I would define my relationship with my penis as one of acceptance. I am 52 years old, and with age comes acceptance of all sorts of things: your body, the ageing process, the life you lead, the house you live in, the job you have, the money you have or don’t have. I have come to an accommodation with my penis. It’s not tiny. And anyway, it’s the only one I’ve got.
I’m happy with it and accept it. What I would say about it, it’s the one part of my body that hasn’t grown up with me. It’s a bit like a badlybehaved uncle at a wedding. I’m a grown man, I know which knives and forks to use, I can choose wine with reasonable confidence, and I can move in all kinds of social circles. The rest of my body understands that, but my penis has a mind of its own. You would think by this age you would have control over your penis, but it will still have an erection on the London Underground for no apparent reason. Skinny dipping can be a problem. Sometimes I’ve been halfway to the water and found myself with an erection. A penis can betray you. I wish I had volume control over my penis. Maybe one day it won’t be like a badly-behaved uncle, but more like a grandpa on a chair who can’t get up anymore!
I take my penis for granted. It’s very good at going up, less good at coming down. I was ever so slightly anxious about the photograph for Manhood. I was worried I might have an unwanted erection. I bet other men have had them. They haven’t? Ah. I would have been absolutely mortified if I’d been the only one!
Penises are masters of disguise; they can appear in many forms. My wife is not obsessed with her vagina, lovely though it is, but men are obsessed with their penises. My penis can be appallingly small if I jump in the sea, to the extent I can’t even look at it! I wanted it to look normal for the photograph today, like it looks most days when I am relaxed, not like I’ve just come out of the North Sea.
