Male nipples "too bold", too "commercially difficult…"
Some time ago, the noted Chas Smith wrote, “The male bosom is a thing of wonder. It is, first, more varied than its female counterpart. It can be hard as chiseled stone or as soft as a grandmother’s love. It can be a jungle of wild growth or as smooth as R. Kelly. Its nipple, never or rarely hidden from sight, doesn’t hold the fascination to a life-giving teat, but its openness invites scrutiny.”
More importantly, he wrote that it is a “a window into man’s soul. The male breast that is voluptuous, for example, hides a lifetime of torment. Its bearer has cowered in locker rooms, gymnasiums, trysts. Its bearer shies away from mirrors and warm summer’s days, carrying an inordinate amount of shame. The male breast that is Luke Stedman (hollow or chicken) represents all the mountains in the world. Its bearer has climbed to great heights with an obvious and visible flaw, though not as obvious and visible as voluptuousness. Its bearer has become someone despite a giant warning sign hovering right over his heart. And if he has not become someone? His poor heart has no protection and thus forgiveness is expected. The male breast that is Dwayne “The Rock” Johnston is a victory in genetic lottery. Its bearer has as easy road. Spring break? Yes, please. Spills in restaurants? Don’t mind if I simply remove my shirt. But does the easy road properly a man make? Is the pinnacle of male perfection really just a millstone that sucks a fragile, half-baked soul to the bottom?”
Finally, he said, “It is amusing. What is the purpose of the male bosom? Is it an evolutionary mistake? Does it somehow highlight the existence of a humor-filled creator? Endless metaphysical discussions swirl around the hirsute areola. Surfers, and especially professional, bear their breasts for a living. What do these tits say? What secrets do they hold?”
Lately, the World Surf League has demolished the ripe male bodies of professional surfers by eliminating nipples in photographs; each rider struck down by a flesh-eating disease that concentrates its virus on the sensitive pigmented brown skin of the breast and the projecting papilla.
Where are John John Florence’s nipples like attack dogs?
Where are Gabriel’s brave little macaroons?
Where are teenage Filipe’s soft plums, those mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent protuberances?
Is this the desolate cry of equality? Or some dreadful sin-guilt neurosis?
“Everyone says sex is obscene,” the writer Henry Miller said. “The only true obscenity is war.”