So the president of the Faculty of Public Health, Professor John Ashton, has called for a debate on lowering the age of sexual consent to 15.
Apparently kids are currently receiving ‘mixed’ signals from society as to when the real cut-off period for legality is.
Rather than changing the law, I say we save a ton of money by creating a ‘Twat-Signal’ like in the Batman movies, where a huge projection of a cut-out vagina can be beamed into the night sky whenever a horny teenager finally reaches sexual maturity. Would that be clear enough?
Ashton argues that almost a third of under 16’s have already had intercourse, so lowering the limit will send a clear message to 14’s and under that they absolutely cannot have sex for another 12 months.
But where does it end?
Over a third of under 16’s have tried booze, but that doesn’t mean we should let them into pubs. For a start they can’t afford to buy a round, the freeloading bastards.
Over a third of under 16’s have seen porn, but that doesn’t mean we should put ‘Razzle’ on the curriculum.
And I’ll be damned if I’m letting anyone getting more action than me only pay a child’s fare on public transport.
Plus I pity the poor girls if changes are made.
I realise 16 year old boys are no lotharios (less Don Juan and more Don in 60 Seconds) but if having sex with a 15 year old is anything like having a conversation with one, the best you can hope for is a couple of grunts and a lasting feeling of deep dissatisfaction.
I say we INCREASE the age of consent to 35.
By then you’ve got used to disappointment: the Blue Peter badge that never materialised; the knowledge that George Michael was gay all along; the never being stopped on Oxford Street by a model scout who was looking for just your quirky combination of short stature and massive nose.
After that, the occasional bad encounter with someone who thinks foreplay refers to the number of seconds you need to kiss for before they try and jab their cocks in would be no big deal.
Maybe it’s just me, but at 15 I knew more about dinosaurs than I did about doing it.
The sum total of my knowledge was:
- That a man in breeches smelling of stallion and leather would unfurl me like a delicate flower and bring me to shuddering climax* – courtesy of Mills & Boon
- That when I ‘did it’ I should bark like a dog to show my appreciation – courtesy of Porky’s
- That a Eunuch was not, as I’d originally thought, a mythical creature with hair of gold and wings of gossamer– courtesy of half a copy of the Kama Sutra
I also thought that men’s penises were like flesh-coloured Water Wrigglers (you know, those water filled balloons that folded in on themselves to create a slippery tube that were popular in the 90’s), which I suspect was a combination of educated guesswork and wishful thinking.
Of course, back in the day, the nearest I got to pornography was wistfully poking my finger into the gap left on the library shelf from which Judy Blume’s ‘Forever’ had been banned.
But now apparently 1 in 3 have been there, had sex, and got the XXX T Shirt. So much so apparently Nike, the teenage brand of choice, are considering changing their strapline to ‘Just Done It. Twice.’
I like to think that maybe it’s just that Professor Ashton’s stats are flawed. I mean, what self-respecting teenager would say they HAVEN’T had sex when asked?
That shit’s been going on since I was a kid, like when you swore down you haven’t revised for your exams, and that you and Paul Young were working on new material together.
Christ, I imagined losing my virginity so often, I came to wonder if my brain waves might actually have broken my hymen for me.
But I hadn’t ‘done it’.
In fact I wouldn’t for a few more years, and only then when drunk enough to mask my bitter disappointment that it wasn’t in a hay loft with the Artist Formerly Known As Prince, as I’d secretly hoped.
My over-riding memory of it was that his penis looked like a shaved albino rat.
It would be several more months and attempt at partner number two before I realised this was not some biological aberration.