ATOMIC DOG
Girls Gone Not So Wild
by TC

The Atomic Dog is a weekly feature that isn't necessarily about weight training or bodybuilding. Sometimes it's about sports in general, sex, women, or male issues of some kind. At times it's inspirational, but it can also be informative, funny, and even a little weird, but hopefully, always interesting and a little controversial. We hope it reflects the nature of Testosterone magazine in that, just as no man is completely one-dimensional and only interested in one subject, neither are we. If it makes you think or laugh — or even get angry — it's served its purpose.

The ruler Phalaris has been called a monster, but sometimes I think he was a pretty ingenious guy.

Phalaris was a tyrant who bedeviled Acragas in Sicily from 570 to 554 B.C. As a tyrant he was of course always looking for novel ways to be cruel. That's naturally what any tyrant worth his wound-rubbing salt does; it's part of the job description.

During a moment of inspiration, probably while cooking some ribs on the grill, it came to him, what he called "the perfect art of cruelty."

He summoned a sculptor from Athens named Perillus and ordered him to create a hollow, life-size iron bull with a door on the side. The door could be locked from the outside.

Phalaris, the ol' scamp, would then invite beautiful women and beautiful boys over to wine and feast and after the main course, he'd shove somebody into the bull, lock the door, and then order his servants to light a fire under it.

Tell me that's not more entertaining that an ordinary dinner show where Wayne Newton sings Danke Schoen.

But here's the ingenious part. The sculpture was fitted with some acoustic mechanism through which the screams of the victim sounded like the bellowing of a bull.

Oh, and you know who Phalaris' first victim was, the guy he tested it on?

Perillus, the guy who built the bull! Now that's style. That's panache.

People talk about Saddam Hussein and Kim Jong Il being tyrants, but those guys were poseurs compared to Phalaris. Poison gas and firing squads? Lame!

There are actually times I'd like to have Phalaris' bull. I think the first person I'd shove into it would be Paris Hilton, the queen of hot. I wouldn't even have to deceive her much. I'd just tell her she was going to be roasted and she'd naturally assume it was one of those Comedy Central things where Andy Dick and other B-list celebrities get drunk or stoned and take turns poking fun at her vagina.

After I lit the fire, I'd thump on the side of the bull and shout, "Paris, I've got one question. Since you're the expert on the subject, tell me, IS IT HOT?"

Har-har-har! Pass the barbecue sauce!

Next on my list of charred meats would be all the people who made Paris Hilton the number one and the number five most-searched Internet terms of the year in 2005 and 2006. Never mind the Iraq war, the mid-term elections, global warming, stem cell research, Darfur, resveratrol, or any one of about a billion topics more search-worthy, Paris, and this past year, Britney Spears, were what these mulyaks cared about most.

Folks, the line for the bull starts right here. Please, no shoving, there's plenty of meat-searing heat for everyone.

I don't know why I'm so resentful of Ms. Hilton. After all, she really is the perfect symbol for Americans, much more than that dreary old bald eagle.

In fact, I'd like to see it made official. Let's put Paris on our currency.

We wouldn't even have to get rid of the stuff the eagle is usually depicted carrying. For instance, you could make a leafy g-string out of the olive branch and have her carry the arrows in a big phallic quiver. Sure, and during times of peace, she could be portrayed massaging her right breast and during times of war, she'd be massaging the left.

She'd be ideal since she represents so many of us. She's vapid, anti-intellectual, and, despite her outward appearance, pretty much asexual.

I'm serious about the asexual part. Give me a minute to present my case. In fact, I think the latter is what's really bugging me about Paris. She's caused me to doubt female sexuality, caused me to think it's maybe a myth like that Santa fella who coincidentally also comes but once a year.

I tell you, my cootchie Katra is in limbo, waiting for some libidinous Vulcan priestess to reunite it with my corporeal self.

Oh, I still love my strippers, Daily Niners, and assorted hootchie mammas as much as ever, but I just finished reading this book, Female Chauvinist Pigs by Ariel Levy, and Ms. Levy talks about Ms. Hilton a lot.

Levy pointed out that during Pairs' infamous green colored sex videos, the hotel heiress looks absolutely bored. Of course she was bored; she didn't have an audience! (Well, she would later when the thing was put on the Internet, but she didn't know that at the time.) She even answers her cell phone while having intercourse.

"Oh, hi Nicole. Not much, just getting boned in the ass. You?"

Given her lack of enthusiasm, Paris might as well have been watching something like, intellectual, but put her in front of a photographer's camera, put her in front of a crowd, and she gets wet, Katrina wet.

She even told a Rolling Stone reporter that her boyfriends, to a man, or to a hamster as the case may be, told her she was sexy but not sexual.

Similarly, her equally vapid celebrity peers, Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson, always sing about sex but claim they don't actually participate in it (asides from the random procreative act).

The scary part of this — the part that won't allow me to fall asleep at night anymore unless I cradle my bewildered nutsack with my collection of plush Teddy Bears—is that I'm starting to think this is really, really common, and that the National female libido is on life support.

Oh, girls act hot. Given the rate at which they pose naked; given the sheer number who take off their clothes and do the dying cockroach pose; given the sheer number that stick their assess out towards the Nikon lens — an act known as "presenting" in the animal kingdom — I calculate that every adult woman in America, including Laura and Barbra Bush, will soon have posed naked, or at least in their barely-there underwear, for Internet distribution.

But they're not necessarily hot in the traditional sense—they're not wanton vixens who hunger for man meat—they're just trying to look hot.

Likewise, girls fight to flash their titties to the Girls Gone Wild people for little more than an appropriately tight GGW T-shirt. Again, just the appearance of hotness.

Go to a bar, feed two girls as little as a shot of tequila, and you can in most cases easily coax them into staging a make-out session. They're not doing it because it turns them on; they're doing it because it turns you on and awards them the highly coveted hot label.

Girls in high school and college will allegedly give a blowjob more freely than they'll hand out their class notes. Sometimes they'll do it while reading their class notes! Perversely, receiving oral sex from a male is considered weird.

Aldous Huxley warned of a world where we'd arrange for sexual intercourse as easily as we arranged a coffee date, with the same degree of politeness and boredom. Well, it seems to have happened, only most of us men aren't bored. The women are the ones who are bored with the coffee date and they really don't care if you hold the cream or not.

Levy thinks that hotness has become the ultimate currency and she's pretty sad about it because this hotness is no longer about being arousing or alluring, it's about being worthwhile. Girls and women portray hot for social and economic advancement. As unfortunate as that is, it's probably been true for a helluva' long time, but true sexiness was always lurking behind their heaving bosoms in days gone by. Not so much anymore.

I've often written that women are worse than us when it comes to being nasty in bed, but could it be that it's all an act, all staged to portray über-hotness? Hey, all you shaved hoo-hahs, are you down there listening or are you watching a Carmen Electra striptease video, half in excitement and half in horror because your owner will soon be grinding you into a stripper pole so that you look like Jersey Joe Walcott's face after Rocky Marciano just planted a pile driver into it, just so she can look hot?

But why, if it's really true, aren't women sexually turned on anymore? Have we males shampooed, waxed, and cologned our attractiveness away? Do many of us look and act too much like you lady folk to elicit your passion? Or have our pheromones been perfumed-up beyond recognition?

Where have all the cocksmen gone, lonnng time passing?

Or does it have more to do with the culture, the culture represented by Paris and her ilk? Do you represent sexuality so often that you've grown immune to true sexuality? Are you like junkies who need a bigger and bigger fix to get off?

Tell me it isn't so.

You know, Phalaris, ironically, was the last guy to get cooked in his iron bull. He was forced into it, though. If I find out that this loss of female sexuality is real, I'll crawl into my bull on my own. Got a light?