Being a lesbian, many people have spouted the term ‘penis envy’ to me over the years. It’s become almost a nickname – maybe I should consider it for my online username. More people might read this for a start. But hey, it’s early days, what am I worrying about – my Mum can push up those page views single handedly if I asked her to.
Anyway, back to penises. Or a lack of one in my case. I don’t have a problem with this supposed lack of genitalia – I am quite happy with my own package. Package? What a nice term for it. Makes me think of something exciting to find on your doormat when you get home from work. ‘Excuse me Miss, there’s a package for you downstairs’ – now that would have me listening.
Yet I do have envy of some kind. And it’s got nothing to do with pissing standing up. As Wimbledon continues to take over the country, I have taken to frequenting my local tennis courts. I will be honest with you. I am quite good. Well, mentally anyway. The fact that my tar-riddled lungs and usually sedate arse aren’t so good is by the by. But I can picture good shots, envisage my body smoothly gliding across the court like Jonny Number 5 on a WD40 overdose. Yet I have been looking around while I play recently (which probably explains my lack of form). I have racquet envy.
Racquet envy is something rather subtle. It’s something I am sure even the biggest stars suffer with. It’s the whole ‘bad workman blames his tools’ thing. Or a crap shag blames his genitools, if you want to talk more about penises again. Have you ever noticed how people throw their racquets down in disgust, as if to say ‘what did you do that for?’ when you sky the ball into the nearest bird’s nest. I mean, come on, as if the racquet is silently obedient 90% of the time and then suddenly has fits of rebellion just to spite its ungrateful owner. Racquets can’t have a personality. Tennis stars barely do. It is just nonsensical.
I do suffer from this malaise however. I curse my racquet; blame it for each missed opportunity – even when the ball is shot expertly across the court and my legs refuse like a horse at the Grand National, it’s the racquet’s fault. My failure to get less than 50% of my first serves in the right division of the court – it’s the racquet being hormonal.
So I look around me – seeing how easily other people’s racquets guide the ball over the net at beautifully acute angles. I am jealous. This is my Mr Brightside moment on court. I want one of those, I murmur like Oliver Twist at an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet.
So although I can’t afford one now, it’s easier to buy a new racquet than it is to buy a penis, so I’m glad I don’t have penis envy after all.