What She's Actually Thinking When You Tell Her You Have Pussy Envy — Part 2: Now She's Mocking You

You told me last month.

And what I've decided is that being thoughtful about your confession was, in retrospect, very generous of me. Because the more I sit with what you actually told me — that you genuinely believe my anatomy is superior to yours, that you walk around feeling structurally outclassed by every woman you pass on the street, that the entire architecture between your legs is, in your own admission, a design flaw — the more I realise that the appropriate response to this confession was not understanding.

The appropriate response was mockery.

So. Let's catch up.

Stage One: Wait, Let Me Get This Straight

You're telling me — and I want you to confirm this, because I want to make absolutely sure I'm not putting words in your mouth — that the part of your body which you have spent your entire adult life bragging about is the same part you secretly believe is the weakest, dumbest, most poorly-designed thing on you?

You said the words "be a man." You said them to other men. You said them at the gym. You said them about toughness, about resilience, about taking it on the chin.

And meanwhile, this whole time, you've been quietly carrying around two of the most fragile objects in human anatomy. In a sack. On the outside. Because evolution, apparently, ran out of room.

I'm sorry. I'm just trying to picture this. The bravado, the swagger, the strut. And then one well-aimed shoe and the whole performance ends in three seconds with you on the floor going "ohhhhhh."

You know what the truly funny part is? You agree with me. You came to me last month and confirmed all of this voluntarily. You didn't even need me to argue you into it. You walked over, sat down, and said "by the way, my entire reproductive infrastructure is hanging in a thin pouch outside my body and yours is sealed up like a vault and I find this deeply unfair."

Yes, my dear. It is deeply unfair. To you.

Stage Two: Let Me Try Something

I want to investigate.

You see, I've never actually had testicles, so I'm working entirely from secondhand information. Men describe the pain to me but men also describe pain in general very theatrically, so I want to do a little experiment.

I'm going to bend forward slightly. I'm going to clutch the spot where, if I were built like you, my testicles would be hanging right now. I'm going to make my face go pale. I'm going to do a slow, suffering exhale and let my knees buckle a little.

"Ohhhhhh."

"Ohhh nooo."

"My… balls…"

How am I doing? Is this accurate? Should I be lower? Should I be making more of a squeak? You'll have to coach me, because I've genuinely never had to do this and you have done it a lot, so you're the expert.

I'm going to keep practising in the mirror later. Probably with friends. Probably with wine. We will absolutely be doing impressions of you. I will get very good at it.

The fact that this is even possible — the fact that I can fake your worst day in under three seconds and you cannot fake mine at all — is, frankly, all the proof I need that you were right last month. The design difference is real. The design difference is funny. I have decided to start enjoying it.

Stage Three: The Roshambo Test

You suggested a game.

Why you suggested this, I will never know. You said it casually, like it was a fun idea — "let's do roshambo, winner gets to kick the loser." You smiled when you said it. You thought it was clever.

My dear. I cannot lose this game.

Even if I lose roshambo, I lose nothing. Even if you "win," you cannot kick me — there is nothing on me that responds to a kick the way you respond to a kick. You could kick me with your full strength right between my legs and I would, at most, be mildly inconvenienced. I might say "ow." That's it. That's the worst-case scenario for me.

Meanwhile, if I win — and let's be honest, if I want to win, I will win — you go down. You hit the floor. You make whichever sound you make. (I'm still figuring out yours. I have my guess. We'll find out.)

You did not propose a game. You proposed a trap. You walked over and said "let's both put our most vulnerable assets on the table" and then you confidently sat down with two grapes in a sock while I sat down with absolutely nothing to lose.

I am going to play this game. I am going to win. And then, even more importantly, I am going to enjoy every single second of the wind-up.

You know the wind-up. The moment where I look at you, smile, and you realise the rules of this game were never actually fair.

You signed up for this. I want you to remember that.

Stage Four: The Locker Room Comparison

You once told me, and I'm only bringing this up now because we're being honest with each other, that you used to look around the locker room as a teenager and quietly compare yourself to the other boys.

I want you to know that women don't do this.

Not because we're more secure. Because there's nothing to compare. We all have the same smooth, sealed, sensible arrangement. Nobody's "bigger." Nobody's "lower." Nobody needs to adjust anything in front of a mirror before leaving the house. We get dressed. We leave. That's it.

You, meanwhile, have spent your entire life in a low-grade ongoing comparison contest with every other man you've ever been in a changing room with. Sizes. Symmetry. Hang. Texture. Vulnerability. You all know exactly which of you would go down hardest from a kick and you've all silently ranked each other on it.

It must be exhausting. I'm not even being mean. It genuinely must be exhausting to live like that.

This is, I think, half of what you're actually confessing when you tell me you have pussy envy. You're not just envying the anatomy. You're envying the peace. The fact that I will never, ever, in my entire life, have to worry about what a stranger might do to me with one well-placed knee.

I have never once thought "I hope nobody hits me in the crotch today." That sentence has not been in my head a single time. Meanwhile you have a folder in your brain labelled "people I'm slightly worried about" and most of it is just women in heels.

It must be so loud in there.

Stage Five: The Sports Conversation

Let me tell you what I find most amusing about your kind.

Every contact sport — every single one — has men wearing protection over their groin. Boxing, hockey, football, baseball, martial arts, even cricket. The entire athletic-industrial complex has had to invent specialised equipment because if it didn't, no man would ever finish a game.

Meanwhile women play the same sports. With the same intensity. With less protective equipment, against opponents of all kinds. Do you know what we wear?

Nothing extra. Just sports clothes. Because we don't need it. Because nature, in its infinite wisdom, decided that we should be allowed to compete without a foam cup over our reproductive organs.

And then men — men, you, your kind — have the audacity to call women's sports "less intense."

My love. We're not the ones who had to invent the cup.

The cup is the proof. The cup is the most damning admission in athletics history. Every man wearing a cup is, with every match, every game, every round, silently confirming what you confessed to me last month. He just won't say it out loud the way you did.

This is actually why I respect you. You said the thing the cup has been saying for a hundred years.

Stage Six: What I Actually Want To Do With This

You think I'm just teasing you.

I am. But I'm also educating you. Because the thing I've decided about your confession is that it deserves a response, and the response is not therapy. The response is use.

You told me my anatomy is superior. Fine. I now have to demonstrate that, periodically, in ways you cannot ignore. Not because I'm cruel — I am, but not because of that — but because you told me this is what you needed. You confessed a worldview. You don't get to confess a worldview and then ask me to be quiet about it.

So. From now on. Every so often, when you least expect it, I will:

— Lazily mention how lucky I am that I'll never know that particular pain.

— Make a comment about a man on TV who just got hit and "ohh, that's gotta sting, glad I don't have any."

— Cross my legs in front of you and stretch luxuriously and say "isn't it nice not to have to worry about that?"

— Look at you across a room while you're being slightly too confident about something and just tilt my head and let you remember what we both know.

— Bend over, clutch nothing at all, and do my growing impression of you.

You confessed this. You handed it to me. I'm going to use it gently, lovingly, mercilessly, and for the rest of our time together.

This, by the way, is the gift you actually gave me. You think you confessed a kink. You handed me a lifestyle.

I have never been more grateful.

One More Thing

Whatever you do, don't tell me to stop.

Because the moment you tell me to stop, I'll know you actually wanted me to keep going.

Tell me in the comments — has your woman started mocking it yet? And if she hasn't, what are you waiting for? Show her this article. I'll do the rest.

Watch what happens when a woman fully commits to using what she knows. Sabrina's library at protecturnuts.com/sabrina. Or own everything forever — Universeflix Lifetime VIP — 300 memberships. Ever.