Gentlemen, start your engines. If you can’t, however, don’t worry! Erectile dysfunction is officially no longer persona non penis in the pop culture world. It seems as though there are enough representations in the media to where we can finally get past the discomfort that comes with talking about it. Now if only it could be the same way about that extra dick I have.
Let’s be real here, not all of the lack-of-blood-allocation mentions have been positive, but it takes a combination of both the good and the bad to break ground on such age-old taboos. Let’s take a good look at two current examples which represent both ends of the spectrum.
Mormon tomfoolery has never been quite so adorably psychotic as on HBO’s mad twisty Big Love. While later seasons have been more geared toward shit like plot points and character development, the first season was all about Bill Paxton’s ass. There was so much of it! At points, I wasn’t even sure which sister wife was getting every inch of her allotted evening because the screen was just filled with fifty-one-year-old ass. In fact, the only time it seemed that we weren’t starting at Bill’s ass was when he couldn’t muster up enough dick to dick down Chloe Sevigny.
In later seasons, Bill’s ass has made only a handful (heh) of appearances, but his reliance on Viagra to get things going with the Jan Brady of the sister wives has remained a constant. Now, I don’t do chicks, but I just can’t see his penis’s reasoning. Look at her! Perky, pointy breasts (remember that mole on the left one we saw when Hilary Swank was doing her with a rolled up sock in Boys Don’t Cry?), appropriate child rearing hips hugged by a sensible wool skirt, and don’t even get me started on the braid. No, please, get me started. The braid. With two wives who are pretty standard representations of the headstrong matriarch and the ditzy girlfriend, why wouldn’t you want to get all up in some sweet role play action? Go on, man! Churn some buttermilk with a girl who’s garden snake in the back and Snooki from the front. It makes it that much more wild if it’s easy to grab her hair when you’re going at it from behind.
The yeast-less loaf also has its place in the lyrics of popular music. Take Rihanna’s latest hit, “Rude Boy”. The chorus stings with an aggressive call to attention for both her man and his boy:
Come here rude, rude boy
Can you get it up?
Come here, rude, rude boy
Is you big enough?
When you’re the object of the affections of a Barbadian chanteuse with a seriously bangin’ fivehead, it only makes sense that there would be reasonable expectations for you to plug her up. While she might’ve realized the unspoken nature of such a request, Rihanna felt it necessary to verbally encourage her rude boy to stiffen the rod before bludgeoning.
Why shouldn’t she? Is it not the right of all heterosexual women to affirm their dominance by letting their man know that all ducks must be in a row in order to proceed into the swamp? Perhaps Rude Boy thinks he can go with the flow when he gets with Rihanna, but were I in his position, I would put some mad emphasis on each action leading to me opening up her umbuhrella. I would walk slowly down the hallway of that skeezy motel in Tuscon and tell Jesus Jr. that he’d better get good and full because we were about to ball some seriously bangin’ island ass. I mean, have you seen these hams she’s been smuggling? It’s some all hands on deck shit when it comes to this lady.
So when it comes down to it, maybe American pop culture isn’t exactly being supportive of our comrades who need a little more help getting the air in the tires. I really should be more understanding. After all, clumps of skin often come off of my scalp and there sure as shit aren’t any depictions, positive or negative, in the mainstream media. Ultimately, however, I think patriotism has to win out in this situation.
I am Eric Jesus Grimm, a red, white, and blue blooded American, especially when it comes to what’s rushing to my penis.
E
