Tucking the Tackle

He lifted it. He tucked it. He moulded it back into the crevices of his tightey whities. He removed his genitaliated hand from his waistband and shook my own freshly washed one. I gagged. He was unfazed, riding on the confidence of his ultra manliness.
Consider this image; a blonde Betty-Boop sashays down the sidewalk. With all the sensuality to kill a horse she moves with the grace of a willow. She stops, unabashedly plunging her left hand, merlot nails and all, into the depths of her peel-on, peel-off jeans. After groping, grabbing and readjusting for a time she yanks her hand back into the fresh air she walks in. This tells me that it doesn't matter how attractive you are, how confident, self-assured, uncomfortable or itchy, no-one, not anyone, should fondle their own genitalia in public.

This division between the socially acceptable and the straight-up verboden ignites the question of why (oh why) do men still partake in this crude, neanderthallic practice when they would be outspokenly adverse to the idea of a woman doing the same thing. Yes, we get that when your tackle begins to tackle one another it becomes uncomfortable. We sympathise with your awful situation and daily woes. Yet empathy stretches only so far. Your practise is indecent, unhygienic, often sweat-fuelled and smelly, and just damn gross. Public bathrooms, now there's a place for you to find refuge for your aching bits.

I implore all men, boys and in-betweeners, keep your private plunders to yourself. Find a safe place, behind closed doors, blinds or fences, make the necessary adjustments, regroup with the rest of the world. Remember, it's just a hop, skip and a touch from public fondling to indecent exposure, guaranteed arrest and paedophilia charges. Refrain men, I beg of you.