There was a programme the other night about men and their penises. The previous week, there was one about women and their clitorises, which featured liberated dames spreading their legs before mirrors, solemnly admiring the “beauty of their vaginas” for the benefit of assembled academia and TV cameras.
It was a bit strange watching that one, though no one could deny that there was empowerment in the air. All the women interviewed were happy to talk about their genitalia. No one apologised, or fretted about the size or shape of them.
By contrast, whatever else they chose to talk about, all the men seemed totally obsessed about the size of their penises. Big, small or average, size was all that mattered to them.
“There are other ways to please a woman,” said one elderly man defensively. He had a 5cm penis … but he wasn’t the only one to look like it would be all right if he never saw a woman, or a communal changing room, again. Indeed, it has to be seen as disturbing that on a documentary about penises, the only really happy, confident man was the porn star hung like a shire horse.
It made me remember a jokey conversation about reincarnation I’d had with friends. We had to draw tickets out of the hat for the very worst thing we could come back as. Among the dung beetles, sewer rats, and daytime TV hosts, there was “a man with an extremely tiny penis”. The girl who got that was sickened. “I’d just have to kill myself,” she said dramatically. She didn’t appreciate any of our jokes about drawing the short straw.
This goading about penis size seems to be getting more prevalent these days. Mainstream sitcoms are getting so bawdy that hardly an episode goes by without some reference being made to male physical inadequacy. A recent British car advert aimed at women – young, financially independent, feisty – breathed salaciously, “size matters”. I thought it ill-judged. Show me the teenage boy who wouldn’t worry about where that leaves him. Statistics on the high rate of suicide among youths, and their deepening sense of vulnerability and inadequacy, suggest that we should be giving them a break, not something else to worry about.
In the grown-up world it’s become such a commonplace insult that women forget that men are rarely inclined to get so personal, in public at least. It is true that women get judged by their appearance much more than men, but there still seems to be no male equivalent to the crooked pinky finger, and the crazed female sneer. Christ knows what they say in private, but I’ve never heard of men shouting rude things about “buckets”, or making huge circular motions with their arms to goad ex-lovers.
“Give over,” cried a friend. “It’s the only thing we’ve got over them when you think about it, and it’s only done in fun.”
How would she feel about a car advert aimed at young men which worked a preference for vaginal tightness into its imagery? “I’d laugh … I think,” she said uncertainly. “Anyway, it’s not the same.”
Talking to others, the consensus seemed to be that because women received the most sexist flak, we were entitled to behave like towel-flicking jocks when we got the chance.
I’m not so sure that penis banter has much to do with sexual politics. It seems to be more the case that it’s so widespread, so normal, few women register that what they’re saying is actually very crude and personal.
But what if the tables were turned? I’d imagine that most of us would feel pretty uncomfortable being teased about the size of our vaginas. “Oh please,” said my friend. “I don’t believe that men mind that much.” But why not? We would.