I wish I had a dick. Not permanently, but for a month would be nice, even for just one day. It’s not because I have penis envy, sorry Freud, I don’t envy it at all.
Instead, I crave to understand what it’s like to be a man in our society: to know the expectations they face, to grasp exactly how they sense things, to fully empathize.
It is not because I feel they need or want the recognition. And sadly, it is not because I am anywhere near as noble as John Howard Griffin.
Rather, my longing is grafted to a grotesque vein of selfishness. One that has smothered my ability to believe at times that men and women are of the same specie.
It goes without saying there is more to a man than just having a penis…and yet obviously, a person without a dick—and balls for that matter—is not a man at all (assuming he was born a she and not a transexual or a victim of mutilation).
This irony exists not only because it is a genetic requirement, but also because society has placed so much importance and validation around the hallowed phallic “necessity.”
So, inspired by Griffin, for a period of time I wish I could grow a pair—literally—and look, act, think, and essentially be a man all while maintaining my own female consciousness.
After, I would revert back to my own life and have a wealth of invaluable knowledge. Some of it for the sake of compassion and understanding, most of it for my own self-indulgent, gotta-know ego.
And what my ego has to know is about as one-track-minded as men are, or at least perceived to be: it demands to understand their sexual mind.
Having knowledge of this, I then might finally understand just how important sex is to men and why, just how much they think about it, and exactly how it actually affects them.
Or maybe I would learn that men and women are really not so different after all, that perhaps the only thing different between us is our designated societal expectations.
Or maybe I would be completely disgusted and wish to immediately unknow everything I had just become privy to. Some things are better left to the imagination.
At any rate, I would gain the kind of insight that you can’t put a pricetag on, as selfish and unrealistic as it may be.
Eventually, I would write all of my newfound wisdom (if I decided to share the wealth) into a precious little memoir.
I’d call it, “Dick Like Me.”
Photo Credit: Anasyromenos via Wikimedia Commons