Sex
Make room for daddy
Why do men sit on subways with their legs splayed like Suzanne Somers' in a Thighmaster ad? Is their precious package more important than our comfort?
What’s the most telling sign of men’s fantasies about their penis size? Is it the bulbous packages regularly sported by the models in underwear ads? Or those ridiculous smiling portraits of male camaraderie that appear as if some company had decided to hold a board meeting in their skivvies? (“How’s the yield on that mutual fund, Ted? By the way, bulge looks great.”) Is it the infomercial with Ron Jeremy selling penis enlargement pills? (A celebrity endorsement somewhat akin to Star Jones for Häagen-Dazs.)
No. The truest sign of how men imagine their girth is the way they sit on public transportation. Ladies (or polite gentlemen, for that matter), has this ever happened to you? You manage to find a seat on a crowded subway or bus, only to find that the man next to you is sitting with his legs splayed open, oblivious to how much he’s crowding you, his two lower limbs forming a gaping V as if they were ready to sport a sign saying “Welcome to Peterborough.”
Just a few weeks ago, on a Greyhound from New York to Boston, I spent the entire four-and-a-half hour ride next to a guy who sat with his knees like Suzanne Somers in the “before” position on the Thighmaster ads. Every time I’m squeezed next to a guy like that, I have an urge I haven’t yet given in to — to lean over and ask, “What’s the matter? It’s so huge you need to air it out?”
Before I try to explain the predominance of male public splay-leggedness by attributing it to plain old bad manners, I’d like to at least consider the possibility that some buried incident in the past may be to blame. Perhaps those formative years of shopping in the boy’s department at Sears have led many men to continue to believe that every piece of their apparel is still labeled “Husky.” Perhaps it’s the same impulse that leads many of us to switch from briefs to boxers; those stories about warmth resulting in reduced sperm production kick in and we succumb to the desperate fear that the derrick isn’t properly ventilated and the oil is about to give out.
But truth be told, I think the reason is a lot simpler: not just bad manners but bad grooming. Gentlemen, let’s face it: If, before you slip on the Hanes or the Calvins (in whatever cut brings a flutter to your putter) your meat and twos do not look as freshly dusted as a piece of pastry dough liberally sprinkled with flour before kneading, you’re letting yourself in for trouble down the line. In only a few short hours, you’ll find yourself talking to a colleague, waiting for a train, standing in line at the deli, and realize that a ball adjustment is in order. And then what do you do? Be blatant and dig away at your crotch like Dr. Leakey discovering a lost tribe? Do you casually grab the side of your trousers and pull the material out hoping to jar something loose? Or do you, perhaps, flex your legs up and down hoping to convince everyone around you that you’re recovering from a running injury?
To each his own method of rectifying that particular sticky situation. But the one thing you should never, never do is take it out on your fellow transit passengers by crowding your legs over into their personal space. Hell yes, I know it’s more comfortable to sit like that. And in a sparsely populated train, there’s nothing wrong with it. But when there are people beside you, you’re being a pushy, vulgar pain in the ass. You’re saying, “My dick is more important than your comfort.” And unless you’re the reincarnation of John Holmes, something tells me the need isn’t that pressing.
Women are raised with the admonition that they must sit with their knees together to be ladylike. Maybe, taking the opposite tack, men feel compelled to demonstrate their masculinity by keeping their knees at the same distance from one another as a bad boob job (“Have you two met?”)
About a year ago, I came across some old cartoons that used to be displayed in New York City subway cars in the ’40s demonstrating the polite way to conduct yourself while riding: Don’t block the door, give up your seat to the elderly or infirm, and so on. I can’t remember if there was actually one informing men to keep Little Elvis in his own private Graceland — and given the more demure tenor of the times, I rather doubt it. But isn’t it time for a revival of this lesson in public transit manners? It’s not just enough to keep your pecker in your pocket, boys. You have to keep from looking like it’s ready to sail forth from that slingshot in your lap.
Charles Taylor is a columnist for the Newark Star-Ledger. More Charles Taylor.
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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