Yes, I know that straight boys and girls have dating websites too, but they can’t possibly be as much fun as their gay equivalents, can they? Well it sort of depends on how you define the word ‘fun’ I suppose. If like me, you define it as ‘being subjected to loads of nauseating images of slightly out-of-shape men with no knickers on in a variety of ill-advised poses’ then no, I declare emphatically, they can’t possibly be as much fun. Nor can they be as heart-warming. Because there is nothing in the world so wholesome and reassuring as the gooey feeling I get inside when total strangers send me pictures of their:
- hard penises
- soft penises
- semi-hard penises
- underpanted penises
- half-underpanted penises that are peeping out of said underpants
Oh, I could go on for ever. The variations are manifold. And the great thing is, I don’t even need to see pictures of the faces of these penis-owners. I’m not remotely interested in the rest of the man. These clever boys have deduced that all I really want is to be given such a detailed close-up of their ‘beasts’ that I am able to make a thorough evaluation of them, for this is the only criteria by which I could possibly – as a reasonable human being in his right mind – judge their suitability for me.
I work on the principle that basically, I am just dating that one body-part. It might be attached to a whole other complex physiological composite with arms and legs and a brain and emotions and other saccharine gloopy stuff like that, but my attention (and intention for that matter) remains firmly focused on the penis.
Come to think of it, it would be so much easier if we could just dispose of the men they were attached to altogether. Imagine it. A whole world of disembodied trouser-snakes (Penisland, anyone?), each with its own profile on Gaydar. Sort of like Gaydar is now, but with an even higher concentration of anonymous bell-ends filling my i-phone screen. What a bewitching idea.
To work, I say. Let’s make the dream a reality. Alert the scientists. Have they not set down their petri-dishes to start working on how to successfully anoint phalluses with independent life? Have they not been informed that the answer to all of the world’s problems is More Floating Penises? Gay men on dating websites have known this for AGES. Why didn’t they speak up? Why did no-one tell the scientists?
Here are the poor bespectacled geniuses busily scratching their temples over the conundrum of cancer and all the while, they could be imbuing artificially conceived male members with life, thereby circumventing the need for a cure to this disease in the first place.
It’s all so simple. I have it all worked out. Eventually, if we follow the plan as telepathically postulated by the disembodied willies on gay dating websites, we will all be reduced to our ‘sexiest’ constituent parts (also known as the only parts of us worth bothering about. Just think of the rest of the human form as hot air, gristle and bone). Thus, there will be very little flesh left to contract cancer in the first place. Duh! And while we’re on the subject, bye-bye obesity epidemic.
In a hundred years we could be living in a golden age where no-one exists at all. Or more specifically, everyone does, only instead of all of them being here, it will just be their best bits. The streets could be lined, not as the doomsayers have predicted, with overweight people lumbering through the mire in search of their next bag of chips, but with a cacophony of floating willies and vaginas and bum-holes and pendulous breasts, all colliding with each other in an endless merry-go-round of sex and slap and spank and spunk.
Gone, the awkward interactions of the first date, replaced by instantaneous sex and premature ejaculation. Who needs conversation anyway? After all, there is very little input from the penis in the average conversation I have noticed. It just hangs there, not adding a single iota of wisdom or mirth to proceedings. What I can conclude from this is that talking requires no penises at all. Or vaginas, for that matter.
Therefore, I can only surmise that conversation is pointless. So much of our time is spent nattering away that genitals everywhere are being made virtually redundant. After all, of what use is my old man if he spends most of the day lolling idly between my thighs like a lazy dog in the nadir of an Indian summer?
If the dream were to become a reality and ‘sexy’ body parts were all that remained of us, even the mundane trivialities of life, like going for the bus or putting the bins out could be transmuted into never-ending opportunities for raucous, mindless pounding. Sort of like living in a world where it was permanently Essex town-centre on a Friday night, only with less hair extensions and manicured man-hands.
And if you are one of those puritanical types and this doesn’t sound quite like the utopia it purports to be, then let me inform you that you are likely suffering from one of the following maladies:
- you have a mind of your own and enjoy using it
- you don’t appreciate being reduced to whatever it is that nestles beneath your underwear
- you dislike the idea of a stranger evaluating your worth based on the size and shape of your sex organ/s
- you think that the ‘whole’ person should be involved in sexual intimacy, not just their genitals
The best cure for any of these irksome conditions is to take a gratuitous crotch-shot of yourself and post it online. And then drink a lot of gin. Or whisky. And then whack yourself over the head with a wooden mallet until you are ‘asleep.’
By the time you wake up, you will likely find that you have knocked some sense into yourself. If not, just carry on repeating the process. Even if you never achieve the desired result, you will at least give yourself partial brain damage without the need of a surgical lobotomy.