Wednesday, 11 July 2007

Bored of Masturbation

One gets bored of masturbation, of wanking. Something more is needed.

One appendage juts out ever so slightly from the male body, that one ever prevalent hope for exhilaration. That appendage, upon which so much expectation is placed for pleasure, be it from sex, masturbation or undemanding contemplation. Indeed, the inordinate amount of attention it receives it eventually begins to negate or mock in its dormancy.

Fucking - women - men (whatever) that is all that the penis is anatomically ascribed to do. To protrude, to infect, to inseminate, to initiate. However, rather than its anatomical function, perhaps narcissistically appropriating its bearer is its most vital and most self-affirming objectives. For it is a symbol, it is not really of any physical relevance to everyday life.

More often than not, the over-insisted appendage lies latent. It sleeps under not-one, but two layers of clothing. Scared and hiding under the weight of its own significance; safe and warm.

I look towards my feet.

Perhaps the penis yearns to be free like them; devoid of any pleasurable expectation, devoid of the suffocating role of masculine identification. Perhaps it years to be free and naked and cold; cold. The free feet will sense the world much more than the repressed penis will ever be allowed to.

Is it not also surprising then, that one asks a man to realize the existence of their penis (without touching and keeping still for reference of clothing), it is awfully hard to locate. All one can feel is the weight of their testicles, tiresome in their supporting role, constantly arrogating their neglected presence. Why the lack then? Perhaps, it is because the penis is ashamed, ashamed of its dormancy. Ashamed so much that it proceeds to completely remove its existence, as if it physically did not exist. Ashamed so much for not being erect and omnipotent. (And the converse of omnipotence is a least masculine proposition).

The shrivelled penis remains invisible. Its existence is until then of only symbolic significance: an all-power wielder, a phallus. This concept is easily consumable but impossible to realize in reality. A phallus; as if its been carved - erect- out of stone and placed down our pants - forever ready to violently fuck and arrogate itself into history. But the reality differs ever so slightly. The concept is consumable and consumed, as it is only when the penis is erect -and pretentiously majestic - do we revel in its 'anatomical' existence. Only when its existence, its protrusion supersedes our 'backgrounded' beings do we appreciate its symbolic significance (albeit determinately so). If it were up to us, we'd walk around all day with our stone cocks and announce our masculine superiority. Alas, we have only a penis. And of that we're afraid.

Of course - IF it is a fault - it is not exclusively ours. (Even though under capitalistic deceit of individuality, we have learnt to sadistically take responsibility for our lives). The world in which we live measures a man;s masculine worth with a ruler against his dick. The mystique of the phallus, which is meant to serve patriarchy, paradoxically only succeeds in prompting men to run away from their own bodies.

Lest men think I'm being unnecessarily critical and women think that this article concerns them not at all, they're mistaken. Women's existence is -of course - a terrible one in our patriarchal society. They are forced to define their womanhood (femininity) as everything un-masculine (and vice versa). Their bodies becoming nothing more than contractual property of a ruthless society which is obsessed with the firmness of the breasts and the tightness of vaginas. Thus, women are received as nothing but lavishly decorated spittoons for the containment of sperm and other societal secretions/excretions.

But women at least have the opportunity to revel in their own secretions. They realize the power of the vagina's hidden nature. When under threat, they can simply close their legs under the safety of four repressive/liberalising layers (tampon, lingerie, pants and of course, legs).

Whereas the man stands at once naked and exposed for the world to draw heteronormative standards against. Nakedly and pathetically, the man allows exploitation of his mind and body for the social utility of repression.

To come full circle then - one gets bored. Bored of masturbation, bored of sadism, bored of masochism. Indeed these three aspects define narcisstic identification...which my readers have naively or wilfully delved in here.


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