Tag: dating

It’s testicle size, nothing else matters.

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Today I stumbled upon an exceptionally archaic and exceptionally entertaining dating scene.

It’s a place where testicle size is prized above everything else, even muscle length and skin tone, although those characteristics are not to be snorted at. This dating scene also requires wads of cash to even come through the front gate and there is little choice for the female of the species.

Of course, it’s the local bull sale. And it’s fabulously fun, in an oh-so voyeuristic fashion.

It starts with the graziers roaming around the yards checking out the scores of grumpy bulls up for grabs. Specifically they’re looking at whether their scrotums hang to the left or the right and how many calves its likely to produce. The length of their pizzle is checked out and discussed openly, much to the embarrassment of the beasts on the other side of the fence who get angrier by the minute.

Some farmers want a bull with a big back end. One of the lads kindly informed me that my back end was probably similar to what they’re looking for – healthy. And these big butts, one farmer paid $12,000 for the chance to play cupid with the beasts testes.

The beast’s temperament is also important. You don’t want to be stuck in a ring with a 900kg animal that’s crankier than, well cranky like a hungry, horny bull in a fickle mood.

Watching the behemoths kick back the dirt was terrifying at times. And the blokes had a nice chuckle at me jumping away from the gates. Fear is just hilarious, really.

But it got me thinking about how civilised we humans are, and how complicated we make mating. Imagine putting all the blokes in a pen, naked obviously and parading them around commenting on the size of their scrotum and the tone of their skin. “He puts a bang in your bullet,” the auctioneer would yell.

“The scrotal are like peas in a pod, and good peas they are too,” he’d add.

We could even discuss how hairy they are and whether that’s because it’s been a cold season or whether they’re just a hairy breed.

It’d be a level playing field really and people could buy the bloke that suited them best. The man that suited what they wanted in their progeny. How novel!

Of course it would go beyond the length of size of their testicles and include information about behaviour. Instead of ‘this is a feisty beast’, we’d get ‘this guy is likely to be sullen after a bad day at work’. Let’s face it, a heads up would be nice about these things.

A ring full of naked women would probably be even more fun. “Look at the length on her rack,” they might say.

The biggest issue with this forum is consent, especially for women, but let’s not let that get in the way of a healthy imagination.

But in reality, things are rarely so straightforward. Instead we do a ridiculous cloak and dagger routine that is rarely successful. Fortunately I experienced that cringe worthy experience today too and can draw a few comparisons.

Before the bulls were paraded around I trotted into the arena, scouring the yards for broad-brimmed folk to take pictures of. The local handyman gave me a cheery welcome with dating advice included, free of charge.

“See that bloke on the right,” he nudged me, grinning uncontrollably. “ Single. Two properties. I’ll introduce you,” he said listing off his best attributes.

By the way, I heartily enjoy these forced-intimate awkward situations with older men.
We shake hands and exchange pleasantries. Yes, he was the bloke that nearly ran me over in the street today. A point of common interest – road safety.

But I wasn’t immediately taken with the gentleman. Nothing wrong with him, perhaps he was just a tad too quiet. I’m too fussy again, it seems.

“He’s 49,” I was told, belatedly.

“I’m 25,” I replied, with slight indignation.

“He’s got a pacemaker. We can jumpstart him,” he tells me.

That’s just what I‘m after, I thought, my mind dripping with sarcasm.

I pulled a face that said I was not really interested in marrying this feller, as I could see the handyman was already wondering if he’d be able to walk me down the aisle.
“Oh I’m only jokin’. Or half jokin’ anyway,” he said and strolled off to whisper something in another blokes ear that made all of the lads laugh conspiratorially in my direction.

I couldn’t decide whether it’d be more fun to have had the exchange naked in the ring or fully clothed in work gear, Akubras and inhibitions.

It didn’t matter though, it was all great fun.

Penny needs a boyfriend, apparently.

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The conversation started innocently enough. Shiraz and I were strolling along the friend-making path, shaking hands and exchanging intimate personal details with strangers. The night was going startlingly well.

Things got out of hand very quickly.

I was curious whether the new journalist at the rival paper, due in town on Friday, was good looking. My mate Richard was loathe to comment, possibly thinking a poorly-worded answer would bring his masculinity into question. The bloke behind the bar and his mate from the Thai restaurant in the next room had no qualms. Immediately my single status was under fire. Steve, that energetic Thai restaurateur, rocked his index finger back and forwards across his chin with his arms folded and a look on his face akin to a surgeon in risky transplant. “Hmmm, I dunno what blokes we’ve got in town for ya, Pen,” he said, shaking his head sagely. “No one springs to mind.”

I was a tad perturbed by the conversation. I’d gone to the pub to find friends, not potential husbands. But soon enough the barman was joining in, also shaking his head and adopting an expression of someone trying to dissect fish from fish bone before digestion. “Yeah, there’s plenty of young women around,” he told me. “But not that many men.”

It was a surreal moment, seeing these blokes playing cupid for me. I fleetingly imagined the two of them with wings on their back, hoisting a heart-shaped bow and arrow in my direction.

I tried to laugh them off, insisting that I was ok, that I could look after myself. But it appears that’s not the way things are done here. Just a few hours earlier I had been chatting with another bloke in the street when my marital status was dragged into the conversation. “So are you married, single or indifferent,” he asked me without an inch of self-consciousness. “No, you can’t be indifferent,” he swiftly added. The blonde in me stepped in. I put my head to one side and adopted the look I do when confronted with a mechanical problem. “That means you’re not into men,” he told me, helpfully. I muttered that, no, I wasn’t indifferent, just living my life without a man in it. And happy.

But, back at the pub, Steve wasn’t going to let my hopelessness with men go on. He called for reinforcements. Of course, that means the police. Yes, he went into his restaurant and grabbed the nearest copper, who, by the way, was dining with his spouse, and bought him out to meet me.

I got up off my chair, aided by Shiraz, and shook the nice man’s hand. Steve explained that I was single and needed a man. Yes, that’s right, needs a man.

Steve instructed the copper to look me up and down and memorise what he saw so that he could tell his mates about the pathetic brunette who can’t snag a man. The nice policeman was very obliging, but informed Steve and the bartender that most of the coppers were already attached. Oh the shame, I can’t even land a copper, I thought in a moment of fleeting self-pity. But, he’d ask around on my behalf and see if he could dig someone up.

By this stage my hard-to-embarrass demeanor was sliding. If it was not so hilarious I may have had to sneak into the pokies room to find some pyramids to hide in.

Suddenly, the mortifying moment was over. The constable went back to his curry and I ordered another Shiraz. Steve meandered back to his restaurant with a few cheeky words and a smirk. He was delighted to have embarrassed me. I was delighted, too, that I’d found some folk to have a good yarn and a laugh with, even if the conversation and the jokes were at my expense.

I strolled home with Richard and was content to keep myself warm on the chilly winter’s night. In fact, with a pillow either side I doubt there’s room for a man in my bed. But I reckon it’s unlikely we’ve seen the last of the Charleville community dating service.