Sex
Necking
A clavicle man waxes poetic about the virtues of a woman's collarbone.
Some men go for breasts. Others gaze, slack-jawed, at long legs that never end. In Japan, the nape of the neck can send a man into rapture. Painters obsess with abandon over fulsome, pear-shaped bottoms. Rapidly dwindling, though, is the clavicle man, the philosopher of the female form, the one whose heart quickens at the first sight of an exquisitely shaped clavicle, known more popularly (and less poetically) as the collarbone.
I come from a long line of clavicle men. My father was one, as his father before him. The earliest record of this family trait can be traced to a thin pamphlet titled “Can I Touch It?” published by my great-great-great Uncle Julius in 1870. During a three-year period, Julius measured the length and angle of some 120 female collarbones, correlating the statistics with a personality test he developed and administered to the subjects while they were naked. By all accounts, he was a bit of a fanatic.
Unfortunately, not one copy of Uncle Julius’ seminal work on the subject exists. The virtues of a woman’s clavicle have thus been handed down religiously from generation to generation of Blyler men through an oral tradition accompanied by bottles of Calvados and frequent homages to Goethe. Dreamy German Romantics are all the members of the Blyler clan have ever been.
I was about 15 when my father first sat me and my brothers at the dinner table to sing the virtues of the clavicle. A sensible mathematician by trade, he suddenly turned lyrical:
“If the eyes are the windows to her soul, then the clavicle is its artifice. Like a finely fashioned stiletto heel, the collarbone dramatizes a woman. It frames the face. Lifts the shoulders. Accentuates the neckline and breasts, raising her high upon the pedestal of goddess and muse … Yes, my boys, it’s that good.”
Dad went on to tell us that, sadly, many women were unaware of the magic of their collarbones. He warned us that we men had to be guarded in our admiration of the soul’s artifice, especially around women with big hooters (or as he put it, “girls built like brick shithouses”). Although big-breasted women love to feign indignation and bewilderment at men’s fascination with their twin scoops of femininity, my father warned us that deep down such women were highly proud of their endowments.
Personal experience has certainly borne this out. More than once have I felt the fury of a scorned D cup when, after she delivers her favorite line, “Why are you talking to my breasts?” I rapidly apologize that it is not her breasts but the beautiful curve of her clavicle that I am admiring.
Confusion suddenly turns to shock, followed by the frequent accusation: “My collarbone? What are you, some kind of pervert?!”
I stammer and stutter hopelessly for a moment, but before I can explain, she has pivoted on her heels to escape, leaving me alone to watch her jiggling backside go bounce, bounce, bouncing away. Despair.
It is at such times that I wonder if, with some effort, I could adore another facet of the female form. It’s not as though I dislike tits and ass. I certainly can understand how my gender obsesses over them. The list of virtues is long: One or the other may be spanked, bit or suckled during extended foreplay; held onto and kneaded passionately during a rigorous mounting; and be used lastly as a soft place to lay ones weary head in post-coital slumber. How can the clavicle stand up to such competition?
Admittedly, the collarbone does not possess the utilitarian properties of breasts and bums. In all my discussions with fellow clavicle men, the only one to be found is that of wine chalice: the clavicle forming a lovely hollow at the base of the neck that can be filled with wine and drunk in erotic-poetic foreplay.
But where the clavicle wins hands down is in the realm of mind, not body. The clavicle reminds us of the eternal mystery of woman, a mystery that arouses, puzzles and inflames us with sexual desire. Once upon a time a woman’s exposed ankle had the power to invoke this mystery and fire a man’s imagination. But as the skirts slowly rose and the shirt sleeves grew shorter, little kindling was left to catch a spark. And as the last bikini strap fell, and woman stood unadorned in her nakedness, all that was left to remind us of her unknowable sexual mystery was the clavicle, that finely fashioned piece of bone and marrow, concealed beneath her form-fitting birthday suit, the one she could never take off, which would forever hold onto the mystery inside her, the one men long to penetrate while making love, that inner essence we can approach but never fully know, the ultimate symbol of her sexiness, her uniqueness, her femininity. Bliss.
For those less philosophically oriented, the clavicle has equal benefits. Although my father could wax poetic about my mother’s collarbone, he was by all measures a sensible man. And he would always bring us down to earth with the practicalities of day-to-day living. He never failed to admonish us that a clavicle man is always a far happier man in the long run:
“Listen, boys, if you can get yourself a wife with a nice, strong collarbone, your marriage is going to be good and sound. Why? Because she knows that you love a part of her body that will never fatten, droop or be subject to the other ravages of time, not to mention high plastic surgery bills. She’ll be comfortable in her own body and likewise more beautiful. By lifting this stress from her shoulders, you will never be subjected to such unanswerable questions as, ‘Would you love me more if I got a boob job?’ or ‘Do these pants make my butt look big?’” (Big in relationship to what?)
Like Audrey Hepburn, Marlene Dietrich and Jackie Onassis, whose angelic collarbones placed them among the worlds most beautiful women for decades, the wife or lover of a clavicle man knows that, in his eyes, she is a living sculpture of beauty, lovely today, tomorrow and for many years to come. And if she is obliging, he may even drink a dry Burgundy from it.
D. A. Blyler is the author of two collections of poetry, "Shared Solitude" and "Diary of a Seducer." He is also the author of "The Expatriates," a screenplay and "The Pillars on Horseback," a play. He lives in the Czech Republic. More D.A. Blyler.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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