I don’t know what’s more pathetic in a naked man, the back or the front. At the back they have this butt, all feminine and soft, dying for some sort of unfitting attention, pretending it’s not true. Then there’s the penis, waging from side to side, mole-like, far more fragile than the vagina, yet somehow no one seems to truly remember that. There’s nothing masculine about it, at it’s most masculine state, in it’s erection, it’s too desperate in it’s anticipation, perched up, painfully self-aware but too possessed to back down. I wonder how many women get those strange impulses around a penis. Lying beside their husband, their boyfriend, maybe even their brother in the next room, at night. You know those impulses. The ones that go: I could jump out this window right now, I could push that person in front of a bus, kick that whiny dog; And everyone is so shocked they even had the thought, then maybe some debate it, soon it floods the mind and then the body-an adrenaline rush, a hot pulse that’s angry it can’t be let out. I wonder if it’s like that for women when they have a penis near by. I wonder if they think: I could cut it off right now, he’d never see it coming; put it in a jar.