We here at the Weekly, for the most part, are sex-positive. (Some among us are a bit repressed-Catholic, but the rest of us just point and laugh and say nasty, smutty things till the lawyers make us stop.) We don't think it's wrong when people get sweaty and slutty with strangers. We think it's great when American culture becomes more liberated, not less. We love our bodies, ourselves. Those wacky twice-born types? As has been noted elsewhere, they hate us for our freedoms.
This year, nothing has been fighting for its freedom more bravely than the breast. But every time it took one proud step forward, John Ashcroft came and locked it in an internment camp. It was easy to make our choice: a whole issue on the breast! It's soft! And pretty! It's pretty and soft!
Then we got bored and decided to broaden our theme.
How about not just the breast, but all the pieces? A celebration of the body, in all its 1,000 parts! Oh, the things that were made to be sucked on!
"Be creepier!" we kept saying to our polite little writers. "More leering! Ruminate on the parts you love! Expound! Creepily! And if you don't use the words throbbing and engorged, you'll be fired so fast . . . well, no, you won't because we don't actually have HR authority. But oh, you will feel the tension!"
Sadly, Buddy Siegal stepped up to the plate. Verily, go read about his scrot.
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Theo Douglas wrote about tender thighs. Kate Carraway has a whole thing for foreskins. And Bernard Berliner claims the liver is sexy, while the rest of us point and laugh.
Oh—and we would never forget the dilly and the hoo-hoo.
Here, in the little red county in the big blue state, we're taking a stand for smut.
We're free to be you and me.