Women Talk About Men Without Pants

The following is a post I wrote for a place I sometimes write a little of the funny for ... but in this case they decided the penis-funny was a bit too cockified for the likes of them. Not everyone is into the dirty talk. Myself, I think it's all about consent. But for now, I present this dated, naughty, cockified post that should have run a week ago and didn't. Take a great big bite, and enjoy:

Men, De-briefed

By Susie Moloney

            There’s always an  abundance of cock and bull in the media, but the last few weeks have proven that size must matter, because there’s suddenly been a tonne of it.

            It’s been a month of cock ups. And cocks down, truth be told, starting with the landmark study which found that women prefer larger penises during sex.

            “I never would have guessed,” said no one.

            This month, the poor, benighted dick is suddenly a cousin you haven’t seen in five years: now you can’t take your eyes off it, you’re staring, and it’s weird, uncomfortable, and kind of hot.

            The dick news that really got to me, however, was the small ‘b’ brouhaha over Jon Hamm’s other Hamm getting in the way on the set of Mad Men.

            Holy firestorm, Batdick.

            It secretly delighted us, even as it enlightened us, disturbed us, and revealed that we are female chauvinist pigs. Okay, me. It did that for me. I’m sure the rest of womankind spent the last two weeks doing their taxes, reading Tenth of December and calling into Science Friday.

            Me, I was getting secretly delighted on at least two levels, only one of which I feel I can discuss. 

            The headline news was: Actor Jon Hamm has a big penis. A Hammer, if you will. A Yowlitzer. A Skin Grenade. A Big Mac. A Moby Dick. A Phallupalooza. A Really Big Lebowski.

            Yup, that was in the news. Granted, it was outlets such as The NY Daily News and The Telegraph UK, but the HuffPo also carried the story, as did the Daily Beast and about 2,479 blogs. The classier, more legitimate outlets were more subtle, writing breathlessly outraged pieces about Hamm’s alleged breathlessly outraged reaction to people writing about the size of his dick. At the centre of those stories, however, was still the central story that Jon Hamm has a rather conspicuous member.

            An honest-to-goodness Ankle Spanker.

            I snickered along with the rest of the internet, feeling maybe a little bad, maybe a little shamed, when I thought about it at all, which was never in those first few days of these photos being released. It wasn’t until Hamm got testy in Rolling Stone about the attention that I realized--I was one of them.

            Maybe you were too.

            The actor who plays one of the most cavalier swordsmen out there was being--and feeling--exploited. And it was awful.

            “It’s called privates for a reason,” he was quoted as saying.              

            I quickly deactivated my new blog www.longdongdraper.wordpress.com and tossed about three hours worth of dick jokes into the trash—except for the few I couldn’t part with, and those are mostly up top in this article, except for that one you just read, the mash up of “Don Draper,” and “Long Dong Silver,” both very worthwhile people, I’m sure, who do not deserve to be treated as parts.

            It’s surprising what we don’t know about ourselves. I for one am disgusted—and glad—to know that I’m a part of the problem. Glad, because now I can be part of the solution. No longer will I be the one who would suggest that if Jon Hamm didn’t want us to look at his man bits, he shouldn’t have worn such tight pants. Or, if he didn’t want us to look at him there he should have worn a longer shirt. Or, if he really didn’t want us to look then perhaps he shouldn’t have gone strutting around in public. I feel a little baited. But enlightened nonetheless.

            I think it’s time we started a dialogue about what men need to feel safe and respected. It’s very confusing to be told on one hand that they all want to think they’re “big,” and then on the other hand, we can’t talk about size.

            No one has yet written the concise and moving What We Talk About When We Talk About Dick (I will!) nor has the Cock Monologues been making the rounds of local theatre houses. Yet. Because it should be. Someone will need to write it. It could be illustrated. Any boy in grade seven can do it.

            What really needs to happen is that we have to stop talking about poor Jon Hamm’s Grand Slam Breakfast Ham and remember that this man is an artist. He’s not a plaything. He’s not an object. He’s not Christina Hendricks’ boobs, or Beyonce’s ass.

            Let’s just grow up.

            FYI, a similar search for Norman Reedus turned up this.

            Oh yeah. And Margaret Thatcher died. Busy week.