Oh look, here comes another shirtless Adonis walking down the street, glistening in the midday sun and pretending not to notice the admiring glances. I adjust my T-shirt self-consciously and slink on by. If I ever took my top off in public, there would be an outcry. After all, bare breasts on a woman are enough to cause a commotion. Bare breasts on a man are something else entirely.

There's not much sympathy for chaps like me who've inexplicably sprouted bosoms. "Sweaty man tits" are more likely to provoke gales of laughter. I guess most people think man boobs are just a side-effect of being overweight and fair game for ridicule. But that's not the case.

They're actually the result of a medical condition, gynaecomastia. And there's no cure but the surgeon's knife, which, for people like me without much money, isn't an option. So there's nothing for it but to soldier on, forever in fear of wearing white or being naked in front of anyone. Forever feeling like a freak and less than a man. And worrying that, if I'm ever lucky enough to end up in bed with a woman again, I might accidentally smother her with my breasts.

You might have giggled at that last sentence, but think about it for a second: can you imagine how utterly mortifying that is for a man?

One day I might not care so much about this affliction, but I doubt it. After all, everyone's obsessed with tits. I just wish I was obsessed with women's breasts rather than my own.

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