My penis and I had a long chat in the shower this morning.
It grabbed my attention by pointing out a startling white pubic hair.
“Oh my God”, it said with shock and a hint of waspish judgement
“Look who’s moved into the neighbourhood”
I gasped and then groaned, another portent of seasons shifting.
Resignation placed a consoling hand on my sagging shoulder as I began to wonder whether one could have a receding pubic hair line, or whether one could get pubic hair dye.
The mechanics of aging with style are becoming personal.
My penis was unimpressed with my musings and informed me that he is suffering from a mild case of middle child syndrome in that he feels a bit neglected, perhaps discarded like a once favoured toy.
The truth be told, I used to play with him rather a lot, now as I approach my forty-sixth birthday, the novelty of him has worn off a bit.
I think I have always been a closet sapiosexual (one who is aroused or attracted to intelligence), the only problem with my ‘coming out’, was that my penis kept getting in the way, like a close but irritating drunk friend trying to insert himself into every conversation at parties.
These days, people’s plumbing doesn’t seem to matter to me as much as it used to.
Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy sex, it’s just that I’m not obsessed with it the way many young men are any longer.
It’s quite a relief actually.