Those of you who follow my Twitter feed (@thesexademic) may have seen that I spent last weekend shooting some sex advice shorts. I’m working on more post-production right now and will be releasing one new video every week for the next month and a half.
Here’s a little video about why you should measure your johnson and sheath it accordingly…
For behind the scenes pics check out my Facebook fan page here!
In 2008, the Mayo Clinic published a case study of treating compulsive sexual behaviors with pharmaceuticals:
A male patient first presented to a psychiatrist (J.M.B.) at age 24, with the explanation, “I’m here for sexual addiction. It has consumed my entire life.” He feared losing both marriage and job if he could not contain his burgeoning preoccupation with Internet pornography. He was spending many hours each day chatting online, engaging in extended masturbation sessions, and occasionally meeting cyber-contacts in person for spontaneous, typically unprotected, sex.
The story is a familiar one. A young man seeking sexual activities outside of his marriage or relationship experiences guilt because of his compulsive behaviors. He feels he cannot stop and is at a loss for solutions. He wants to be good, by whatever measure his culture dictates, but feels he can’t.
The term “sex addiction” is the new darling of sensational media. The narrative of an addict is a compelling one, their struggle with external forces in the world leaves much room for pity. After all, this isn’t their fault but the fault of the pesky stimulus hijacking their tender neurological reward circuitry. Right?
Not really. The picture of compulsive sexual behaviors is far more complicated than (male) brain + (non-monogamous) sexual stimulation = addiction. Dopamine may indeed play a role in all compulsive behaviors but the narrative of porn as an external factor that takes over your system is a false (and overwhelmingly Christian) explanation that fails to recognize sexual histories and user conceptions of sexuality.
As my friends and I prepared the dinner table last night, the sweet sounds of 1930s blues filled the room. The scratchy, canned recordings of that bygone era masked the lewd lyrics, so it wasn’t until the second verse of Lucille Bogan‘s “Till the Cows Come Home” that we knew for sure she was singing about fucking with a capital “F”.
We stared at each other in total disbelief as she sang of giving her lovers the clap, her floor sweeping pubic hair with “funk from those hairs that will shut the door” and how her two lovers had dicks like baseball bats. There is an extra layer of shock when you discover our predecessors could be just as smarmy as any modern day porno.
We have a preoccupation with sanitizing the past in order to present its occupants in a more noble light, similar to the way we eulogize the dead and forgive them their earthly indiscretions. Hindsight is not only 20/2o; it is also easily manipulated for our own comfort.
Champions of family values often shriek about impending moral doom, holding up copies of Penthouse and rattling off porn sites as evidence for cultural entropy. But the moment you dig below the bleached façade of official history, you’ll find the same old dirty jokes, songs and images. Drawing cocks on the walls is nothing new for humans.
Of course, social sanctions against sexual innuendo and expression are nothing new either. Though the urge to create “dirty” entertainment and art is culturally ubiquitous, the urge to eradicate those creations waxes and wanes. Even the bounds of what constitutes prurience are in constant flux.
Personally, I find it humbling that Ancient Romans scrawled offensive lines on public walls or that medieval writers drew dirty cartoons in religious texts. Perversion is a uniquely human trait and I am happy to embrace bawdiness.
According to anti-rape campaigns, women (but apparently not men) have many modern tools against rape: self-defense classes, walking in groups, avoiding getting drunk and being aware of their surroundings. What we don’t have is an comprehensive anti-rape campaign with one simple message to would-be rapists:
Campaigns raise awareness about rape by debunking myths, providing statistics and offering ways for potential victims to protect themselves. But the campaigns and discussions rarely address the rapist.
When we only spotlight the victims we create a disembodied construction of a rapist as a supporting character in rape prevention discourse. The rape victim is the focus while the rapist is an auxiliary entity. Meanwhile in the real world, rapists are related to us, work with us and go to the bars with us. They are our friends, lovers and family members. Rarely are rapists complete strangers hiding in the bushes.
Realizing that many of us have known or do know someone that committed rape is an uncomfortable truth. Focusing on victims is mentally convenient, especially in a culture places the onus of sexual responsibility on females. Since we’re already taking birth control and keeping male sexual desire in check it makes sense for us to prevent rape, whether through wearing teethed condoms or by starring in anti-rape commercials.
Once you’ve endured the burning pink flesh tint, ripped the right patches of hair, washed with minty shampoo, dyed your pubes, and bling’d yourself out, uh, down there, the next step is to put a smoothing buffer patch between your lady junks and your tight-ass pants.
Enter: The Cuchini. Their website text sums it better than I can:
Hey Girls. Camel Toe might be hot… if you are a Guy!! But who wants to be the one sporting it? Some secrets are meant to be kept. As we have evolved, hair down there is a thing of the past. As the landing strip and Brazilian wax have become prominent in today’s world, there is no bush for the cush. And though Camel Toe may be a hot topic… it’s not to the gal sporting it!
I have another solution: stop wearing such tight ass pants if you don’t want the world knowing you have labia. You do not need to look like an anatomically neutered Barbie doll.
If the Cuchini is strange as a product, the website is even weirder. The front page has an awful camel-toe song set to Beach Boy’s “Cocomo”.
Aaahhh, the shaming power of parody songs. And the mystifying power of poorly picked product mascots. Come on. A shy yet seductive camel-human hybrid in a bikini?
Maybe we’ll soon see a male version of this called the “Kendoll” for hiding your man junks while wearing super-tight hipster pants.
I’m not saying camel toe isn’t a little unsightly, just not for the reasons Cuchini claims. When I see camel toe I cringe thinking about the pinch of fabric between labia. I wonder if the patches make it more uncomfortable.
At the very least, I think the Cuchini makers need a different video on their front page. How could they pass over the classic Fannypack track “Camel Toe”?