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Itty Bitty Titty Committee/The Return of the Petite Prick
http://www.feministe.us/blog/archives/2012/01/20/itty-bitty-titty-committee/
It’s a funny thing, what Simon Doonan is doing here: He’s arguing from the basic assumption that among straight men today, small breasts are universally deemed unattractive. And large breasts are fake. And back in the day, small breasts were attractive because they were class markers of the “cool girls” who you wanted to hang out with, not the “barmaids and strippers” who you undoubtedly fucked but probably didn’t want to be seen in public with.
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It’s a funny thing, what Simon Doonan is doing here: He’s arguing from the basic assumption that among straight men today, small breasts are universally deemed unattractive. And large breasts are fake. And back in the day, small breasts were attractive because they were class markers of the “cool girls” who you wanted to hang out with, not the “barmaids and strippers” who you undoubtedly fucked but probably didn’t want to be seen in public with.
...
http://kateharding.info/2012/01/19/the-return-of-the-petite-prick-could-small-cocks-make-a-comeback/
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A non-existent trend in restaurants—I like to imagine foodie insiders would call them pricketerias—would, if it existed, justify my desire to write phrases like “leviathan love muscles” and get paid for it, even though I’m basically making shit up. Examples might include Seattle-based Peckerheads, where the waiters are dressed as firefighters, football players and racecar drivers–but you know, slutty ones–and The Open Fly, which could have more than fifty—count ‘em!—locations nationwide, plus one in Canada, if we lived in a culture that regarded the male body as an object for consumption, like tasty hot wings. And then there’s the Back Door … But let’s not get distracted by asstaurants. Let’s stick with the topic at hand: With their phalanxes of liberally endowed, Speedo-clad serving drudges, these phallus palaces are poised to make even old-school Jumbo Johnson’s (that’s what I assume the old school version would have been called) appear tentative, restrained, and genteel, to mention nothing of causing my (similarly non-existent) insecure MRA brother to have a seizure.
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A non-existent trend in restaurants—I like to imagine foodie insiders would call them pricketerias—would, if it existed, justify my desire to write phrases like “leviathan love muscles” and get paid for it, even though I’m basically making shit up. Examples might include Seattle-based Peckerheads, where the waiters are dressed as firefighters, football players and racecar drivers–but you know, slutty ones–and The Open Fly, which could have more than fifty—count ‘em!—locations nationwide, plus one in Canada, if we lived in a culture that regarded the male body as an object for consumption, like tasty hot wings. And then there’s the Back Door … But let’s not get distracted by asstaurants. Let’s stick with the topic at hand: With their phalanxes of liberally endowed, Speedo-clad serving drudges, these phallus palaces are poised to make even old-school Jumbo Johnson’s (that’s what I assume the old school version would have been called) appear tentative, restrained, and genteel, to mention nothing of causing my (similarly non-existent) insecure MRA brother to have a seizure.
...