Parts Is Parts

Were all just meat. If only it were that easy

I hate paraphrasing from a frazzled memory, but Savage's response touched on the fact that the initial attraction most people feel is usually based on some inane predisposition. You look like their dad, or have a cute ass, or smell like bacon, or have an Elvis curl to your lip, the attraction to which is no less senseless than liking a stump. Without that initial attraction, hardly anyone would ever meet up.

All we are is a combination of dirt, water, sunlight and a bit of genetic information. How it combines in our bodies and the way we propagate has somehow become layered with a sense of romance, power and mysticism over the ages. To a dispassionate observer from another world, it's all just meat.

Balls, for example, are stupid. They're like big tonsils without a mouth or something that would hang off a rooster's throat; they're like, at best, two featherless baby birds in a hairy nylon sock. Men should thank their lucky stars women would even consider touching anything within three feet of them, much less teabag the hideous things.

Many women have a similar low opinion of their rigs. The vulva may be the object of man's desire, the mystical source of life, the grail-like object that, if achieved, somehow can make us whole, but it is also something that, if you put a set of fangs in it, would scare the bejesus out of everyone in a horror movie. Just the same, it's the best thing ever.

I grew up in the tail end of the time when sex was dirty, and boy, did that lend everything an extra mystique. You didn't see real nudity. Most skin mags would obscure or blur the lower regions, so it was sort of like the ancient nautical maps that beyond a certain point only said, "Thar be monsters." Then there were the more furtive nudist magazines, which exclusively showed naked people with forced grins playing volleyball, and everyone had beavers so thick Fidel Castro could have been hiding in there. The other alternative was looking for diagrams of the naughty bits in medical dictionaries, but with all of the Latin terms, you could have been whacking off to a drawing of a ventricle.

Who knows what the generation coming up now will make of things. On the one hand, they've got Bush's ignorance-only sex education that is actively teaching misinformation to kids. On the other hand, they're only a couple of keystrokes away from a vast online pornucopia depicting not only every known kink but also new ones as soon as they occur to anyone (sex with outlandishly pounding hydraulic machines appears popular these days, possibly because they never ask, "Who's your daddy?").

Sex drives more conventional, new technologies as well—and always has. The printing press, the automobile, the VCR, computers, the Internet, photo-taking cell phones: all have their sexual uses that helped them gain users. And money has mainstreamed sex. Once upon a time in our history, if you did porn, you were shunned by normal society. Today, porn is chic, and the unexamined body isn't worth living in. When porn stars manicure their bushes into little topiary gardens, Ma and Pa America follow suit. And as Paris Hilton proved, the whole world and neighboring galaxies seeing you with a dick in your mouth is no impediment to getting a series on Fox. The future is moist.

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