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Sex Sells
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Polished Nipples
or
The DeKlein of Western Civilization
A few years ago the makers of Johnny Walker whiskey launched a new
advertising campaign. One ad in the series featured two lissome females
padding aerobically across a grey beach in their bare feet, the silent
foam swallowing their footprints. Their bodies were toned and tanned,
their skin flawless. One of the women wore a smart red and blue
ensemble, her pert buttocks mocking the camera. The other was in a
similar bikini-like exercise tog, but had a wristwatch strapped to her
bicep. (It was not made clear whether this was a new fashion trend or
simply that she was anatomically dyslexic.) As we joined them, the
bicep woman had turned to her companion and announced: "He loves my
mind. And he drinks Johnny Walker."
Of course, my first question was: "How does she tell time?" In
order to see the face of the watch she would have to lift up her arm and
stick her nose right in her armpit. Unpleasant, even if you haven't
been "padding aerobically." My next question had to do with the Johnny
Walker slogan ("Good taste is always an asset") and the choice of a rear
view for the photograph. But finally I came to the really big question:
"JUST WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE TRYING TO KID?"
Are these women pouring over books in a research library? Are they
huddled over a microscope probing the mysteries of genetic science? Are
they debating social and economic issues at a Third World Symposium?
Sure, talk of the mind....but give the public tush!
In fact, it seems that you can't open up a magazine today without
running across an ad with some nubile wench with an exposed torso
arching her back as she's drinking mineral water, or some Adonis in a
Speedo flexing a granite chest while discussing mutual funds with an
associate. Advertisers insist that they are simply tuned in to
America's increased awareness of fitness. But it seems to me that what
started in the early 80's as "body consciousness" has turned into
"carnal obsession." And speaking of obsession...
Probably no one has cashed in on this new societal narcissism
better than Calvin Klein. In 1982, he (with the help of photographer
Bruce Weber) launched a new line of men's underwear by raising a forty-
five foot idol above Times Square. Hands pressed against his thighs,
head back, eyes closed, this bronzed god in jockey shorts signalled a
new age of body worship. An age in which Mr. Klein is flourishing.
Perhaps every male in America has, seared in his memory, a vivid
picture of one of the first Calvin Klein Obsession ads. It featured a
number of bodies, some obviously female, draped in an anatomical jigsaw
puzzle. You could (heaven knows I did) spend hours trying to figure out
where a thigh ended and a torso began. Another Obsession ad featured a
number of nude figures (male and female) lolling about on white
monoliths, their tawny skin shining in the sun. And the latest in the
series features a nude male carrying a limp, equally non-clothed female
in a fireman's carry.
Now, what are these ads trying to tell us? Are we to believe that
women swoon at the smell of Obsession, disrobing as they fall to the
ground? I'd buy the stuff if that were true. Or is it that the true
fragrance of Obsession is only revealed to those who are free from the
restrictions of clothing. If that is true, what should we do with our
now useless Calvin Klein underwear? Actually, it would seem that Mr.
Klein has stumbled upon the great advertising truth of the 90's:
FLESH SELLS.
You'll notice that I didn't say that "sex" sells. You see, one of
the frightening things about these ads is not that they are "sexual,"
but rather that they are "asexual" or "omnisexual." In most of the ads
it makes little difference whether the flesh belongs to a male or
female. In fact, sometimes it's very hard to tell. Most of the men in
the ads are alarmingly androgenous. High cheekbones, flawless, ruddy
complexions, a total lack of facial hair (or any other secondary sex
characteristics, for that matter), lithe and sculpted bodies. These
guys are more pretty than handsome....and they are perfect. Not a
blemish, stretch mark, or flaw can be found on these people. It's as if
the pod people have returned and are modelling in New York.
The rest of the media has quickly followed Calvin Klein's lead.
One of the Greek gods is representing Soloflex. Venus would give up her
clam shell if she could have the body of the Kelloggs Special K model.
And Madonna's videos seem to be populated entirely by people who were
born to pose.
This wave of "carnality" has bothered me for some time. One of the
reasons is that I'm damn jealous! Genetics and nature have conspired
against my ever having the physical characteristics of these male
models.
But the truth finally hit me one day as I was flipping through a
magazine and came across an ad for Calvin Klein Sport. It featured a
group of friends posing for a picture while enjoying a lawn party on an
estate of some sort. Since the ad was hawking his line of casual
clothing, nobody was naked (though the Klein Flesh Tolerance Level was
maintained by having some chest and torso peeking through open shirts).
But then I noticed one guy lying on the grass in front of everyone else.
He had his shirt off revealing a tanned and chiselled chest....and I
stopped. I just sat there blinking for a while, because it struck me
that this guy had polished nipples. I'm serious, polished nipples. It
was as if someone had gone over his chest with Turtle Wax and a buffer.
And suddenly I saw through it all. It was perfectly clear! I ran
outside and started screaming at the top of my lungs, "They aren't real!
They can't exist in reality! We can buy the same underwear, the same
cologne, the same clothes, get liposuction, hire a personal trainer, go
to tanning salons....we can try forever, but we can never BE them!
Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Laura Ashley, Soloflex, Kelloggs, Evian
Water, all of them! They've duped us all!"
But then I looked around and it appeared that no one had heard me.
Out on the street a handsome college student drove past in his BMW
convertible with his equally attractive girlfriend. I noticed the well-
dressed girl from next door walking into her house carrying a bag from
the Polo Country Store, and there were two guy across the street
throwing a frisbee. I was about to turn away when something caught my
eye. Both of them were shirtless, well-built and their nipples...
By Grettir the Strong
(alias Shawn Lynn)
659 E. 600 N.
Orem, UT 84057
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