Watchmen Condom "Sexist?"

Concerning the Watchmen movie giveaway condom, Annalee at the Bitch blog writes:

"While most blogs seem to be talking about this clash between the ideals of the comic series and the commercialism of this promotional item, I was first struck by the overt connection being made between sex and comics. The idea of the "fan boy" has been a topic that I have personally been really interested in lately, so seeing this opportunity for guys to essentially have sex and think of themselves as a superhero* is especially intriguing.

Some may think that a feminist discussion surrounding this condom is a little played out, since the idea that comic books are frequently a boy's club isn't exactly groundbreaking (neither is the notion of men being protectors). However, this does seem especially interesting, right?"

However, Ned at Manolith puts it all in perspective:

"Like most of America, I have a boner for the new Watchmen movie. Yup. I am so excited to see it, I have a boner."

Is there anything sexist about this promotional Watchmen condom? Is a certain gender being discriminated against? Is there a statement being made?

Or is it just that this blue Dr. Manhattan condom sufficiently deals with the massive fan boner?

(of course, women can't have boners, typically. so where does that leave them in this equation?)

(I'm all about giving away free condoms, btw. They are expensive. Though I have my doubts about that blue one.)

Guide To Sex In RPGs

I found this -- THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO UNLAWFUL CARNAL KNOWLEDGE FOR FANTASY ROLE-PLAYING GAMES --while searching for something completely different.

Some excerpts:

Masturbation (Enchantment)

Level: 1
Range: 10 yards
Components: S, M
Duration: 1 round/level
Casting Time: 1
Area of Effect: One creature
Save: Neg.

This spell causes the horniness of Arousal with the added
irresistible urge to masturbate with any and all external sexual
organs. This spell functions like a combination of an Arousal cantrip
with a command to "masturbate!" If no appendages are free for this
purpose, the subject will rub the sexual organs against any nearby
functional object. The material component is two pieces of cloth,
rubbed quickly against one another.




Table 3: Magical Diseases

Die
Roll  Disease
2     Acidic Secretion
3     Bitchy Magical Syndrome (B.M.S.)
4     Fiery Secretion
5     Mummy Crotch Rot
6     Orgasmatic Flight
7     Orgasmatic Monster Summoning
8     Orgasmatic Polymorph
9     Poison Secretion
10    Sexual Audible Glamer
11    Sexual Chill Touch
12    Sexual Clairvoyance
13    Sexual Invisibility
14    Sexually Transmitted Lycanthrope
15+   REROLL


PMS (Conjuration) Reversible

Level: 1
Range: 10 yards
Components: V, S, M
Duration: 1 round/level
Casting Time: 1
Area of Effect: one creature
Save: 1/2

PMS causes the subject to experience an unceasing, agonizing, dull
throbbing pain throughout the groin and lower abdomen, as though all
the muscles in that area were clenched like a vise. THAC0 and all
saves are treated as if the subject were one level lower (a 0th-level
or 1st-level character automatically misses or fails), and Constitution
and Charisma are reduced by 1 for the duration of the spell. A
successful save results in a nagging headache reducing Constitution and
Charisma by 1 for the duration of the spell.

"Sex Among The Geeks"

today's LITG had a number of "sex and/or violence related blind items, including this one:

"Which executive gave an artist a phenomenal amount of work over the last two years so that the executive may woo a colleague and partner of the artist, in a manner rather reminiscent of the biblical tale of David and Uriah?"

There's actually a Bathsheba of the comic book industry?

One of the gigs my literary agent was trying to line up for me was an article/comic in GQ (yes, the actual GQ Magazine for men) entitled "Sex Among The Geeks." The theme? Fornication in the comic book industry.

I said to her: "I don't think I can come up with enough good stuff."

She said,

"Try."

(Butters from South Park impression): "Uh, okay."

Postscript: "Sex Among The Geeks" is still a pretty viable topic for an article I think, between the sex on beds made of comic book boxes and the apparent Biblical references. And the cosplay.

Playgirl Vs. Playboy

Granted, this is a 1979 copy of Playgirl, but it just gave me pause.

Theoretically, Playgirl Magazine is the companion to Playboy -- a magazine with nude pinups of men for women to gawk at.

Now, look at this cover:

Let me point out:

* Picture of Mork making goofy face on cover. With a "fake" Mindy -- a "Mary Sue Mindy," to be sure. The Mindy that could be YOU.

* "Confessions of Topless Dancer" -- Why am I reading about women being sexually exploited in this magazine? Isn't this magazine supposed to make me feel like I'm sexually exploiting the other gender?

* "What To Do When You're Crazy About Him But He Dresses Funny" -- like, for example, you are dating Mork.

* "Ten Ways To Really Turn Him On" -- #1: Buy Him "Playboy."

* "1,000 Hysterically Funny Words From Martin Mull" -- my point exactly.

Basically, this magazine looks more like an issue of Redbook than a porn tabloid. And I guess if you're a housewife in the 1970s and the idea of women buying such material is still taboo, this would be a great way to disguise things.

And there IS the little red banner down the right corner touting sexy European men.

And...I will admit...I did experience a gentle moment of excitement at the sight of the Faux Mindy pawing at hairy Robin Williams' naked chest.

Anyway, here is an example of Playboy from the same year:


The old debate: do women enjoy their erotica the same way that men do?

Could there ever be a counterpart to "Hooters" that caters to women, for instance?

And could a comic only featuring cheesecake men appeal to female readers in the same way Witchblade appeals to male readers?

Oh that's right...it's called "Nightwing" (ba-dump-bump!)

Superheroes Who Can't Get Laid

Whether you're a human brain trapped in a robotic body or have super-spunk o' doom, being a superhero can really put a cramp in your sex life.

SPOILERS

...
...
...

so according to io9, both the Hancock and The Incredible Hulk movies feature superheroes who have bad things happen when they have sex. While the blog says Hancock stole the idea of a super-powered dingus from a Warren Ellis comic, I believe it appeared in the short story "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex" first. Meanwhile in the Hulk movie, Banner can't be sexually aroused without turning into the green-skinned behemoth. I don't know, was this ever the status quo in the comic? At any rate, it makes sense to me.


Isn't a lot about classic superheroes really sexual metaphor? Or am I way off base and a cigar just really a cigar? I mean, I don't think issues of sex were ever really divorced from the Wonder Woman character, from its inception in the Golden Age. The idea of secret identities can be a symbol of the face we present to the world and the sometimes very different one we present in the bedroom. And the idea of sex turning mild-mannered men like Mr. Banner into rampaging beasts has been around for awhile. Aren't all the werewolf movies some variation on that?

And if Superman can't really nail Lois without causing her significant internal organ damage (not status quo ever as far as I'm aware, but is the case in "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex") and Batman is too emotionally f**ked-up to have sex (often implied, but, as we have seen with Damian, not always the case), and the Thing really can't have actual sex and Robotman from the Doom Patrol can't really have sex, and the Hulk can only have sex with wild women warriors from alien planets (producing cute little Hulk babies), then maybe as non-powered readers we can feel superior to the heroes in some way...or at least relate.

***

From Larry Niven's "Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex"

"Consider the driving urge between a man and a woman, the monomaniacal urge to achieve greater and greater penetration. Remember also that we are dealing with kryptonian muscles.

Superman would literally crush LL's body in his arms, while simultaneously ripping her open from crotch to sternum, gutting her like a trout.

Lastly, he'd blow off the top of her head.

Ejaculation of semen is entirely involuntary in the human male, and in all other forms of terrestrial life. It would be unreasonable to assume otherwise for a kryptonian. But with kryptonian muscles behind it, Kal-El's semen would emerge with the muzzle velocity of a machine gun bullet. (*One can imagine that the Kent home in Smallville was riddled with holes during Superboy's puberty. And why did Lana Lang never notice that?*)

In view of the foregoing, normal sex is impossible between LL and Superman."

Not that I'm saying this is wrong, or anything...

...but just now, as I took my lunch break, I turned the channel to NBC and they had one of those "View" type "women's shows." It was called "IVillage" something or other. And you have these two women discussing these items spread out on the table in front of them, and after a minute or two I look up and realize that they're sex toys.

I'm not saying it's wrong for them to discuss sex toys on an afternoon network TV show. I'm just saying I was surprised.

But it gets better...these aren't ordinary run-of-the-mill sex toys -- they're "green" sex toys -- environmentally friendly.

"Just because you're having sex doesn't mean you can't think about saving the planet too."

And so she has these glass ding-dongs that "can be tossed in the recycling bin along with your wine bottles."

"I don't know...I don't want anything recycled from my sex toys," the other lady says.

But the first lady reassures her that "these are totally safe...they're hand-blown!"

Second lady flashes a knowing Jack Benny look to the audience and everybody starts laughing hysterically.

Then they move on to the solar-powered vibrator.

"Just keep this in the sunlight for three hours or so and you're ready to go!"

Lady #2 throws her hands in the air and goes "eep!" as the device buzzes across the counter.

Then there are pair of these little day-glo numbers. Lady #2 -- the comedian -- holds them like guns. "Bang! Bang bang bang!"

Lastly, we have soy-based candles. Just in case you would like to reenact that famous scene from "Body of Evidence" with Willem Dafoe & Madonna in an environmentally-sound manner.

Back on CNN, images of the drought in Georgia are shown, and tips on how to conserve water are flashed on the screen:

"You only need to rinse that pot once," the newscaster says with a smile.

Comics As Yer Lover

"At what point should you decide that Dan Didio is just using you for sex? Or that Grant Morrison is also using you for sex, but at least it's really good sex? "

These two lines guarantee a golden post.

At MetamorphoStuff, Ryan Day compares your relationship with your comics with your relationship with a girlfriend or boyfriend.

"Comic books, however, are promiscuous little whores with no standards or loyalty whatsoever. They want as many people as possible reading them, and they don't care who or why. You want to read them because you're doing your thesis on the evolution of the graphic medium? They'll take your money. You want to read them because you like Power Girl's boobies? Your money is just as good. Possibly better."

Personally, I like it when my copy of "The Initiative" #3 wakes up a half-an-hour before I do and makes me raspberry waffles and coffee.

(Found via Journalista, who makes it far too easy for me to find these damn things.)

How I Found Sex & Love At The New York ComicCon
Part One

Slow dancing with David G. in his kitchen to Richard Cheese singing a lounge version of "You Oughta Know." Two sets of plastic Marvel Comics action figures watch from their discreet perches above his kitchen shelves -- roughly 200 of then separated out by good guys and bad guys. Across from us an Archangel figure is mounted on the wall like a piece of modern sculpture.

"Marvel Legends," I remember telling him when seeing those toys for the first time. "Whoa. Good stuff. Good sculpts."

What does dating a fangirl really mean?

It means exactly that -- being with a woman who doesn't see 200 action figures in the kitchen as a minus, and who can appreciate the difference between the Marvel Legends line and that early-90s Toy Biz crap.

I never planned on dating David.

No, that's not true. When I first saw him at the New York Comic Con in February, I eagle-eye zoned in on him and planned on dating him. I rarely use such forwardness. Despite periodically joking that comic cons are my "meat market."

But on that Sunday as I walked into the crowded convention center, I had no intention of getting involved with another man. I wasn't even really intent on doing the ol' comic book pimparoo -- passing out business cards, shaking hands, and making a lot of crazy promises.

I didn't exactly want to be there at all. I was tired. I had spent every free moment working on the manuscript for my agent. I was physically and emotionally spent. And the act of so intensely reviewing every aspect of my life as a comic fan left me ambivalent regarding the industry. Well, ambivalent was a plus, a step up from abso-f**king-lutely jaded and spent. But still.

I was also intensely ambivalent about running into any of my former DC cohorts. Honestly, I preferred not to. I stuck w/Marvel & Artist's Alley. Sometimes, I would catch a glimpse of so-and-so and squint and think, "Hm. That's him now. Three years." Then it was back to Artist's Alley, or hanging out with one of several pockets of friends & associates.

I had a Catwoman mask in my knapsack. There were always chicks at these cons dressed as Emma Frost & Black Canary & whatnot & I thought I might experiment. I said to my friend Hassan,

"Dare me to put this on & pull a Sean Young?"

I saw the mask as part of a possible "Occasional Superheroine" crimefighting costume. Every superheroine should have at least a mask or knee-high vinyl boots.

"Occasional Superheroine" was a name that, among other things, stood for personal female disaster. It stood for this "batshit insane" rant written one tense morning following a humiliating failed attempt to talk down my $11,000+ bill at the hospital. It was a laundry-list of every man who let me down in my life. It was pretty damn-near nihilistic, the narrative of a personal apocalypse.

"Sorry very much for the incidents that destroyed you," wrote one overseas reader. The use of the word "destroyed" hit me particularly deeply.

Was I destroyed?

Could there be a "chapter two?"

I was still scared of sex. I couldn't give sex to men. Me and Donovan gave it the old college try. But I felt damaged, unmarketable. Or, if marketable, only as an "angry comic chick."

The day I met David, I was wearing a tight T-shirt that depicted Snoopy sticking his tongue out and had the phrase "Stop Staring At Me!" on the top.

I think Snoopy was right over my boobs.

David had showed up for the Valiant Comics panel, which I was scheduled to speak at. The only reason I decided to attend the con at all was to fulfill my obligation to panel moderator Jeff Gomez. Jeff was one of my old co-workers at Acclaim/Valiant. So was Hassan. Was it not for them and the Valiant Fans network spearheaded by John Rosas, it is likely that I might not have had the stones to attend these comic cons. But here I was, dragged out of my Batgirl Cave yet again.

And among the smallish but enthusiastic crowd gathering to attend the panel I saw David.

And I said to Self,

"Him. I want to know him better."

Totally unplanned. I literally pushed another person out of the way to talk to him. I pressed my business card (okay, an index card with a hastily-scribbled phone number) in his palm and said, "We should hang out."

"That would be awesome," he answered.

"We should really hang out," I repeated for emphasis.

Then I said,

"You know, we should really hang out."

"That would be awesome," he replied.

David didn't exude the usual fanboyness (besides the fact that he was attending the Valiant Comics panel discussion), so I was caught a little off-guard. No superhero shirt. He had a portfolio in his hands filled with samples of his advertising work, which he showed me. In the seconds before the panel started, I hastily tried to figure him out, to pin him down. He was different.

My cynicism, finely tempered through various and sundry events including a torn cervix and boyfriends who wanted to get an agreement up-front that I was "down" for pregnancy termination in the off-chance we screwed up, hemmed and hawed:

"Watch out, Xena," Cynical Superheroine cautioned, "This might be a trap. Ares might be behind it. You're better off playing pinochle with Joxer, drinking a warm beverage, and calling it a night."

But then I thought, as I approached the podium for the panel discussion, as I saw David in the crowd --

--what did I think? Should I tell you? Should I tell you what I thought, this utterly jaded, angry, distrustful, damaged Occasional Superheroine?

"Oh God...I know this sounds crazy. But. Please. Him."

Two Weeks Later...

Two Weeks Later...

How does a normally shy, self-effacing person who has just had her most guarded emotions and painful life experiences read by several thousands of people feel, exactly?

Part of me feels really liberated. When people ask me what most motivated me to write all this, I say that I was sick and tired of carrying "shame" around with me. For example, my broken vagina (it always comes back to broken vagina). After I had the accident I was caught between an intense need to talk to people about it -- or at least admit to what had happened -- and the "shame" over the intimate nature of the incident and the need to cover it up. So I would use coy phrases like "sudden unexplained internal hemmorage" or "tonsilitis" to explain away the last week where I was down several liters of blood and wasn't seeing any visitors.

But you can't call "broken vagina" tonsilitis. If the reader carries nothing else away with them from this blog, it is this.

*** *** ***

On the first date I have with this new guy, I tell him about broken vagina. I think that's reasonable. It's like a litmus test. You have the grace period where you are first chatting on the phone, getting to know someone, and then you meet up and at some point you say "broken vagina" and if they stay, you have a keeper.

One of the first questions I ask him over dinner is if he is familiar with comics at all. People who aren't familiar with comics will usually answer something like "Well, I've seen Spiderman 2." Which is what he said. Then he asked me if anything interesting happened in the intervening two weeks since we last saw each other.

By the time we are downing the tiramisu he asks,

"Will this be in your blog?"

"Well I don't know. Do you want this to be in the blog?"

"I don't know...I mean, what part will I play?"

Having dinner with him, I feel like a princess. It's a classy joint. My date is very animated and dramatic and holds court with the maitre'd and waitresses. Plus, he's ok with broken vagina. And I am just so tickled and flattered and I do this Drew Barrymore move where I sort of look demure and giggle and bend my mouth in a way that is both sweet and looks like a stroke victim.

The check turns out to be like $150. Which, I suppose is what you get for dining in a place that provides you not only with mouthwash in the restrooms but a selection of tampons in a crystal decanter. I feel awkward, like I should really chip in. By this point, we have somehow downed two bottles of shiraz and when I get up to put on my coat I realize I am bombed.

I try dialing my mom so maybe I can crash at her place in Manhattan. But she doesn't answer the phone. In about 15 minutes I'm on a train with my date to someplace.

Shit.

*** *** ***

The critics of my memoir fall into several different camps. There is the "there is no correlation between sexually violent and exploitative female images in entertainment and the ill treatment of women" contingent. Though I do not propose any sort of "comics code" or censorship and have a degree of respect & admiration for artists such as Wally Wood, Adam Hughes, and Frank Cho, I think such a blanket viewpoint is a bit naive. Certainly there is at least the faintest, tiniest relationship between the Image and the Attitude; the image influencing the attitude, or the attitude reflected in the produced image.

Then there is the "this is a flawed feminist treatise" crowd, who points out, among other things, my ambivalence over cheesecake art and my occasionally crude speech pattern as undermining my Cause. I suppose that my answer would be, I had no specific Cause in writing the memoir, no set list of talking points I wished to win the debate club with. This was, in the end, the story of a Life. Here are the elements, here are my emotions, and here is a No. 2 pencil -- draw what conclusions or connections you would like.

Of course, there is the small but wizened crew who feel that the narrative, as one Metafilter "tag" described it, is "batshitinsane." Well, surely it is a fucked up tale of vaginal bleeding, rape pages, lesbian Ice Maidens, and bipolar body-building patriarchs. Also, I realize that something like this blog, in terms of the comic industry, is somewhat of a mutant shitstorm. And, to many of those who knew me personally, the act of writing the material and having the stones to post it is pretty damn near jawdropping. Well. Batshitinsane, huh? I guess it makes life at least more interesting, if nothing else. Beats being a mild-mannered ad-copy writer for a major metropolitan blah-blah-blah my whole life. Life is short -- let's say what we have to say, live the way we have to live, and grab existence by the cojones, batshit or not.

As for those who consider the memoir nothing more than just another "disgruntled employee rant"...gosh, I don't know what to say to that. Other than that we must remember that Peter Parker was the original disgruntled employee. Wasn't that issue where J. Jonah told him "I really like brunettes with spit-curls" the one where they had to take the Code off the cover?

But the critique of "Goodbye to Comics" that I do have to sit up and take notice of is the one about participating in the prolonging of the cycle of exploitation. Because as much as reading that critique makes me cringe, it is ultimately true. Having seen it from the inside, however, I have to say it is not so easy as a positive-thinking guru or several sessions with a Scientologist would have you believe. But in the end, our Will and self-respect is all we have.

*** *** ***

So now I'm drunk, drowsy, and in another man's bedroom on the first date. The crucial mistake was obviously somewhere back at the restaurant, doing the Drew Barrymore thing, having a good time, and losing track of how many glasses of shiraz I was consuming. Classic, classic fuck-up -- I mean, high-school level shit. Great.

Not that the guy is hard on the eyes or anything. But after my adventures with broken vagina and just contemplating issues of self-respect and whatnot -- I just don't want to jump in with having sex on the first date. But somewhere between him lending me his contact lens case and us falling to sleep an hour or so later, there is a lot of foreplay. And a degree of fiveplay. The dude is fit and lean and really into yoga; at one point I am standing on my head.

But I really don't want to have full-on sex right now. But here I already put myself in an extremely compromising situation. Now I'm feeling pressure to have sex with him on many fronts, most of them solely residing in my mind. A) He just spent $150 on the meal. B) I'm tired and drowsy and maybe this would just be easier. C) I feel if I don't have sex with him now he'll resent and hate me. D) By all intents and purposes I've kind of really placed myself in this position, and have only myself to blame anyway so why not?

Eventually, I say "no." No, we are not having sex now; yes, I know I put myself in this compromising position but no I am not having sex with you now because I don't feel ready.

I've never really took a stand like that before. I mean, ever.

And he understood and it was ok.

And one thing he said right before we went to sleep really stuck with me.

He said,

"You have a beautiful vagina."

*** *** ***

So what have we learned today, boys and girls?

1) I can stand on my head

2) Peter Parker was the original disgruntled employee

3) The classiest joints have mouthwash and tampons in a crystal decanter

But keep track of the shiraz.