tagHumor & SatireThe Beauty and Pageantry of Testosterone

The Beauty and Pageantry of Testosterone

byplumes©

I am writing this for woman, in the hopes that it will foster a greater understanding of us, the other sex of the species that crude and dimwitted biped you know as man.

I know that women, all women, secretly believe that all men are somehow brain-damaged, just as all men secretly believe that women are at the heart of things like alcoholism and mental illness.

As a man I am writing to tell you that yes it is true, we are brain-damaged, but the thing you must understand is that it comes with the territory, or the chromosome; we can't help it. What is it you might ask, that causes this?

It is the hormone called testosterone

God, if their is a God I think must have had a sense of humor when he created our species , giving us men this powerful hormone--and a brain! This is like building a car that will go 300 miles an hour, but when it does, the steering wheel pops off. Such is the beauty and pageantry of testosterone.

Women of course, have very little of this hormone and instead are 'fueled' with the hormone estrogen. Comparing these two hormones is like comparing a tiny fuzzy bunny to a blimp sized hummingbird stuffed to the beak with dynamite and cocaine.

. Such is the beauty and pageantry of testosterone

And so once this gonadal tincture has been dumped into the young males system, it heads directly for the reproductive organs and begins it's spread outward until it has infected every nuance of his sensory apparatus, turning him into a kind of walking tuning fork of sexual energy. Indeed, a treatise about the onset of testosterone might well be called, "Help! There's A Brain In My Pants!" as he clearly no longer seems in control of his behavior, which must appear to women as crazed, crude and primate like. He is drawn in near unconscious levitation to the hitherto unnoticed sections of the drugstore magazine racks where the "Playboy" and "Penthouse"wait, patient, smugly sure and wicked as they have waited for the billion stumbling adolescent zombies before him. Fruits and vegetables, and even some meats, become somehow erotic. School and all learning has found a new focus; the tribal-pictorial sections in the rows of "National Geographic" in the school library. Things like cloud formations or even the reading of a word may snap a recently infected youth into such a state of excitement as to require strapping his hand to the bedpost at night. He is like a lost lightening rod suddenly wandering in an electrical storm of lust that is striking, thundering, charging, and flashing all about him. He is capable of sex with anything-animal,vegetable or mineral but mostly with his hand which has become to him less a tool of expression and manipulation and more a sex aid. He lives now with an unconscious fear of amputation and stories of blindness or at least vision problems.

And so women do not understand him, can not understand him, can not comprehend the power of this deadly hormone that builds and builds within him until it reaches its peak in his late teen years.

It is a slow and stupid drug this testosterone, it is unlike estrogen the way the flutter of a sparrow is unlike the erupting of a volcano. It courses through his system building to dangerous and toxic levels that cause us moments, hours, days of temporary insanity. It feeds anger the way gasoline feeds a campfire, making him rage and kick for days over things that women have long forgot. Mixed with alcohol it becomes like an ultimate entreaty to idiocy, causing him to believe that he is somehow handsome, rich, indestructible, bulletproof and ultimately invisible. Entitling him to tell strange waitresses he loves them and call motorcycle gang members faggots.

And it is only later in the jail cell or the hospital or in a strange bed, that just a part of it comes into focus. Yes, it makes him drive fast cars into trees and poles and invent things like Monster trucks and professional Wrestling. It makes him want a sandwich after sex instead of holding you a little longer.

That's us, the Man. We don't understand it and we can't control it. It is like the monster alien bursting out of our chest forever, it commands us, controls us, damages our attempts at communication, pulls at us like a maelstrom in lightning storms, sucking us back a million years to the moment and mental capacity of the first fish who dragged itself floundering up on the banks and thought about walking.

Yes and then as if a final dip in this cosmic waltz of idiocy, in the middle years of a man's life, while a woman's hormone levels rise to dizzying heights of sexual excitement, testosterone begins to leave us, taking with it most of our hair, leaving us bald impotent husks wandering bewildered once more. Such is the beauty and pageantry of testosterone.

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