6:30 A.M. Alarm goes off. Discombobulation commences.
[Open appeal to architects: when designing bedrooms for people who will be turning 50 or coming down with lady-cancer, kindly install an automatic espresso machine within reach of the bed. Otherwise, your client's hapless, lurching feet will become entangled, every morning when the alarm goes off at 6:30, in the giant pile of hot-flash laundry that has accumulated on the bedroom floor.]
The above has been my nightly ritual for five-and-a-half years, ever since the Cancer Industrial Complex cut out, among other organs to which I had become rather attached over the years, those dear little estrogen-generators, my ovaries. Because of the estrogen-loving nature of the cancer that occasioned my many amputations and toxic therapies, hormone replacement is not an option. This is too bad, because spinster aunts, it turns out, actually need a little estrogen, if only to prevent their going absolutely batshit from hot-flash-induced sleep deprivation.
I blame surgically-induced menopausical insomnia for my having seen an infomercial last night to which no eyes as delicate as those of a fuzz-brained spinster aunt should ever have been exposed. The producers of this infomercial might just as well have been throwing acid alien blood right in my grimacing face.
The infomercial was selling a dick-enbiggener pill. The thing that was so grippingly, vomitationally absurd about it, besides everything about it, was the slew of giggling 22-year-old pornulated chiquitas who purported to speak for all of womankind on the subject of dicks. They revealed — in “candid confessions” consisting almost entirely of the phrase “like, why even have sex if it’s, like, so small you, like, won’t even feel it?” — women’s general disgust with any dick that isn’t the size of a Mexican Coke bottle.* They all agreed that the only sorts of dudes they’ll ever want to pork are “confident” and “aggressive” men who have “grown some balls.”
Also grippingly, vomitationally absurd were the “Men’s Minute” segments, wherein a porn actor named Dr. Victoria Zdrok, speaking in an unearthly-yet-strangely-familiar accent, urges the viewer to buy the product because it was made in America out of time-tested ingredients you can trust. “Over 88% of women admit that size does matter,” quoth the good doctor heteronormatively, “and the other 12% are lying.” In the background is footage of a rocket launching.
Now, I’m not going to argue either that “size” does or doesn’t matter, as this is simply personal preference and is therefore irrelevant to the revolution and shit, and because thinking about actual you-know-whats (Dr Zdrok’s clinical term for “penis”) makes me retch. But I am going to propose two hypotheses.
One: that the idea that women universally yearn to be impaled by tireless, oversized bratwursts-of-iron attached to “aggressive” men is a myth. This myth portrays women as insatiable sex maniacs*, which in turn informs the Global Accords Governing Fair Use of Women, which in turn enslaves women as the sex class. The women-as-sex-maniac myth adversely affects women in many ways, not least of which is the interference of “male enhancement” drugs with the natural attrition of the invincible peen. How many women were looking forward to a mid-life reprieve from prong-duty, only to have it snatched away by ViagraNation’s aggressive marketing of the “cure” for “erectile dysfunction”?
Two: that, even if I were a straight woman who, despite the fact that our social order has co-opted my sexuality to turn me into a receptacle for my oppressor’s incontinence, still wanted to do dudes, and even if I were one of those women whose preference for you-know-whats leaned toward something in the Macho Combo Burrito range, I would find other ways of scratching this itch than by boinking the kind of dude who would buy pills from porn stars on TV infomercials as crappy as this one was.
Not to denigrate dear old Dr Zdrok, though! After carefully analyzing her accent, I believe that, like me, she is formerly of the planet Obstreperon. Sadly, it appears that Dr Zdrok has been rather more extensively assimilated by the dude-borg than I. The obstreperal lobe bleeds for her.
* Mexican Coke bottles are really big. I thought about using the Washington Monument as my metaphor, since it’s even bigger than a Mexican Coke bottle, but Phil says that shit’s pretty played.
** “Sex maniac” is a quaint phrase I hadn’t heard in a while, until yesterday’s TCM broadcast of the 1967 misogyny farce “Divorce American Style,” starring Debbie Reynolds and Dick Van Dyke as a star-crossed married couple. This sexist romp through mid-century marriage angst features a scene where D.V.D. and his best bud get snockered at a lingerie bar populated by models in marabou peignoirs. The best bud convinces Dick he should cheat on his wife, whereupon Dick — comically! — pays to rape a prostitute.
Photo 1: collected from this part of the Internet.
Photo 2: collected from this part of the Internet.