Bloody penises. Seriously. Bloody effing penises.

How much easier my life would have been without them. Why did I have to be born straight? I’m sure that lesbians go through the mill emotionally, too, but have no idea if they fixate on vaginas in the same way straight women and gay guys fixate on penises. I fixate on them so much, I often wish I were a man so that I could have one. Except I’d want two: one circumcised and one uncut. Hedging my bets, or what?

But back to the curse that is my straightness. I just really like the male form. No tits, for starters. I’m not a big fan of breasts, even my own. I haven’t worn underwear for 30 years, so I never even have to touch them. Not that I’d notice if I did. They are a part of my body where I’ve never experienced much sensation, even when a hot guy is prodding around there. I’m just lying there thinking Hurry up, mate, can you just move your head down about a dozen inches.

I’ve yet to meet a man who isn’t obsessed with tits, though, even their own. One man, I recall, wanted his nipples pulled so hard, I felt I was on an abseiling course. No matter how hard I tugged, he was crying out for more pain. God, those Tory MPs are weird.

Sorry, I am straying from the subject of penises here (or is the plural penii?). For the most part, when you have no contact with one, it’s just window shopping: gazing at a man’s crotch, wondering whether the expectation lives up to the promise. It’s why I watch men’s swimming competitions. I have zero interest in swimming. But the trunks. Dear lord. The trunks.

But then, when one suddenly enters your life, you – okay, I – can think of nothing else. One touch, and the ghosts of penises past are resurrected in the joy of the penis present. And then, you have to live with the fear of losing it and wondering what horrors or pleasures might lay ahead in the penises of the future. It’s A Christmas Carol homage to the male organ.

But my life really would have been easier without them. Better? Sometimes, I’m not so sure. It depends upon the person they were attached to, I suppose. One was so small, I wouldn’t have noticed if he’d tried to indulge in nasal sex. Another was so huge, I fell apart like a dropped water melon. There were lots of decent ones between those extremes, although I have to express a preference for uncircumcised – there’s just a lot more to do with it. I think of it like a polo neck sweater.

But circumcised? Aesthetically more beautiful, yes, but jeez, they take a lot of work. Owing to their having less sensation and no polo neck, there’s not so much to play with. I have circumcised friends (mainly Jewish) who fantasise about what life might have been like had they not been subjected to this bizarre infantile torture (yes, I know about why it’s done, blah blah, don’t care; it’s still child abuse), but I have no uncircumcised friends lounging around with a Martini asking “Ooh, I wonder what life would be like without a foreskin.”

I met three penises in a bar last night. Well, they were attached to men, but I think of them as penises because we talked quite a lot about sex. They were in their twenties and, when the one started talking to me, think that he was probably feeling sorry for the poor old lady sitting alone, sobbing into her glass of rosé (another penis drama; I tell you, bloody penises).

I don’t recall how we started talking about sex, but when we did, the other two penises joined us and we got chatting about oral sex. The one claimed to love doing it to women, which was refreshing as that kind of guy is hard to find. I usually get the three licks and “My tongue’s tired” variety, which I call aural sex, when the guy just doesn’t want to do anything that might take up valuable time that might be better spent talking about himself.

I happen to be a big fan of the process, so much so that many years ago, Private Eye devoted a whole page to the many references I had made to it in my columns – not sex columns but TV reviews. I remember, when I began my job as TV critic on the London Evening Standard in 1988, a reader wrote in complaining “She managed to get sex into Come Dancing, Coronation Street and the Horse of the Year Show.” I’d call that my finest professional moment.

Anyway, it’s Saturday morning and I’m thinking about penises, in particular the one that has recently been the object of my affections.

I think he’s about to dump me, though. Silly boy.

Watch this space for possible audition dates.