Don't make the mistake of thinking just because I'm gay that I'd want to hand in my penis ( which I adore btw ) for exchange. Wouldn't be gay if I didn't love it now, would I?
And seriously, girls, I love ya. Really I do. But to be a girl?
Sure you have the fabulous dresses, the slinky heels and the drooling attention of the hottest straight men to strut down the corridors ( bloody hell!! ) but I still wouldn't give up my precious manhood to join the estrogen club. We boys might be prone to the occasional testosterone surge that morphs us into imbecilic sex pervs who attempt stupid stunts for attention but hey, I still wouldn't dare walk a mile in a girl's Jimmy Choos.
Let me count the ways.
Parental and societal expectations to act like a virginal abbess just released from seclusion in the nunnery? Cloistered in a convent begging for permission to even leave? Toe the line, keep my voice down and play the part of the submissive hausfrau to some hairy MCP scratching his balls while burping beer? What is up with that? I don't think I could do that for long without reaching for the proverbial hacking knife. Then again, try flexing some muscle and you come off being a ball-breaking leather bitch - and possibly scare off most of your potential suitors.
You kidding me? Give this all up!?
Wear a slinky dress - and be automatically branded a slut. And worst of all, be judged by your female peers as well. And you know there ain't nothing more chillingly vicious than a bunch of mean teen queens passing judgement! So you can imagine how much ... nicer they get when age - and cellulite - finally catches up with them.
Sure the attention from the straight guys is certainly a welcome bonus. Would be nice to be offered a free drink at the bar once in a while - and not have to crack my aching head thinking of the perfect come-on. Let's not even talk about being summarily rejected countless times by the neighbourhood hottie.
But the occasional uncivilized catcalls and leering grins you girls receive from time to time certainly isn't welcome. Heard more than a few seemingly complimentary wolf whistles when a lonesome fashionista saunters down the street - and usually you see them freeze a little. Try being that alone and vulnerable - then you'd know why the singleton usually rushes off as fast as her towering Manolos can take her.
And this I gotta say... ouch! Monthly cramps. A lil hot water bottle just won't be enough. Think I'd have to take a chill pill - and possibly a few days off with shots of morphine - to contend with the miseries that come every month. Sorry but no can do.
So I'm glad to be a boy.