Sex
A modern erection
The views from Paris' phallic monument are breathtaking, but the girls in their summer dresses make them even more so.
Everyone knows of it, and more or less everyone is drawn there on a visit to Paris. Yes, of course, it’s a tourist trap, and a cliché and much too obvious to be “cool.” It’s as silly and vain as it is enormous and awesome — but we are talking about the very model of a modern erection, and which of those (even the mightiest) has escaped a trace of self-mockery or the hint of imminent deflation? Thrust up as it is, almost 1,000 feet, an intricate fretwork of iron posed on great masonry piers, it is and was a tribute to French engineering and industrial progress as well as a reminder of the most ancient valor of the hard-on, so enormous that the symbolism may be beyond our grasp. Until we go there.
Again, it is obvious — yet a necessary statement of amazing vision — that the tower, the tower of Gustave Eiffel, is there so that we may all behold the wonder and extent of Paris. But it’s only when you’re there, wandering the open square made by its four piers, that you understand the tremendous boyish pose of the tower, the way the two platform stages permit the angle of the four upreaching corners to vary so that you have the feeling of some tense, showoff gymnastic splaying. If the four corners were regular, this tower would be prim and self-righteous; the perceived curve of the metal (an illusion artfully achieved) is so human, so cocksure, so boastful, it makes the brown iron feel warm and supple, like muscle.
Well, there are crowds. On a Sunday set to reach the high 80s, I ventured there with family and thousands of others. The lines waiting for the elevators were immense, sluggish and bitter. So we elected to join the far shorter line of those who would climb the Eiffel Tower (as far as the second stage, anyway). If you can possibly manage it, this is the way to savor the view, just as it is the most respectful approach to Eiffel’s great trick. More than that, it leads you — as if providentially guided — to the sexual secret of this paean to erection in the new age. You get the Eyeful Tower.
Think of it as a healthy model for capitalist labor and endeavor: You must go up first, before you are able to come down into the promised land. It’s a climb, and would be even on a chilly day. I paused at a few of the modest landings to read the rather old-fashioned informational posters — on how Lindbergh had used the tower to guide himself in to Paris; how in August 1944 a resistance fighter had climbed up all the way with a French flag and had replaced the swastika; how, in the early ’50s, Princess Margaret Rose of Great Britain had visited the tower. And so on.
You reach the second stage. You drink water. You stroll around the platform, noting the different views. And then, suitably rested, you descend.
It is the charm of this modern tower that a single staircase carries people up and down. So, as you descend, there is a steady line of people passing you. Everyone keeps to the right. I was happy with the sunny Sunday and the views, and amused by the very dogged way in which a little French girl behind me was counting the steps out loud. There was comedy in the way that the prolonged numbering of the French language (une mille, trois cent, quatre-vingt trois) was too much of a mouthful for one step. But then, flight after flight, I saw, I felt, I registered a rare and lovely contra-rhythm: For at every step, a pair of breasts came up toward me.
No, not every step, of course. But this was warm June, with many pilgrims to Eiffel’s glory being young women in halter tops or merely gestural T-shirts — that is, scraps of cloth so flimsy or transparent that only because it is worn above the waist do you realize it might be a T-shirt — of whom I had a very nice vertically superior view. I will say nothing of the morality of this unexpected treat. But neither am I the kind of idiot who would try to walk down the Eiffel Tower with my eyes shut just to avoid a modest unfair advantage. Let’s just say that the vision appeared naturally (the hillocks, the croissants, the pigeons, the shelves) and made me all the more appreciative of Gustave Eiffel’s mathematical genius. Two for every one on a fine June day does equal well-being. And the Eiffel Tower is something you must not miss.
David Thomson is the author of "A Biographical Dictionary of Film" (new edition just published), "Rosebud: The Story of Orson Welles" and "In Nevada." More David Thomson.
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.”
Continue Reading Close
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.
Continue Reading Close
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.
Continue Reading Close
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.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Page 1 of 403 in Sex