Tingle.

March 27, 2007

I have my head down on the train, I’m reading my book, minding my own business. The train stops at the next station. My eyes flit away from the lines of text and quickly back again without thought, in an unconscious need to observe the new passengers.

In that brief moment, I spot a pretty blonde girl carefully planting her perfectly formed rear onto the seat across from me. She’s probably 5 years older than me, occupying the perfect age bracket. She’s slim and very pretty. She’s not hot like somebody you might want to sleep with once and forget. She’s hot like somebody you’d happily sleep with over and over, and wine and dine, buy flowers for, and so forth. Before I know it, I’m reading the text in front of me, but my mind’s wandered off into a little fantasy world. The fantasy world involving two heaving bodies, soft light, and bom chicka wah wah. I found myself in that little fantasy without meaning to be there. I smile at myself, I skip back to the start of the paragraph, and I try to concentrate on my book.

But it’s too late. I notice my jeans are kind of tight. I’ve had these jeans for years, and it’s fair to say they don’t feel as roomy as they once did (though I blame repeat washes). The tightness of the jeans drags my mind back into the murky world it wandered into after first sight of this girl. If only she knew what she was getting up to.

Trains and buses are the worst places to think these thoughts, especially while wearing tight trouser-wear. My jeans were closing in around me. Or, more specifically, I was expanding within my jeans. I felt that magical tingle race across my body as blood took a pit stop around my groin.

So I’m sitting on the train, and my little man is trying to grow into something of a bigger man, with reasonable success. The tightness of the jeans only serves to attract my mind’s attention to my current situation. While flaccid, I tend to find myself occupying my left trouser leg. The tight jeans perhaps wouldn’t be a problem if my wee man had to wander down a trouser leg to grow, but he was already there, in his usual place, clearly just waiting to surprise. So he’s expanding along my leg and becoming a much more obvious lump in my jeans as the moments pass, and as the train rocks back and forth, bumping over its various points and junctions. He wants absolutely nothing more than to spring free from his prison. And that’s what I want too. But this isn’t the place.

Only a few more minutes to the station, I figured. Then I can get out. Walking is a natural remedy in this situation. Thinking about walking, thinking about not bumping into people, thinking about getting out of the station, is enough to take the attention away from my trapped, throbbing penis and the tingling feeling of a body part demanding more attention. I get out and make it to the office. The office is an astounding pleasure kill, so I doubt I’ll have further problems today.

This happens more often than you might think. Trains and buses are perfect environments for guys to find discomfort. Check discretely next time you get the chance. There’s reasonable odds that there’s one guy sitting nearby who has something on his mind, or something in his trousers.

And my leg will be jiggling until I get home.

Naked.

March 23, 2007

Here’s a topic likely to drive the wrong sort of traffic to my site. First thing’s first: this is not pornography. This is not voyeurism, as such. It is, however, about empowerment.

I spotted on Flickr a set entitled Support Topless Women. Now you see why I placed the disclaimer at the top of the post; no doubt this entry will attract attention either via Google or via the various appropriate tags.

The purpose of the set seems vague. Certainly the last photo in the set celebrates a woman’s right to be topless in public in one part of New York. Which brings up the question: why, in the enlightened 21st century, is it actually an offence in some places for a woman to walk around topless?

Let’s think about this.

Primary sexual characteristics are those parts that are required for natural procreation. The external genitalia, to use such a horrendously clinical term, are the bits that we can see and, erm, touch. I can understand people covering these parts, for reasons of hygiene, dignity, etc. The other guys on the street don’t need to be embarrassed when I gleefully swing past them, for example.

Secondary sexual organs are the bits that help define us. Things like facial hair, muscular definition and strength, general body shape, placement and volume of body hair, placement of body fat, etc. The things that make women women, and men men. These things are never as ubiquitously offensive as, say, a naked penis in the bakery section of the local grocery store. Some people may be offended by a muscular man, just as some may be offended by a naked breast, just as some may be offended by a hairy back.

So why exactly is a naked breast considered illegal by some, while a hairy back is not? I’d wager that more people would find a hairy back more offensive these days than a naked breast.

Of course, I can understand that the idea of exposing breasts on the street as casually as you would a Somerfield bag is a scary one, especially given the number of men around who barely manage to scrape together the requirements to join the human race. But that’s not my point.

Why is the naked breast, arguably a thing of beauty in the same way the rest of the human body is, such an offensive thing to some people?