From an early age boys are given a certain latitude, by parents, teachers, society, the crowds at the county fair. Boys can't help it. They pinch at themselves, adjust things down there.

As we age, it shifts, but is still, at times, an imperative. Something must unstick, something must come up and over.

(Ladies, just as a point of comparision, this is like when you are on the train coming home, the AC is busted again, and you simply must reach into your shirt, to hoist and re-settle. But lower down, far more often, and also: if you make one wrong, ok several repetitive wrong moves, your breast would get 6 8 times bigger and hard enough to crack porcelain. Seemingly.)

This, however, is about the primacy, if not primate-acy of the Itchiness down there.

Our male-dominated (yes, still) material culture can't help but promote it. For-crying-out-loud: adults gave us Batman's trigger to squeeze. Adults.

Not only do we have to pull on on what's between C3P0's legs, it's...sticky.

Adult men are weirdly, even perversely oblivious to the ubiquity of their own Itch. Oblivious enough to design, market, package, distribute, sell over the counter, and sip beer , while his kid plays with, well, these toys. As if It Didn't Signify.

And worse. Think about it: why did  PeeWee Herman walk that way?

Denial this weird, this profound, must manifest in daily life. I submit the evidence is walking around us, at all times.

Men have sublimated,
projected, as it were,
the Itch,
from themselves
to their pants.

And by extension, to their whole fashion identity.

 No matter how direct this is -- this here is pretty direct -- men will look you right in the eye as if nothing is going on.

Pants down is a statement, to be sure, but there is no denying these men have an easier time of it than most of us guys.

They can just pretend they're like, stylin', grabbin at it, but 50% of the human race knows they are just doing necessaries, half the time. Sexual provocation? A masquerade, to conceal the Itch.

Lest you think this is racial, here's this.

Any race that produces this must walk and talk humbly at all times.

But since we must look, notice how easy it is for Carrot to reach his, er, stalk. Whatever he think's he is doing, looking like this, it thinly conceals his "convenience". The Itch has practically runed his life, clearly.

As the young are learning how to be Men, they also learn the unspoken things. We emulate our favorites, mimic the Elders of Style.

Sometimes the results are only approximate. Like these guys.

And these guys. My goodness.

There was a brief period when we tried to distract each other completely.

Who noticed the occasional self-grope, waiting for these to teeter off?

Even the most base of men have pride.

 This has something to do with it, too. Out there on the green, with the guys.

Hey! I already look like this! Itch! Itch! Itch!

I'm Scots-Irish. We have a sad tradition, of self-conscious irony. Delivered with a casual, even deadpan insouciance. As if we never Scratch. We are pre-surly, so if caught it's like What? What?? But if this isn't all about Itch, well, Mona Lisa was a man.

Though, sometimes, it isn't about pants. Sometimes Itch transference becomes so intense, so, well, this guy.