Dave: Same sex abuse

As Thom Yorke sings, “You do it to yourself. And that’s why it really hurts.”

Perhaps he wasn’t referring exclusively to the abuse we inflict upon members of our own gender, based solely upon sartorial or physiognomical discrimination. But, I’m going to run with it anyway.

Each day regardless of what our brains are trying to distract us with, our eyes, ears and noses are perpetually focused on every woman who passes by. We’re conditioned to check out all potential shags from the point of innate reproductive compulsions. Hence the bitter frustration felt all round during these modern times as the opportunity to indulge in such carnal pleasures appears to be more complicated than ever (and this time it’s nothing to do with the ingrained shame of religious doctrine). No. It’s mostly down to our concerns over how others may view us should we give way to regular spontaneous fuck-fests.

Now, with the raging conflict between intrinsic desire and social decorum bubbling millimetres beneath the surface we need to lash out. Doing so in the direction of our would-be conquests would be counterproductive. So, reverting back to our caveman days of animalistic competition we attack our own.

We’ve all seen it. We’ve all done it. Women watch potential rivals like a hawk. We may glance up to check out a great arse in tight jeans, smooth shapely legs disappearing up a mini-skirt or a low neckline inviting you to explore the cleavage for hidden treasures. Notice, it’s all about the clothing (not simply lack of it). Grooming is the way we sell ourselves to the world, shamelessly. Done correctly it can transform the appearance of anybody into a sex-goddess (okay, perhaps not Vanessa Feltz).

I digress. But our hang-dog leers aren’t half as lingering and critical as a woman’s. They are so unnecessarily harsh about one another. And make no bones to even disguise it. Whereas us fellas, we don’t even try to disguise our mutual victimisation. Pointing out each other’s flaws: nicknames such as Baldy, Pecker, Hairy-Back, etc.

And no. None of them were mine.

But the funny thing is we’re generally fairly decent to the opposite sex. Despite what our personal Iagos whisper in our ears. In point of fact, I will rarely be seen using the urinal in any public establishment, no matter how pissed I am. Not if there are other guys standing shoulder to shoulder with me. It’s not a prejudice I have, more a rebellious penis.

For whatever reason, I have a bit of a shy bladder in public arenas. And when you’ve been stood beside a bunch of fellas pissing into a pig trough, without producing even the tiniest of streams, self-consciousness rears its ugly head. And that head is the one in your hand failing to do its job. You know full well that to admit defeat, zip up and walk away with your bladder still painfully bloated would make you rife for ridicule. So you strain until you’re red in the face, while trying not to inadvertently force out a dangerously wet fart.

All the while, the chap between fingers and thumb is the one feeling the embarrassment. And he decides to hide, shrinking back into the palm of your hand like a magician concealing a coin. So now, you’re noticeably not pissing in public because you’re ashamed of you small cock. All this stems from the same sex competition we impart.

And yet, the little man behaves himself beautifully on the rare occasion I find myself alone with a woman. So I never have any ‘self-conscious’ issues in that environment. This is because both he and I know we are less likely to be criticised by the opposite sex. Even though this goes against all we’re brought up to believe.

If we could only ease up on the bitching between ourselves, perhaps it may help bolster our self-esteem. On the other hand, the genders could start attacking each other for real and having a semi-naked woman mocking my own naked form would be mortifying. Yes. Perhaps we should leave things as they are. Right Baldy, Pecker, Hairy-Back, oh, and you too Fat Bastard?