I think I was 17 when I saw my first pasty-looking penis. It was unremarkable (the penis and the event) – I’d just started a full-time job as a Care Assistant in a Nursing home, and it’s fair to say most of my days were filled with all shapes and types of flaccid. Any lingering ideas I had about becoming an actor were blown to pieces that first time I had to wipe an elderly arse, and it underscored the growing sense I felt that, as a working class woman, my options were limited. But hear me right – I’m not hating on saggy old bums, and I swear, I learnt so much about human dignity, resilience and joy in those 2 years of caring for elders, including making significant progress on my OCD recovery, that I would do it all again. But I digress – we’re here to talk about penises.

Flicking through the TV last night, I came across Naked Attraction, on Channel 4. I’d heard of it before, but for some reason this time, I felt compelled to stop and watch awhile. There stood three butt naked young men, being questioned by the presenter and one female contestant – let’s call her Jane from Bolton. One of them would ‘win’ a date with her if they passed the nudity test blah blah blah. I have to say, I wasn’t really listening. I was mesmerised by their brazen display of cockiness. One of them, John from Leeds, was trying to gain a lead by thrusting his groin aggressively at the camera – my eyes started to water. All three of them trotted out their own versions of ‘Watch me! Watch me!’ with cringe-worth puns referencing their appendages and virility. On some base level, it was funny, and I tried to see the light-hearted side of it, but alas, there was just too much flesh going on for me to be at ease.

Now, I have to make one thing clear. I’m no prude. I don’t frown at nudity or sex scenes in a blanket sense, but there was something overtly distasteful about the way Naked Attraction framed their contestants. I don’t know if it was the close-ups, the tacky booths they stood in or the lack of a decent filter in post-production (man, we needed some colour!) but after two minutes, I felt angry. Hubster was shouting, ‘Turn it off!’ but my eyes were on stalks – I literally couldn’t look away.  And then it was Jane from Bolton’s turn to de-robe and submit her body to scrutiny. This, in my opinion, is where the show revealed its rotten core. Jane walks out as the camera slowly pans up her body and the fellas take turns to judge her with comments like ‘Great pair of tits!’ and ‘Nice tidy fanny, just how I like ‘em!’ – three guys slipping smoothly into a culturally validated show of misogyny, like school boys pushing the boundaries to see how naughty they can be before they lose their privileges. And their privilege was telling, because rude as things got, there was no slapping of wrists for this grimy little bunch, no shame in grossly objectifying this woman and effectively applauding her (between drools) for having the body of a 14 year old girl. Call me a middle-aged, fat feminist, but there was a certain violence to this, dressed up as equality – you show me yours, I’ll show you mine – but we know which way the balance tips in a world where women are constantly sexualised, commodified and denied protections, even when they’re fully dressed. I was seething – tidy fanny, he says with relief, while sporting that sad, wrinkled, horror story! The audacity!

Note to self: Don’t watch this shit. Alternate note to self: Stop being judgemental, Liz – you are not the demographic they’re fighting for…it was 10.30pm and you should have been in bed, old lady. Note to other women reading this, after a flashback I had this morning at 6am: Please don’t shave your lady parts to fit in with some porn inspired ideal. It’s okay to have body hair, flabby thighs, uneven breasts and (here’s the shocker) to want to keep your clothes on when meeting someone for the first time. And for the fellas, you don’t have to compare shlongs or display them on live TV, at stag parties, to strangers, on Whatsapp or anywhere else online, in order to get validation or prove that you’re a really big man. We (other humans) don’t care. What turns us on most is a really good…heart.  

Photo by Mark Tryapichnikov on Unsplash

So today, I had an epiphany. It’s my 15th since lockdown. It’s what I do these days, sit idly in my damp garden waiting for bolts of existential lightening to hit me. Actually, I was sitting because I’d attempted to skip, which came after two epiphanies (or epiphani?) I had last week about (i) needing to do more exercise to help me lose weight so I hopefully don’t die of Covid and (ii) needing to have more fun like I did forty years ago when I was a lass. Only I’d momentarily forgot that I’m now a big lass, with an extra 10 stone bearing down on my perimenopausal bones (I had an epiphany about organic supplements for wimmin back in May but haven’t ordered any yet) and as for the chaffing, jiggling and local birds stopping to watch me…well, I had to take a few seconds to rest my ample haunches and compose myself.

But I digress. Today’s momentous realisation is…I am happy. Not particularly earth shattering, but for me it marks…it marks…I’ve been trying to think of a metaphor, and am scrambling for something other than a cliche about giant leaps or lost and found…but that’s kind of in the realm of what I’m wanting to say. All those years ago, when the little version of me was skipping in the school playground, desperate to fit in, heavy with the cares of my complex family and what I saw as a limited future, the thing I found hardest to imagine was a time when I would feel carefree, unencumbered and, despite what my new digital scales tell me, light. I’m finally occupying a space and season that fills me with optimism, even with the very real challenges that this world is throwing at us right now. I have faith that we humans who love can work things out. I have faith that artists are going to rise up and paint, sing, dance and write it better. I believe that those of us with a heart for revolution, for fending off the real enemies of hate, poverty, ignorance and greed will win. 

I’m having a Rocky moment. Eye of the tiger. Where’s that skipping rope?

Photo by Zach Lucero on Unsplash