Every Jewish male knows about the infamous "Bar Mitzvah boner." When you get up there and you're doing your haftorah, you can get pretty excited, and often it's been known to happen that the Bar Mitzvah boy will become tumescent and even come a little in his pants. This is so common that it passes without comment -- the Rabbi and the congregants pretend to ignore it, though you will sometimes hear some whispered remarks along the lines of, "Whoa, look at the Bar Mitzvah boner on that kid!" or simply "What a boner!" At my own Bar Mitzvah, I had an unusually prolonged Bar Mitzvah boner, and when I was finished my Uncle Jerry said to me, "Wow, kid, that was quite a boner!" I was so self-conscious about my performance reciting the haftorah, though, that I got defensive and insisted, my voice trembling with anger, that I was very proud to have not made any mistakes. I was very embarassed when I realized he had simply been talking about my erection!

Remember that movie The Shaggy Dog, the Chevy Chase vehicle about a man who transforms into a dog? Surprisingly, this is a children's movie! I say surprisingly, of course, because a man who transforms into a dog will probably explore all sorts of new erotic possibilities -- both exploiting his new found cuteness to enter heretofore forbidden female spaces* and, yes, fucking other dogs**. Of course, Chevy Chase probably didn't want to do movies that full-tilt pornographic at that point in his career. But what about now? How about a remake or a sequel to The Shaggy Dog this time more realistically exploring the erotic adventures this man-dog would undoubtedly embark (no pun intended) on? Your move, Mr. Chase!



*Imagine a scene in which, from the man-dog's p.o.v., we enter a locker and a gaggle of screaming, semi-clad or nude cheerleaders or what-have-you go into hysterics because a dog has just entered the locker! This scene would be both humorous and erotic.
**Don't get me wrong! I'm not saying, as a man, that I have an interest in fucking dogs, and am only kept from doing so by social taboos that would be erased were I transformed into a dog . . . Okay, I guess I am saying that.

Loyal readers will remember from my first entry that I've long been considering a name for my penis. Well, I've finally found the perfect name in the celebrated sonnet, "On first looking into Chapman's Homer" by John Keats. If you don't recall the poem, here is the text:


MUCH have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 5
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken; 10
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific—and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise—
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

The name I've chosen, as you may have guessed, is "Stout Cortez." Besides being richly suggestive, it is so perfect an articulation of my penis's essence that I cannot think of the phrase without thinking also of my penis. It is as if Keats had prophesied the coming of my penis (yes, I do believe in the concept of a visionary, prophetic poet); as if he were, with the phrase "Stout Cortez," using my penis as the subject of a word-portrait, if you will -- attempting to do with words what painters do with colors -- create the most subtle gradations of hue, the most delicate play of light and shade!

My last post, which considered nudity in a cinematic gem of the 80s, got me thinking more generally about nudity in the movies, and the upshot of my thinking is the conclusion that most movies could do with a bit of nudity. A case in point: The Karate Kid. The movie is already a solid three and a half stars, but with nudity would easily clear four. Of course, it would be a treat to see a young Elisabeth Shue in the buff, but the nudity needn't stop there. Imagine if you will a scene in which we see Daniel's mother in the shower, laying her head against the wall and sobbing in frustration at her son's inability to acclimate himself to life in California. Or how about a scene in which Daniel finds Mr. Miyagi sprawled naked on a tatami mat, passed out from drunkenness, and for a brief, frightening moment imagines his new friend and mentor to be dead? Still not convinced? Then consider a scene in which Daniel, before a mirror, doffs his karate garb, contemplating whether the nude image he sees reflected, shorn of cultural signifiers, is any more or less authentic than the image of his body adorned with any of the various costumes he wears in the course of a day (all of this conveyed through subtle eyebrow movements). Of course, you won't see anything like this anytime soon, not with this bozo in office!

I recently found myself wanting to share with the world my love for the classic screen comedy, Just One of the Guys. My problem: How best to articulate my passion? An epic poem would be too long, but a haiku would be too short. Then it hit me: How about a limerick? I snickered with self-satisfaction -- my expression would best be described as "smarmy" -- and set to work. Here is the result:

Here's a word to the wise:
Rent the movie, Just One of the Guys!
The star of this flick
(playing a cross-dressing chick)
Shows her tits -- what a lovely surprise!

*SPOILER ALERT*

I think most people who see The Vagina Monologues have a similar experience to mine: an initial smirk and eye-roll at seeing women on stage in crude vagina costumes, followed by a fascinated absorption in the persuasive rendering of American vaginas' inner lives. For those who haven't seen the play, The Vagina Monologues presents the monologues of four vaginas: a huge, gun-toting vagina from Texas, a surfboard-riding vagina from California (the monologue's conceit being that it is being delivered while the vagina is riding "the perfect wave" -- tragically, the monologue ends with the vagina drowning), a lifelong Democrat vagina from New Jersey, and a gangster vagina from Chicago. When each vagina has had its say, we find that we've been treated to a rich, moving portrait of American life. Perhaps the best of these monologues is that of the New Jersey vagina, which I suppose is fitting, considering that the vagina is New Jersey's official state body part. Hearing this monologue is like putting your ear to a vagina and hearing the roar of the E Street Band:

"Being a vagina in New Jersey, you sometimes feel like you're getting lost in the crowd. I guess that's because this state is so damn densely populated. Sometimes it just makes you want to shout up to God, 'God, why did you make New Jersey so darn densely populated!? Do you call this intelligent design!? I've got your intelligent design right here!'"

Make no mistake about it, this is controversial stuff. In fact, when The Vagina Monologues was first performed, then-Governor Christine Todd Whitman publicly denounced its writer, Eve Ensler, and established by decree the now-infamous state law against attacking New Jersey identity. Fear is at the root of such reactions: fear that if vaginas had a chance to speak (a fear that, in these days of genetic experimentation, suddenly seems completely justified), they might not say such pleasant things about the state you live in -- or, for that matter, govern over.

If you're ready to listen to what vaginas have to say -- strong, American vaginas -- then The Vagina Monologues has something important to tell you.

This is the first entry in what I plan to be a regular feature here at Ye Ole Fisting Post. The concept: noteworthy and amusing anecdotes from my lurid early days (i.e. my childhood). I'm not sure what to call it, though I know I had a pretty good name a few days ago that I'm trying to remember. All I can think of right now, in any case, is "FistBacks." (And I hope that soon, you too will only be able to think of FistBacks). The Fistbacks, of course, were a none-too-illustrious branch of Tom Thumb's remarkable family, but hopefully there will be no confusion. Here it is, your first FistBack:

When I was six, before reading or masturbating had come along (to me, I mean, not the world in general), I had to find something to do while in the bathroom. But what? You know where this is going by now: I opened the cabinet doors under the bathroom sink, found my mom's sanitary napkins, and proceeded to peel the "proofs of purchase" (as I thought them) off the adhesive. At that age, my mind was bent on acquiring toys, and anything you could peel off or cut out, I thought, must be a proof of purchase that could be sent away in exchange for a diverting trinket. So far, I can see the logic my six-year-old self was following. But why did I think that these paper strips were to be sent, not to the address on the box, but to the gym teacher at my school? Luckily, my mother put the kybosh on the whole enterprise (quite angrily, as it happens) before I could get to that stage.

Well, there it was: FistBack number one. Stay tuned for more of the same, plus "FistForward," the future's answer to FistBacks.