I was talking to a friend the other day about cocks. It’s a perfect subject for polite conversation on a sunny Sunday over lattes and pastries. My friend and I have similar pedigrees and there was a cock related question I needed to chew over.
In my thirties I had a period of being quite sociable and my friend remains very sociable too. When I say sociable, I mean the kind of conversations that involve you being naked and muttering just occasional words (e.g. ‘Harder!’ or ‘Yes, yes, yes’). I was newly single after a couple of lengthy relationships, it was all safer stuff and I wasn’t hurting anyone or not that I knew of, anyway. I suspect that there was the odd cuckolded wife or boyfriend tucked away here and there. It was all pretty harmless, very diverting and the only downside was that I had to change the bed sheets a lot and keep up with my depilation.
After a few years of intermittent promiscuity, I gained a peculiar skill. I began to be able to predict what someone would look like naked. One look at a man fully clothed and I’d get an instant feel for what he’d look like once the layers were stripped away. Musculature, hairiness and penile length and complexion; you name it; I could guess it and was often proved right. It’s not a skill I could teach. I don’t suspect it’s a psychic thing either. Who knows what it stems from? Maybe it’s the nose shape, the hand size or most probably the fact that we often fall into set body types which match up with other features or characteristics. It was just borne of the fact that I was seeing an awful lot of men naked.
Of course there were always exceptions and nasty or pleasant surprises can lurk in a man’s Calvins. I won’t go into some of the things that I saw but let’s just say that some of them still stick in my throat when I contemplate them.
Miss Marple, the elderly spinster sleuth, had similar skills but hers tended towards knowledge of the criminal mind gained from studying the locals, rather than her knowledge of men’s undercarriages gained from a lot of time spent on her back. I like to think of myself as a kind of latter day Agatha Christie sleuth but with a whole different skill set.
Interestingly, my friend has the same ability. He can guess a girth at 50 paces and is invariably not disappointed by what lies beneath the trouser. Maybe the two of us should take ourselves on a tour of Northern Working Men’s clubs with our novelty act. Just think of the furore we could cause on Britain’s Got talent. We’d certainly winkle out a few interesting winkles and definitely make the front pages of the gutter press.
On second thoughts, I’ll stick to familiar territory. I have a long term partner now and my guess-the-weight-of-the-sausage skills are probably much less than they once were. I can’t go back to all that. My washer wouldn’t take all that bed linen.
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