any secret of
my fascination for the male organ, whether I have been writing about it in
print, admiring it close up, or even groping it when my hands should have been
better employed elsewhere. Despite growing up in a sexually repressed country,
the reticence that should have been inbred somehow passed me by. I suspect I am
a gay man trapped in a woman’s body.
I think about penises a lot. And
I mean a lot. I suspect I think about some of my male friends’ penises more
than they do, which, for someone who has never had one, nor is ever likely to,
is probably a bit strange.
If I go to a concert, poetry
reading or lecture, I am listening to the music or words, but all the time I am
wondering what lurks behind the flies of the men on stage. Is it circumcised or
uncircumcised? How active is it? Is it large or small, thin or thick? Is it any
good? Does its owner like what it sees in the mirror? Where has it been? Where
might it be going? Does it fear death?
I’m not sure if this is penis
envy or penis admiration, but I wish I had a penis just to know what it felt
like. Actually, I have double penis envy, because, in reality, I would like
two: a circumcised one and an uncircumcised one. Is that being greedy?
This week, at Michael Sheen’s
brilliant recording of Under Milk Wood in New York, one of many events to
celebrate the centenary of the poet’s birth, Jon Hamm, who plays Don Draper in
Mad Men, was in the audience. Everyone who recognised him underneath his cap
and glasses was desperately excited; he is a fine actor. But much of the
whispering was about one thing: “Do you think it’s true?”
Because, you see, a piece
published online in May this year, headlined “Jon Hamm’s Wang” revealed that
the actor likes to go commando (without underpants, for the innocent out
there). It was accompanied by a picture of said wang, albeit behind a zipper,
that appeared to reveal that Mr Hamm was a gentleman of considerable substance.
And I mean considerable. It became the talk of Los Angeles, where, it is now
believed, he holds the curious accolade of being the grand owner of the biggest
wang in Hollywood.
Now, I confess to not having worn
any underwear for over 20 years, but nothing in my external attire would ever
give an indication of what mysteries or horrors lie beneath my clothing. Not
so, with Mr Hamm, whose nether regions are a veritable sweet shop of delights
to which the door is always ajar.
I can’t decide whether this
knowledge has improved or lessened the impact of Mad Men. On the one hand, when
the show’s story gets a bit slow, I can always think “Yes, but it has Jon Hamm’s
wang in it” and distract myself, or I can . . . No, I lie; I really can’t and
don’t think of anything else now.
I think the real reason I would
like a penis is because it is so much easier a tool to navigate than the Google
Earth that is the female anatomy. I mean, you could probably multi-task with a penis in
the morning, cleaning your teeth at the same time as you are doing
whatever you are doing with it (What would I know? I don’t have one. Did I
mention that?).
As a woman, you have to schedule appointments with yourself,
because you never know what mood your bits and pieces are going to be in. A
penis, by comparison, is pretty much always up for it, and that’s another
reason I would like one.
Because, at the end of the day, I
have a penis mind, but a woman’s body.
And that’s really, really not fair, God.
It just isn’t.
I want a refund. Or, better, an exchange.
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