On behalf of all email- and text-receiving women, I have a message regarding the growing phenomenon of men who feel compelled to send photos, including but not limited to distinguished members of Congress, of their ever-increasingly distinguishable members: We do not want to see them.
Some anthropologists (or maybe just I, who once took an anthropology class) believe the trend dates back to prehistoric times when cavemen used to leave crude depictions of themselves wielding large sticks on cave walls. But, much like their descendants today, cavewomen merely rolled their eyes and continued selecting their mates based on who was the best dancer.
Fast-forward to art of the Renaissance Period. More refined than the cavemen, artists of this era used a variety of media to showcase the beauty of man. One particular man, I believe his name was David, asked a buddy of his to create a 17-foot sculpture of himself in order to catch the eye of a Florentine princess. While the piece was hard to miss, the princess could not get over David’s blatant disregard for adequate protection during slingshot battle.
Centuries passed before George Eastman leveled the playing field for artists and non-artists alike with the invention of his Kodak camera. One hundred years of men privately photographing their privates later, Drake Publications took the trend public, launching Playgirl with hopes of capitalizing on the flip side of Hugh Hefner’s famously bunny-clad coin, only to find women actually did prefer the articles.
And now our country’s own public servants cannot take office without sending photos of the very same parts Adam and Eve of Eden-gate tried so desperately to hide from their Creator, or at least the tabloids.
Shame-laden press conferences alone cannot end this millennia-long belief that women derive pleasure from photo verification of one’s gender, so let me give it a try.
If you want to impress a woman, do not send close-ups of your Elvis region. Unless it can fold and sort laundry, it has no unique talent to offer beyond that which we know and for which we are grateful — multiple times over. But we do not care how big it is, we do not care what it looks like in a Speedo. We don’t want to know what you have named it or how eager it is for company. Not in a box, not with a fox, not even if you’re hung like an ox.
Instead, pick up that camera, pan out a bit and send us a shot of you vacuuming the living room or making dinner or shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Send us a video of you singing a love song or reciting poetry. And if you must use the zoom lens, let it be on the single tear you shed when you think about the beauty of a sunset, the smell of a newborn baby or the joy of extended family gatherings with your in-laws.
But for the love of humanity, keep the toys in the toybox and away from Twitter. We’ll let you know when it’s playtime.