I’m sat on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a big blue towel staring in fear and loathing at a little tube of gel.
This can’t be right, surely?
I part the towel slowly and regard the suddenly goosepimpled landscape of potential application sites.
‘Not us!’ say my tits, ‘for we are the epitome of femininity. It wouldn’t be right, in fact it would be downright obscene!’
‘Don’t even think about it!’ shrieks my tummy, ‘your fucking ovaries are in here! Are you mad?’
Not totally, but I’m well on my way thanks.
I open the tube, squeeze a bit of gel out and smear it between my fingers. It stinks of some kind of chemical perfume, obviously added to mask the smell of man musk.
‘If you put it on us’ hiss my arms, ‘people will smell it! They’ll think it’s your perfume! They’ll think you want to smell like this!’
Shit, thats true.
‘Not us, not us’ plead my thighs, ‘put it on your calves! No one will smell it down there!’
Yes, but it might be too far away from my core to work, plus it might get on my cats and they’re mental enough as it is without any additional testosterone. There is no doubt about it, my thighs or rather one of my thighs is the only option.
I squeeze a pea sized blob onto my fingers, reach down to the spot above my right knee and pause.
Come on bitch! Do you want your va va voom back or not?
I’m hyperventilating now.
On the next out breath, I smear it all over my knee and lower quad, then hang up the towel, run into my bedroom and yank on some jeans.
That’s it. It’s done.
I can still smell the cloying sweetness half an hour later, so decide to put on some body lotion.
I strip and look down at my right knee, half expecting to see a thatch of newly grown hair like a werewolf’s pelt. Nothing. But the smell is overpowering.
‘You may not have a hairy knee,’ whispered my right thigh, clearly piqued at being singled out ‘,but what you end up with is very hairy legs, like a geezer. And it won’t be fine hair, oh no; it will be thick and bristly like a badgers arse.’
‘That’s right,’ chipped in the left thigh, ‘I can feel it growing on me now. Can you see it yet? You’re going to look like a geezer from the waist down. A big, rugby playing, alpha male, hairy arsed geezer.’
As quick as a flash I’m back in the tub, hosing down my legs, grimacing in horror as man juice dribbles down my calves. And not in a good way.
‘And nor is it likely to be ever again is it?’ said my nunny, clearly unimpressed by my blatant cowardice, ‘Well done you. Don’t expect to get any co-operation from me any time soon.’
But I don’t care. Bollocks to sex (pardon the pun), it’s a highly overrated activity as far as entertainment is concerned anyway.
That’s not true.
My memory isn’t anywhere near as bad as my ability to delude myself is good.
I’m just not quite man enough for man juice yet.