My day as a man…

I don’t have penis envy. I am extremely happy with my vagina. It’s served me well over the years and considering I gave natural birth to two of my four sons, it’s still in pretty good condition. Just not as pretty as it used to be, so my husband tells me. But I would like to know what it’s like to live with a penis for a day. One that is attached to me that is, not spend the day with my husband.

After giving it great thought over the last few years, ( I clearly have too much time on my hands), it’s come down to three items on my ‘gender kicker bucket list’. Yes, three. Of all the things I could do as a man for a day, only three of them really interest me.
I’m not interested in lifting heavy things because I can do that already – I have a husband to do it for me. If he’s not around then someone else would probably lend a hand. I have big boobs so getting a man to help wouldn’t be too difficult.

I don’t want to pee standing up, because I can do that too, if I really feel the need. I tried once as a child, much to the disgust of my mother, and it wasn’t that hard. My aim certainly wasn’t any worse than that of my three brothers, if anything I was more particular about the mess I left behind. Although, if you are a man the world is your toilet. There’s no waiting for the next roadside cafe that has clean loos, no lining up at music festivals until your bladder breaks and you’re afraid to laugh, or cough, or breathe.

And I don’t really want to have sex because a man does all that work and ends up huffing and puffing and lathered in sweat for a three second orgasm. Count it, one cat and dog, two cat and dog, three cat and dog . That’s it? Jesus, I’ve had sneezes that have lasted longer. Admittedly he is biologically guaranteed of having an orgasm, unlike women. If it’s up and it’s working then it’s going to come, eventually. No thanks. I like a woman’s orgasm much better – our equipment doesn’t flail and sag after an orgasm either, so the sky’s the limit.

But before we discuss my three activities, let’s set the scene first. My gender change is a complete and utter mind and body swap. I am not a woman in a man’s body because then I would still think like a woman and would still, essentially, be a woman. No, I am a man, through and through.
The first thing I would do as a man is to get a blow job. No doubt about it. I want to know what all the fuss is about, because let’s face it, men do carry on a bit when it comes to oral sex. And if I’m only going to experience a three second journey to bliss and back then someone else is going to do all the work to get me there.

Secondly, I’d like to understand the power of boobs, exposed thigh, and bum cheek. What is it about these three body parts that will reduce a man to a blathering, stammering, dribbling deer in the headlights? My hubby’s an intelligent, driven guy, but when I flash him, he turns into a village idiot. An award winning night of television for him is getting to see boobs in more than two shows. No wonder he loves each season of Underbelly.

Lastly, I would like to be able to belch, fart and adjust / scratch my nuts in public. It’s perfectly acceptable for a man to do all of these while he’s having a conversation, drinking beer, watching sports or attending to a barbeque. Compare that with a woman who does the same and suddenly she’s a feral. (We’ll compromise and let the woman scratch her hoo-ha in the absence of nuts, seeing as our nuts are actually our ovaries and scratching them in public would attract more than just a disapproving glance.)

And a man? What would he do if he could be a woman for a day? I asked my husband, who pondered this question for all of five seconds, which is about three days quicker than when he chooses a paint colour. His answer, “I’d stay at home and play with my boobs all day.” Bless his simple soul.
Would being a man for a day interest you?

A mother’s training ground…

It’s amazing the amount of sympathy I get when I tell people that I am the mother of four boys.

“Oh really? You poor thing…” they say, clutching their chest as though they are about to have a coronary.

But being in the minority isn’t new to me.  I grew up with three big brothers.  No sisters.  I was an ‘after thought’ and my introduction to the family coincided with my mother using me as a live mannequin to educate my eight and ten year old brothers about the differences between boys and girls.  Sex Ed 101.  It still sends shivers down my spine to this day.

You can imagine, with three brothers, my life was pretty rough and tumble.  I could kick a footy and throw over arm before I could write my own name, lived in jeans and shorts and was eleven before I noticed my eyes were green.  The scars on my body resemble a road map to a childhood not spent in front of a television.

I learnt to ‘suck it up’ and ‘not be a princess’ early,  as my brothers farted on my head, tickled me until I wet my pants and forced me to hit myself in the face with my own hand.  I was paid twenty cents to walk two kilometres on dirt roads to get their goodies at the shop.  I was even paid the whopping sum of one  dollar to clean week old vomit off my brother’s shoes after his 21st birthday party.

In my first year at school I came home with a black eye, the result of some little horror’s temper. Thinking it was dirt my mother scrubbed and scrubbed with a flannel until it dawned on her that the dirt was swelling.

Incensed, my oldest brother, a tall fifteen year old, taught me to fight like a boy.  By the end of our lessons I had mastered being able to wind someone, so when he told  me to hit him, I did.  He fell forward like a broken sapling, gasping for the air that had been forced out of his lungs by my tiny, but well trained, fist.  He returned the favour as soon as he was able to stand upright and then it was my turn to gasp for air.  I was five.  Suck it up princess.

So as you can see, my childhood was the perfect training ground for life as a mother of four boys.  In fact, it’s been invaluable. Nothing gets my eldest boy out of bed in the morning like a threat to fart on his head.  It beats water sprays, promises of an early night or taking him to school in his pyjamas.

I can even share my pearls of wisdom with them, such as: don’t be the last brother to use the toilet at night.  Either hold on to it until morning or go first, because the stench will probably kill you.  At the dinner table it’s eat or be eaten – lick all your food in full sight of others so that wandering hands won’t be tempted to remove it from your plate.  And my favourite, take any opportunity you get to take the piss out of your brothers. When they do the same to you, cop it sweet.  This is the part in your life where you learn not to take yourself so seriously, because I promise you, your brothers will fight each other to be the one to prick your balloon should your feet ever leave the ground. God bless family.