This morning, a quasi attractive man in his early forties asked me how to get to the post office. I was more than happy to oblige until midway through my explanation, I saw him reach down to scratch his crotch.
My state of mortification forced me to quickly mumble, “And then, turn right,” before hastily making my departure.
However, the outraged woman in me wanted to scream, “Excuse me. Do you mind?”
Seriously ladies, what is it with men and their obsession to grab, scratch, reach for and adjust their privates in public?
The feminist in me wonders how well received us women would be if the tables were turned.
Would men turn a blind eye to our incessant scratching or would they stare in fascination?
Personally, I’m just disgusted to have to be an eye-witness to what appears to be a body’s desperate plea for water and soap.
But back to the man grabbing his crotch.
Armed with instructions of where to mail his letter, off he went, happy as a clam, oblivious to the fact that he had totally repulsed another human being.
As I dove into the nearest establishment, I silently said a prayer for the next unsuspecting soul who was forced to witness an encore of his performance.
Which brings me to performance.
I wonder if men began to exercise their crotch grabbing ways after watching musical performances starring Michael Jackson.
I mean, if it was good enough for the King of Pop, then hell, it was good enough for the little guys taking in the show, right?
Thank you so much, Michael.
I wish you were alive so my lawyer could forward you my therapy bills.
After all, crotch-witnessing is a serious business that leaves a woman with permanent scars, both physical and emotional.
Which brings me to physical.
Do men engage in this little activity because their brain orders them to carry out this command regardless of innocent bystanders; completely disregarding children, animals, and women of all ages?
Or does it hold some sort of fascination for them to manipulate their genitals in the presence of others?
Which brings me to attraction.
In 2008, People Magazine determined that Hugh Jackman was the sexiest man alive.
Though I didn’t wholly agree, I was coming around until I saw a picture of him with his hand down his pants, on the street, as he walked with his wife and daughter.
Yes people, on the street.
For those of you brave enough to look, click on this link.
Seriously, Hugh? You are disgusting; succinctly disgusting.
When you decided it was “awesome” to make a grand entrance on the Oprah show by swinging from a zip wire, only to ram your eye into a light fixture, people were consumed with worry and concern.
I, however, wasn’t.
You and I both know you were probably scratching “down under” when all hell broke loose.
Shame on you.
Which brings me to shame.
Should we feel shame at being privy to a display of crotch scratching?
Or should we feel ashamed for the men who ignorantly believe it’s their God-given right?
I say neither. It’s time we stopped this once and for all.
It’s time we called these cavemen out on their behavior and teach them that if scratch they must, then they should do it in the privacy of their own homes.
If I can train the two villagers that live with me to scratch, grab, adjust and readjust when no one is looking, then so can the rest of you.
The next time it’s your turn to be an unsuspecting witness to such a heinous crime, call the dirty, little fiend out.
Say, “Could you dig for gold in your own time?”
I guarantee you most men will be too embarrassed to continue.
However, only attempt this one man at a time.
Remember, there’s strength in numbers and the little Neanderthals can rebel.
(Not to mention that witnessing a group of men scratching their crotches may lead to irreparable damage. You’ve been warned.)