Me Talk Dirty One Day

Social Commentary

Me Talk Dirty One Day

Illustration: Juergen Dsouza/ Arré

I

saw the big black boot coming at me and turned away just in time. The kick landed on the back of my head. The next one split my nose. I tried to roll away, scrambling on all fours but was pulled by my sweater and made to stand. A hard punch to my solar plexus delivered me to the ground again. The other boys stood at a respectful distance. The library was dark and cold and utterly quiet except for the crackling fire, the laboured breathing of my 12th grade attacker, and my pathetic eighth-grade sobs.

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“Change into your shorts and meet me in the gym. We’ll have it out in the ring.”

“I’m sorry sir… I’ll never do it again.”

“Get out – and see me in the gym in five minutes.” And he walked away.

I put my hand to my nose and saw blood. After they were sure my attacker was out of hearing, my two best friends came up to me.

“Shit man, he hit you quite hard,” said T, peering closely at my face.

“Yah. Bastard.”

“Is it paining?” asked A.

“No, you asshole, it’s fucking feeling great!”

“What are you going to do now?” said T.

“If you go to the gym he’ll really lam you” said A.

We left the library in hushed whispers. It was 11 pm.

It had all started about half an hour ago. While studying by the fireplace in the library I had made a comment about how sexy a certain girl I had seen in town last Sunday was – and how lovely it would be to fuck her from behind. Turned out the girl’s brother was also in the library at the time. Talk about Trump luck.

Trump has raked up conversations on everything from PTSD to poverty and I’ve usually stood on the opposite end of whatever he has espoused. But the “locker room talk” got me thinking and wondering if I may, for once, agree with something that comes out of his mouth.

Having said that, is there a line to be drawn even in the locker room? Hell, yes.

Before you read further here is a disclaimer: I am a staunch feminist. I believe in equal rights, equal pay, equal everything for everyone. I have never touched a woman without her consent and I never will. And unlike Trump, I am abundantly clear about the difference between sexual assault and locker-room talk.

Having said that… I talk shit with the boys all the time.

Locker-room talk is a phenomenon as old as fire itself. Cavemen may very well have sat around kindling the fire, and shot the breeze about hot cavewomen and the itchiness of the fur on their loins and other indelicate topics of conversation. I imagine senators and generals in Roman baths, discussing Cleopatra’s clit and the blue balls it gave them even as they sat naked, soaking in warm water and fondling young boys. I imagine those baths were the best parts of their gruesome lives.

The Urban Dictionary defines locker-room talk as “the crude, vulgar, offensive, and often sexual trade of comments guys pass to each other, usually in high-school locker rooms. And here’s the important bit… exists solely for the purpose of male comedy and is not meant to be taken seriously.”

E.g. Jenny overheard me calling her a cum dumpster when I was out with the guys last night. I told her it was just locker room talk and she totally forgot about it.

Be like Jenny.

Guys talk shit when they’re together. Fact of life. Guys have always talked shit when they’re together. Whether it’s in a locker room, a bar, or at home. No matter how feminist, politically correct and sanitized the world becomes this will happen. In fact, the higher the PC quotient in the real world, the cruder locker-room talk becomes. I bet every guy over the age of 18 would be in a lot of trouble if there was a hot mic every time they were hanging with friends.

Having said that, is there a line to be drawn even in the locker room? Hell, yes. Violence, sexual assault, 16-year-old girls, family, and relatives are all off limits. Positions, politics, masturbation, sex, sports, niceties of titties and awesomeness of ass, films, affairs, stocks, books, threesomes, chains, whips are not. Along with gyms that feature lesbian sex on screens as guys pump iron; where games like Boner Boxing are played; where everything comes to a shuddering conclusion with a happy ending massage (this was an actual business plan we hatched).

If you find this offensive, I am afraid that’s your problem.

In a politically correct world, locker-room talk is the last bastion of true freedom – where boys can really be boys. It is the only place we can let our hair down, pull each other’s legs mercilessly, wrestle on the floor, pick our noses, play practical jokes, drink and smoke up, and generally be our own true selves, which is a hairy mess of barbarian, glutton, pervert, funny, warm, intelligent, he-man philosophers.

It’s my right. It’s fun. Nobody gets hurt and what’s more, brilliant business plans (featuring pornographic gyms) get made. One only hopes one day they will be executed.

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