The Inequality of Man

I've always envied chaps lucky enough to be favourably endowed with a decent cock. Mine, you see, resembles a small uncooked chipolata cut in half and has always caused me to take a modest stance when discussing one's genitalia with friends. I guess I was towards the back of the queue when our good Lord dished them out.

But I have seen no reason to tell porkies regarding my sexual attributes (or lack-of) during my life. I've never been a very good liar and well, the truth will always reveal itself sooner or later and usually at the most inopportune time.

I had a friend at school, a handsome devil, who was not only blessed with a very admirably-sized penis; he could perform a number of tricks with it to-boot. One particular image springs to mind – he used to emerge from the showers after a games lesson with his towel draped over a huge erection - quite a spectacular sight to the majority of fourteen year-olds still awaiting the arrival of their first strand of pubic hair.

Just how he was able to induce this state of well-being upon his pride-and-joy in the sobering atmosphere of a boys' shower room was forever a subject of speculation. I only wished that I could have sported such a carefree attitude when it came to my bodily parts, and yes, perhaps I would even have liked to perform the same trick.

For the best part of my life I have been painfully shy in matters sexual. I have felt repressed for some unfathomable reason. Not my parents fault, or my siblings. It's just the way I've been made. Such is life...

It's hard to imagine such a thing as fanny envy causing consternation among women. I mean, apart from a triangle of pubic hair (with the exception of those ladies who feel the need to shave themselves – I always liken the resulting look to that of a dented balloon and not particularly attractive), a woman's vagina is not on display when she is naked, and certainly not if she's assuming an acceptable and dignified pose. It is hidden behind a bush and also discreetly tucked out of the way. Whereas, a man's penis is, by its very nature, a protuberance and a pretty obvious one at that in most cases of nudity. Even in repose it can look quite rude and intimidating - at least it can to those of us not particularly blessed in that respect.

I also cannot imagine that envy of size exists in the female world the same way it does in the male. Although bust size may be an issue to some women; size of vagina is not. In fact, it's quite easy to appreciate the opposite is probably true; where the smaller a woman's vagina actually is, the more preferable it would be – not the least for her partner where elements such as good contact, friction and viscosity are important components in the satisfaction of his desire. Although, to balance the argument, generous physical dimensions in a woman are a definite advantage when it comes to childbirth; space is at a premium, and therefore any extra room is much appreciated by a mother in waiting.

A cavernous organ would hardly be anything to shout about if you were in possession of such a dubious gift. And for the man, apart from the initial novelty of pulling back the curtains, taking a look inside and calling, "Is anybody there?" and then counting how many seconds it takes for the echo to come back, there's not a lot that can be said in its favour.

A man in such an unenviable position might well feel he's got more chance of filling The Albert Hall by himself than making contact with the walls of his beloved's chamber using only his trusty chipolata. Others, with a more aesthetic take on life, might consider that the walls of such a palatial residence would greatly benefit from the hanging of a couple of Dalis or Picassos, and if that didn't take up all the slack then at least it would make the place look a bit more inviting.

But the last word will rest with this correspondent.

It's all too easy to feel sorry for one's self when one has been dealt a poor hand in life, but I find some comfort in the thought that there are probably many chaps out there in a similar, if not worse predicament than me. You see, instead of wearing myself out trying to tickle the sides of even the most modestly appointed chamber, I could always find solace in the fact that I could contribute my chipolata to science for research into stunted growth, or, failing that, I could just bung it in the frying pan along with an egg and some chips and at least get some nutritional value from it. It would certainly be more beneficial to my constitution than having to look down on the unemployed every time I use the loo.

Sometimes I am reminded of a friend of mine who was blighted with a similar malaise as myself. His wife, being a staunch catholic, first set eyes on his little soldier on their wedding night and he apparently felt the need to apologise for its lack of size. Fortunately she was a very understanding woman with a sense of humour and she was able to allay his fears immediately by saying: "Never mind, Raymond darling. I'll just pop it behind my ear and smoke it later."

If only all women were as sensitive as that.