On the waistband of my underwear is written the legend: Authentic. A gentleman might protest, 'Of course authentic, what else.' I am not a gentleman.

I noticed the term 'authentic' slipping into American-themed clothing in the nineties. In the meantime it has slipped lower and lower it would seem. Or better deeper and deeper. Until authenticity has penetrated the very inner sanctum of masculine anxiety and prowess. The crotching area is what I mean.

Of course it is authentic, down there, very much so. Or at least I think it is. Therein lies the problem. It is like when someone says to you 'I don't think you are too tall, too fat, too stooped, too minty...' whatever. Until that point you never thought you were tallfatstoopedminty. Not even no not at all never. Now, suddenly, that's all you think about. Too minty perhaps this toothpaste, does my back look humped in this shirt? Like Quasimodo riding a whale to freedom in some godawaful Disney sequel.

Perhaps it is true I have not always been totally, not that I would say I was fake, but always entirely authentic? That's difficult. I have always found something a touch shifty about the penis. For a start it goes by many aliases: John Thomas, Colin Pickering, Belinda Carlyle. And it always seems a bit restless. Up and down like a yo-yo. It is true it can't sit still. Always acting the guilty party, taking the blame even when it is not even directly involved.

But when it comes to the big, important stuff, except on those rare occasions which we all agree are really really, well hardly ever, in fact I am not sure if it has ever, before I mean or after for that matter. All agreed he was tired and had over indulged at the free bar. I have always found mine straight up and down. That didn't quite come off right. Nor did that. I mean a stand up kind of. Er, well you know, with a straight bat.

Put simply: either it is or is not authentic. That kind of thing on our side is hard to fake. Which makes me think Authentic should actually be embroidered on all my wife's briefs. Because I am telling you, with her you never can tell. One, two, five or none at all. Her language is so diffuse: 'I think I had one. I'm not sure. It was lovely all the way through. Maybe I did. little one. Cup of tea?'
I think it is supposed to be a masculine thing. We are the authentic ones, the non-dissimulators. We are whom you can trust, you women, and we are people we can trust, we men. We are also the authenticators. Ask us any question, 'Is that a lesser spotted Grebe? Is this the B5432? Are you having an affair?' And we respond without hesitation: "Yes, yes, and of course not why would you think that I am just a bit tired and distracted with work."

It can be tiring, always being so certain. So in a sense having confirmation of one's relation to authenticity is a useful thing.

'Do you think we can pull through this thing? Will it ever be the same again, y'know, between us?'
He pauses.
'That's a nice vase.'
Quick peek down his trouser fronts. Authenticity confirmed.
'Yes I do. I really do. Shall we buy it then. I really goes with the kitchen.'
'How can something go with the kitchen?'
'The colour I mean.'
'The kitchen is cream.'
'--'
'Everything goes with cream.'
Pretends to tuck in shirt. Looks down trouser fronts.
'Yes it does.'
'Did you just look down your trousers?'
Conspicuously looks down trousers, this time almost with pride verging on arrogance.
'Yes I did.'
'I think I'll go over there for a bit. Look at the thingies.'
'Yes you will.'
'Stop doing that, someone will see.'
'Yes they will. No, wait sorry let me explain. Something it written down there. It tells me what to say. Ow. That really hurts. Look I know you just have a job to do but do you need to be so rough?'
The security guy looks down at his wrist where he has tatted : 'Authentic'.
'Yes I do.'
Someone always goes one better don't they?

Yes they do.

Stop that.

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Last edited by fnord (2011-05-10 14:43:03)