Talking through me trousers

So, Dave's sister was looking for something to use for a drama piece, at University, and wanted it along the lines of the Vagina Monologues, but for men. Dave asked me along and, together, we tossed some ideas around, kept the ones we liked, worked on a couple of pieces then went away and wrote them up. Later, we met, IN A PUB, and discussed bits, made changes where needed, added other parts and generally edited like REAL WRITERS ARE SUPPOSED TO, i.e. in a smoky room with pints.

The following is the second thing, tinkered with, again, when I was typing it up to mail off. It was originally one piece but was subsequently sectioned into five, smaller bits that should still read ok as a whole, but you might notice it. It is put up here to stop any further tinkerage.



Having thought about it recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that men are the worst.
I don’t mean man with a capital “M”, we all know global warming’s bad, but don’t let that fool you.
Hitler, Attila and Jack the Ripper all “pointed percy at the porcelain”. Face it, the destructive part of humanity doesn’t sit down when it wees.

Where women give birth and create life, it’s usually a man who takes it.
Someone shooting at you only exists because his dad shot his load.
Sex is found at the beginning and end of so many lives, it’s a wonder the species has survived this long. Femme fatale? A stab wound and penile penetration, chances are you’ll know who’s going to be behind them.

Getting the message from Society?
I know I am, every day.
Men are never allowed to forget who the bad guys are.

You know that bit in ‘Alien’ when an evil, veiny, snakey thing bursts out of his chest, spits at Sigourney Weaver then disappears? Sound familiar? Should do, it’s the monster inside. From The Serpent in Eden to one eyed trouser snake, it never gets a good word.

Mind you, it can be scary sometimes.
Like when he wants to get up to no good.
You’ll suddenly be aware of something, moving, in your boxers, a mind of its own, looking for trouble, or fun, and there’s little you can do.
It does what it likes, sometimes.

It’s so secretive, hiding away in the dark nest of your undercrackers, sleeping, dreaming, twitching, a bone chasing a dog/dog chasing a rabbit. You rarely see one in daylight, not unless you need to let him answer a call of Nature by dragging you to the toilet.

That’s where penis envy comes from, I think. It’s not the fact we’ve got one to play with, it’s the fact that we can whip it out and go where we like.
Not bad.
You’re glad of your little fireman when you pass the queue for the ladies.
Oh yes.

But that’s just its day job.
Not happy working part time, oh no.
For some reason, your meaty drainpipe doubles up as the muscle of love, your sperm delivery system, your six inch shooter.
“Stick up for your Dad, he stuck up for you”, they joke.
I sometimes wonder if he was really serious about it or just taking the piss.

Perverse, isn’t it?

That’s something else about being a bloke you’re never allowed to forget, the link between the penis and perversity.

“Look how few female perverts, paedos or rapists there are”, you hear.
It’s usually a prick with a wanker attached.
Non-sexual crimes are just as bad.
Street violence? Young men.
Serial killers? Strange men.
Smug tv presenters? Noel Edmonds.
No, scrub that, he’s a cunt.

Anyway, the list is always growing, and not just in the real world.
Don’t get me started on the Bond villain sitting there, stroking a pussy on his lap.

So, it seems having a winky automatically makes you naughty.
Possibly.
All I know is, if you go looking for the worst in the world, you usually uncover a knob end.

When you compare the sexes, its men who are the villains. We can blame it on our upbringing, society, peer pressure and tv, but the real reason is in our pants.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always looked down on it but I’m still glad I’ve got one.
I’d never get rid of it.
I’ve had too much fun.
But, in the day to day, what actual good does it do?

Yes, I can have a slash in a Dixons’ doorway on a Friday night while waiting in the cold for a cab, but catch the old feller in your zipper, you can forget “coming back for a coffee”, you’re off to Casualty.

Trousers?
You come back from the gents with a piss patch on them and he has fucked your chance of a… you get the picture. Taking her to Grimsby doesn’t kill a romance quicker, let me tell you.
Yep, you spend a lot of time shaking yourself dry when you’re in beige chinos. Urine being the operative word.

Another reason I don’t wear them.

(Looking down at crotch)
MUTTERED, AS THOUGH TO SELF.
It’s like he does it on purpose.

So, can I honestly trust a piece of me that has a mind of it’s own?
Just who is the brains of this organisation?
Who has the real influence and power?

When you see the amount of time and money spent on videos, magazines, websites and phonelines, just to get “Old one eye” to spill his yoghurt, you know who the real boss is.
I listen to him more than he does to me, and I usually go the way he points anyway.

Freud said that the urge to reproduce, the sexual drive, is the force that keeps the species going.
We’re going, all right, it’s just where that bothers some.
Looking back, you can see that it’s been men who’ve lead us, blindly, into some trouble or other.

So. Are we heading blindly into the future?
If so, I’m worried that Old One Eye is king.