My perusal of your uproarious Penis Project just happened to coincide with my recent acquaintance with the next-to-nothing apparel the women are wearing in beach volleyball competition these days, most recently in evidence during the Beijing Olympics.  Following is a little pertinent anecdote I shared last week with some girlfriends and fellow sexual politic bloggers which I thought you might enjoy.

Six or so months ago a guy I’d just recently been introduced to, Sean (my now boyfriend), was fielding ideas for a second date.  I suggested that we check out our new neighborhood aquatic center, go for a swim as we both swam competitively in high school and I wanted to work the old front crawl and backstroke back into my regular workout regimen.

As we surveyed the scene down at the lanes from the overhead observation deck, Sean immediately noted that all of the guys were wearing either knee-length jammers or the new full coverage bodysuits without so much as a single pair of racing briefs in sight.  He’d forgotten all about the fairly recent design innovations in men’s competitive swimwear and hadn’t realized that the more full coverage men’s suits had caught on to such an extent.

I was amused to say the least that though he’d worn a pair of skimpy Speedos regularly in mixed company for the better part of his life he suddenly felt extremely self-conscious about doing so again given the context, the dynamics of the situation, he being the only guy in the near altogether.

Though I acknowledged his discomfort outwardly I chuckled inside as we made our way to the facility’s swim shop on his quest for more modest coverage. 

Wouldn’t yah know it, everything sold out.  Seems there’d been a run on the inventory last weekend what with the hosting of a major regional swim meet. 

Sean cleared his throat and asked the teenage girl behind the counter if guys still wear racing briefs competitively, for lap swimming.

“Sometimes, I guess,” she smirked.  “But I’ve never seen any.”

An elderly woman, a fellow employee, emerged from the back room on the heels of the young lady’s comment and having a little fun at his expense dubiously reassured Sean with a pat on the shoulder that though men’s bikini sightings were becoming rarer and rarer his “skimpies” certainly wouldn’t be the first to “grace us with their presence.”

“C’mon, let’s go, suit up.  Dare to bare!”, I chided him out in the hallway, heading towards the women’s locker room with a backward glance and a wink.

Seemed every female attendee of every age poolside was stealing glances at Sean in his cute little “huggies” for the first several minutes or so until the novelty wore off…


Afterwards much later once Sean and I had become an item he confessed to me how unnerving it was given the circumstances for me to see him in such a revealing outfit like that, nearly nude on a second date, that I could see his clearly-defined manhood, take the measure of him as it were as men always do of women and their figures, their breasts upon first meeting (sadly, one of my less-than-well-endowed female friends recently confessed to me that she wears loose-fitting tops, vests on blind dates, first introductions with men as she fears they might not be able to get past the boyishness of her figure before getting to know her). Given that he was the only guy present in such a state of undress, it was suddenly a novel experience for him---He of the Emperor’s New Clothes!

Pity the “weenie bikini” has apparently gone the way of the dinosaur in the U.S.; apart from men’s diving events and the gay community it’s apparently on the verge of extinction, having never caught on historically as casual swimwear among hetero men this side of the Atlantic.  It’s a particularly sore point with me, the feminist.  With so many issues between the sexes being unequal, it afforded women a unique opportunity to size up, have a ganders at a man’s nethers in public and I’m the first to admit to stealing glances, enjoying the sight of a well-turned male body so slightly adorned, leaving so little to the imagination (I’m English, BTW, and have spent a lot of time frequenting mainland European beaches).

I understand there’s a regulation established by the Fédération Internationale de Volleyball, the sport’s international governing body, that specifies the maximum

amount of a female beach volleyball player’s rear end that can be covered by her swimsuit.


Because men would be far less inclined to tune in without the gratuitous exposure of female flesh?  So men’s prurient interest in the exposed female body in large part validates women’s beach volley as a spectator sport and guarantees network coverage? The disconcerting message here to young women is that in order to get ahead in a male dominant society one must prostrate oneself before, one must render obligatory naked obeisance before the all-powerful corporate phallus which holds dominion over all.

In retaliation maybe we women should band together, clamor to the FIVB for men to ditch the mid-thigh trunks and a loose tank top in deference to the feminine preference for men in weenie bikinis.  We could stipulate a “skimpiness index” when it comes to dimensions and insist that each participant be encased in a pair at least two sizes too small to better accentuate what’s up front and what’s in back, hmmm? Your thoughts?

Yikes!  What’s the statement behind your “Dicks On A Stick” series?  Penis brochette, penises on roasting skewers?

Which penises are your favorites? Blue Boy is kinda cute—hard to distinguish the frank from the beans with this guy as the shrinkage effect is very much in evidence.  If I had to choose a single favorite, though,  I’d have to go with Spanky;  what a shrinking little violet he is—just needs a little love, a little cuddling, a little more encouragement and his spirits will assuredly grow (smiles)!

Any new shows on the horizon?  And, BTW, Phyllis Morehead, one of your correspondents and an associate of mine brought The Project to my attention..