Cheesecake And A Fork

Magritte, a photo by The Physiognomist on Flickr.

There's this actor named Jon Hamm.  Every so often it's pointed out that he's got a rather large dick. Being a slow news week, the latest acknowledgement of his package led to a media frenzy. Knowledgeable sources were quoted talking about on set reaction to the The Full Hamm. Quotes popped up in the usual places from friends of friends who know this guy who walks this dog that once passed by Jon Hamm and wow did that dog react! Reporters asked Hamm to discuss his endowment. Understandably, the actor was not amused by this sexual harassment.

Thus more ink was spilled. Should Hamm expect pants privacy? What does it mean that the age of junk measurement is upon us? Some excellent satire was written using the language usually applied to women's bodies. Discussions are underway about how we objectify women (That new hairstyle is not doing John Kerry any favors. Staffers hide his styling products but he just buys more!) while allowing men bodily autonomy. Except, you know, not really. There was something missing from the last few weeks for me. I did not feel any piece had a real sense of regret for Jon Hamm, the man. While I understand the impulse to come from a place of "How do you like it now, male members of society!" the man has been violated. He has been victimized and I will be happy to cry him the appropriate river.

As a society, we should absolutely not be so obsessed with policing each other's bodies. That includes the bodies of men. The recent focus on Hamm brings to mind an internet conversation I once had with Mark Consuelos. At the time, he was better known than his wife (Kelly Ripa) and was holding a chat for whatever project he was promoting. I asked him about his stint as a romance novel cover model. Consuelos was uncomfortable with it. It's been far too many years for me to recall his exact words but it was obvious that this was a career choice he was not happy to have made, one that he would prefer to forget. We talked briefly about the Cult of Fabio that was in it's heyday and the odd objectification of these cover models by book fans. I hope, and believe, that he understood I was speaking from a place of curiosity (which turned to empathy) and not from fandom.

I am uncomfortable with the way we depersonalize humans once their image has been captured. It might be Man Titty Monday, it might be Turkish Oil Wrestling, but women who would rail against soft core galleries of female celebrities are completely at ease objectifying their male counterparts. The answer of objectification is not more objectification, and yet as Jon Hamm has discovered - that's how we roll. If your coworker came home, cracked open the laptop and began composing explicit sex scenes about you and the boss it would freak you out. It would cross boundaries. It would be very not ok. Yet this is an accepted practice in fan fiction - to write about sexual relationships between actual people. Actors and actresses are told that they have to expect these objectifications as part of their employment. By going to work, they have invited this.

I can't agree. I have never agreed. There is a privacy we should each be afforded as humans, a line that is crossed so often we forget it exists in their lives, as it does in our own. Finding an individual attractive, admiring their publicity shots or collecting a gallery of ridiculously photogenic people is normal. Viewing other humans as something consumable, something to be examined and used in whatever way the viewer feels appropriate is simply wrong. When we encounter it, our reaction should always be the same. Regret. Sorrow. An understanding that something undesirable has taken place.

I wrote this piece earlier today. I was thinking in terms of celebrity and online culture. A man I've known casually for almost two decades told me something I'd never known about him. For 16 years he moonlighted as a male stripper. It was, he said, degrading dehumanizing physically painful work he would never wish on anyone. Men were generally respectful, possibly as a result of the homophobia of the time. Women, especially once drunk, became frighteningly aggressive. It was routine for them to yank on his dick, to tug his concealed sexual organs into the open without warning or permission. Stripping was a life that once he started, he had trouble leaving. If he knew now how he would feel about it, it's not a life he would have chosen. But at the time, it seemed an ideal second job. The days turn to weeks to months to years to decades to bad memories that you don't shake. Those women saw their fantasy, not the man in front of them. Fantasies don't require consideration. By showing up for work, their consent is presumed. To all of them, whoever they are, my support.