The penis

CAPE TIMES, 30 AUGUST 2002

IT IS A peculiar thing, the penis. Oh yes it is, and don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. I don’t ordinarily much think about the penis – like the hidden shafts and sealed chambers of an Egyptian pyramid, I consider it a mystery best left unprobed – but recently I found myself in a situation in which I could scarce avoid the damn thing. Everywhere I turned, there was a penis. Penises jiggled and bobbled around me like a field of wheat after a long dry season.

Where was I, you ask with narrowed eyes? Was I in the forest with a band of painted men carrying tom-toms and trying to reconnect with their inner selves? Was I in the casting offices of a popular daily South African soap opera? None of the above (or, in a way, all of the above). I was in the changing room of a local gym.

Under normal circumstances I am not much by way of a gym-goer, but I had lost a bet and … oh, it’s a long story. It is tricky, being in the men’s locker-room, because you just can’t stop yourself inspecting the fittings and appliances. There I was, surrounded by the naked male form in its various incarnations and configurations, and I don’t mind telling you I was fascinated.

Obviously I have seen a penis before. Everyone takes a sidelong glance at the fellow beside you in the men’s room, but that is just idle curiosity, and from that angle you aren’t doing much more than absent-mindedly comparing size. But there in the locker-room you are exposed to the bewildering range of styles and shapes that constitute the irregular legion of the male member. Frankly, ladies – and some gentlemen – I don’t know how you do it.

Under any circumstances the penis is not one of nature’s showcases. Unlike the fiery sunset, say, or snapshots of the noble whale sporting in the salty brine, the penis is unlikely to be included in Mother Nature’s collected portfolio of “My Best Work”. Still, I can tell you after my day of research, there are some that pass muster, provided your aesthetic criteria are not too rigorous. Neatness and symmetry and a sense of your proper place will get you far in this world. But ye gods there are some infernal works out there.

I don’t want to be too graphic, but let me just say that there are stranger things between the thighs of men than are dreamed of in our philosophies. One particularly misshapen corner of the room resembled nothing so much as a convention of those kiddy-party clowns who specialise in tying elongated balloons into humorous shapes. With my own eyes I spotted at least two dachshunds, several Loch Ness monsters and one weirdly lifelike rendition of Darren Scott.

It was a harrowing afternoon, and it left me with a renewed respect for the sheer audacity of phallocentric patriarchy. Well done, men. Any group with the cheek to construct an entire system of myth and value around such frankly unpromising raw material deserves all the unfair advantages it can lay its hands on. But mainly I was left with a profound appreciation for the heterosexual women of the world. You – yes, you – are our real heroes. Oh, how sorely at times you must be tempted to buy yourself a shapeless denim jacket and a pool cue and a spiky haircut and move to Observatory. How you can even look us in the eye without bursting out laughing is beyond me. I am mystified but eternally grateful. Here’s to you again, ladies. And thank you.