First, thanks for the kind words!

Second, I don’t know why precisely, and I have just spent a long time writing Part 9, which I just posted, and so I don’t really have the energy right now to unpack why, but what you wrote put me in mind of these passages from A Mind of Its Own, by David M. Friedman, which is a really interesting cultural history of the penis. He is writing about one root of the ideology of the penis with a life/mind of its own in Christian thought:

Augustine’s epiphany was tautological: he was powerless to control the penis because he was powerless. Free choices is an illusion. Adam’s birthright at Creation was freedom, defined by Augustine as the ability to obey God, yet Adam scorned that gift because he wanted the “freedom to do wickedness.” Adam’s sin deprived his descendants of the freedom to choose not to sin. The ultimate embodiment of this, Augustine wrote, is “disobedience in the member.” After Adam and Eve flouted God’s will by eating the forbidden fruit, they experienced two new sensations: shame at their nakedness an sexual stirrings they could not control. “We are ashamed of that very thing which made those being ashamed, when they covered their loins.” That “very thing” is a spontaneous erection.

[…]

Before sinning, Adam and Eve had mastery over sex, procreating as an act of volition, “the way one commands his feet when he walks.” But since leaving Eden men have become powerless over, and tortured by, erections. “At times the urge intrudes uninvited,” Augustine wrote in City of God. “At other times, it deserts the panting lover, and, although desire blazes in the mind, the body is frigid.” For the Greeks and Romans, an erection was like a change in heartbeat: involuntary, and not susceptible to blame or praise. But for Augustine the cause and the effect of original sin is lust, the symptom and the disease is the erection. With this one stroke, this one man transformed the penis more than any men who yet lived: the sacred staff became the demon rod. (pages 38-39)

Wish I could unpack this further, but there are some other comments I have to get to.

This from Jake Squid in comment #12: For me, there is a significant difference between not being in control of part of my body and feeling that the body part has a life of its own. The real feeling of a body part “having a life of its own” is something that I’ve never had and don’t feel that I’m capable of having.

This makes me think of the language used to describe impairment and disability. Traditionally, the language tends toward describing lack of control. For example, a tumor grows “wildly”, “out of control” or “rampant.” Paralysis of legs might be described as “loss of all ability to move or control.” And it’s common in both personal memoir writing or medical parlance to see references to impaired body parts like, “the legs” in a depersonalizing sense, separating the body part from the person.

That is the traditional language of conveying disability. Disability theory attempts to turn much of that on its head, exploring what an “unruly” body might be or describing the spasticity of cerebral palsy, for example, as “exhuberant flailing.”

The cultural description of penises as “having lives of their own” is quite different from traditional language describing disability, isn’t it? And, I suspect, not just because lack of control of an erection isn’t an impairment in terms of bodily “abnormality.” Agency changes without the person owning the body losing social status if lack of control is described as this extra, other life.

Language about disability can be interpreted quite easily as “feminizing” or “emasculating.” Paralysis is apparently often literally seen as emasculation in the way strangers will ask men with paraplegia or quadriplegia about their penises, sex lives, erection capability, etc. with the goal of learning, “Can he get it up?” And the cultural idea that a penis has a life of its own manages to convey loss of control while escaping this sense of feminization or submission or outright loss, I think.

Interesting.

a little off-topic, but I wanted to address this from Diana. I’ve had two male friends who had problems with making sexual advances in their sleep — whether it was kissing or rolling on top of sleeping partners or initiating sex without apparent awareness of the partner’s interest or lack thereof. scary for the sleeping partner, and for the sleeper, once awakened. with advance warning, a sleeping partner can simply take steps to awaken the sleeper (independent of the sexual action); without such knowledge, severe misunderstandings (and, I could imagine, violation) could definitely occur. it’s a known syndrome, and quite apart from the mere separateness of penis and guy…

I remember feeling violated, but not really understanding why. Maybe because I always felt like my penis was part of me and they were somehow othering it for me.

Truly weird.

Regardless, I don’t have a name for it to this day, and I can’t imagine naming it. It’s my dick, it’s attached. It’s as much a part of me as my hand or my nose. My ability to control my erection is roughly equivalent to my ability to balance while doing a dancer’s pose or a shoulder stand in yoga. Just because I have a hard time controlling it sometimes doesn’t mean it’s not me.

1. In her essay Compulsory Heterosexuality–which I have not read in a long time and my copy of which is currently in storage–Adrienne Rich mentions the “penis with a life/mind [don’t remember which] of its own” as part of patriarchal ideology, along the lines of what Diana has talked about in her comments. It seems to me that this is something men live in relation to, whether we internalize it as part of how we think of our genitals or not–as Jake has stated rather absolutely that he has not. This is not the same thing as the metaphorical thinking about our bodies that Magniloquence is talking about, which goes on all the time and which, as Michael points out, we extend to many parts of our bodies other than our genitals. When I suggested it would be interesting for men to talk about the penis-with-a-life/mind-of-its-own (PWALOIO) metaphor, I was thinking of both these things. Jake, for example, has written:

Well, there have certainly been times when I wasn’t in control of whether or not I had an erection. But I don’t see that as significantly different than the times I haven’t been able to get my hair to lie right. For me, there is a significant difference between not being in control of part of my body and feeling that the body part has a life of its own.

While there is a way in which I, for one, would agree with him now–though I still think things are more complicated than that–it certainly did not feel when I was younger that having an erection was in the same category as having unruly hair. In other words, the stance towards the body that he talks about is one that I arrived at; it was not the one most easily available to me, and while I don’t have time right now to work through how I arrived at this position, what I was suggesting was that it would be interesting for men to talk about how we arrived at the positions we currently hold. Robert’s distinction between not being in control of our desire and being in control of our behavior, for example, is another position it would be worth hearing about how it was arrived at. (Why? Well, for example, it is not clear to me that having an erection is always an expression/manifestation of desire; sometimes, in my experience, desire has come after I already have an erection.)

2. Jake asked what I meant by the PWALOIO metaphor “both emerg[ing] from and shap[ing]–or shap[ing], and so emerg[ing] from–the experience of the male body.” I guess what I was thinking about was, in the first case, how one might come to that metaphor through experiencing unwanted erections and/or the inability to have an erection when one wants one and, in the second, how the imposition of that metaphor as an ideology shapes the way men think about our bodies.

Although I can see the line one might draw between the othering of one’s penis and the abdication of responsibility for it, I’m not so sure that they are causally connected. [Edited to add: That is, I think they’re independent phenomena. However, that doesn’t mean that people don’t use them in the way that you’re talking about, similar to the way people use getting drunk; it wasn’t me, it was the _______. We accept it in the realm of the polite fiction, even if we all actually understand that the mechanism is incorrect. That doesn’t excuse bad behavior at all, of course… but I think it’s a factor independent of this particular phenomenon.]

What I was most strongly reminded of in this thread was the research I did (and read) for my thesis… people create independent personas all the time, and they integrate characters they create into their own identities all the time.

When I’m talking about what my character does in a game, I might say “I just got a new axe” or “[my character] had a really rough day today” or “We explored the dark caverns with so-and-so.” That doesn’t mean I’m not clear that my character is a bunch of pixels on a screen, or that I think I’m an elf or a witch or a giant cow-creature. It’s more complicated than that, more fluid.

And that’s what I feel goes on a lot when people talk about parts of themselves as other entities. “Wow, my breasts just won’t leave me alone today!” I know that they’re a part of me, and that I am responsible for them … but I’m expressing a feeling in a way that is nevertheless true (for me).

‘…the ears lay on the table like a bag of dried apricots’;

‘…and the blood of children ran through the streets,/ without fuss, like the blood of children’.

I cannot recall exactly the argument Paz (if he was indeed the author of this essay) was making, but I think it involved asserting that at times a moral imperative demands that we call things simply by their names. And I am sure that he also recognised that much of the force of Neruda’s line (about the blood of children) derived from our subverted expectation of metaphor. The sudden identity (where we expected simile) startles us into recognising a fatal singularity.

But of course it is not just in poems that we call things by the names of other things, and of course our genitals are not the only parts of our bodies that we are in the habit of naming variously (affectionately, derogatorily, familiarly, clinically, humorously, etc.)

The head (bean, box, block, cabbage, crown, noggin, noodle, etc.) is surely as variously termed as the penis (and of course the latter is often referred to as the former).

The mouth (pie hole, chops, gob, kisser, smacker, etc.) and the nose (conk, honker, sniffer, and of course, pecker) often have affectionate or derogatory names attached to them (as does the face as an ensemble; the eyes, too, are often affectionately termed; the ears perhaps less so).

The buttocks and anus are so commonly called otherwise that it feels strangely formal to refer to them so.

There’s no need for me to go on. The way we name different parts of our bodies of course depends on where we find ourselves speaking about them, and to whom. Certain usages would sound, ‘clinical’, ‘vulgar’, ‘offensive’, ‘endearing’, ‘hillarious’, ‘familiar’, ‘normal’ in particular settings and otherwise in other settings.

Common usage is never innocent, to be sure, but nevertheless, I think it’s worth simply mentioning that the penis is not the only member that we name ‘otherwise’. Nor is the penis the only part of the body that is often experienced as ‘other’. Our faces are very commonly felt to be something that we bear, something that precedes us, something gifted to us or inflicted upon us.

Faces and penises (vaginas, anuses, and hands, too) are sites of particularly complex social exchange. Shouldn’t we expect (and desire) the language that describes and implicates those sites to be equally complex?

Our bodies are not wholly ours, they are made and defined, excited and inhibited in exchange and encounter with other bodies. Our experiences of our own bodies are always to some degree mediated. Certainly, discussion about the implication of how we speak about our bodies, and speak differently about different bits of them is valuable; the politics and psychology of representation is always contentious. Our practices of naming, as many of these comments insightfully point out, reveal much about our systems of value and sociality. We can critically consider these practices or hold to different practice, but it is unlikely that we will ever achieve an economy of anatomical nomenclature (why would we want too?). There may at times be a moral imperative to call things simply by their names, but things are rarely simply named. In any case, it is surely too simple to imagine that it is simply ’silly’ not to always call a penis a penis.

An appetite for something tends to imply that this is a regular human behaviour. We all have an appetite, well, most of us. This is why I don’t think we’ve really come to a good understanding of this phenomena.

All to often we find men acting on that desire in the form of sexual assault.

I think Richard is right. We need to hear from more men on how they see their penises as ‘other’ and what that has to do with their sexuality and sexual behaviour.

I think that the proposal is that we aren’t in control of our sexual desire. We are in control of, and responsible for, our sexual behavior. Men who rape aren’t “out of control”; they are consciously choosing evil.

I can’t help what I like; I can help what I do.

Also, you would predict that the victim of rape would be blamed for ‘turning on’ the man to the point where he obviously couldn’t control himself. Yes, that’s exactly what we have seen in rape cases.

I’m wondering if this process of dissociating with your own penis not only dissociates a man from his sexuality, but his morality and finally, his personal accountability.

It’s her fault. She dressed a certain way. Women are not supposed to tempt men. Eve tempted Adam. Muslim women cover themselves head to toe. Western women develop strategies to look as unsexual as possible using a variety of ways to stop males from paying attention to them. ( I know many women who do this, including myself).

I really want to explore this more. Those are just my preliminary thoughts.

It doesn’t feel that way to me. It’s like being a superpower and having a satellite country that is definitely in your camp, but which sometimes goes off on a crazy tangent. Amusing, if you have perspective on it, or irritating if you don’t, but not horrifying. It’s not like the satellite country has nukes or you worry about it getting you into a war; it just might embarass you.

Yeah, I could easily have misinterpreted. I’m even more tired than usual lately. WRT your clarification, the penis-with-a-life-of-its-own metaphor just creeps me out. I realize that it exists and is absurdly common. That’s what disturbs me - how can so many folks be able and/or willing to disassociate a body part?

I am interested to know why you think I have a gender essentialist view of masculinity…

I don’t mean to say that you have a gender essentialist view of masculinity. I mean that you have a more gender essentialist leaning(?) than I do. Like I said, I’m not sure that’s the right term. (But it isn’t surprising that I would think so. I’m not sure that I know anybody who is less of a gender essentialist than I am.) It’s part of what I see as your more traditional (than mine) view of masculinity. I’m looking at the continuum of definitions of masculinity here, not saying that we’re polar opposites.

I’m interested in what you mean by the penis-with-a-life-of-its-own metaphor
“both emerges from and shapes–or shapes, and so emerges from–the experience of the male body.” I’m both not sure exactly what you mean and certain that it is excluded from my experience of the male body which therefore leaves me curious about the views of others on the matter.

I am also aware that when I was younger it certainly felt at times like my penis had a life of its own…

Well, there have certainly been times when I wasn’t in control of whether or not I had an erection. But I don’t see that as significantly different than the times I haven’t been able to get my hair to lie right. For me, there is a significant difference between not being in control of part of my body and feeling that the body part has a life of its own. The real feeling of a body part “having a life of its own” is something that I’ve never had and don’t feel that I’m capable of having. Given that, you can see why that notion may be both alien and creepy to me. Kinda like Ash’s hand in Evil Dead 2. Come to think of it, feeling that a body part has a life/mind of its own must be horrifying to anyone who experiences it.

Back to the quote, though… it seems to me that openness about bodies and sexuality would do a lot to ameliorate that disassociation. Hmm, looks like it may be time for me to do some sexual anthropology reading.

No worries about delays in your response. I know how that goes.

A quick clarification, now that my wife and son are jet-lag sleeping: I don’t think I have taken a position on men naming their penises; what I have said is that I find certain metaphors/slang terms for penis intriguing. Personally, I find the idea of naming my penis ridiculous, and I tend to agree with Diana’s analysis of that habit as being connected to rape culture. That said, I am also aware that when I was younger it certainly felt at times like my penis had a life of its own–and, for the record, I have heard women talk about their hair on days when it wouldn’t “behave” as having a life of its own, and my mother makes the same comment about her feet, which twitch all the time because of peripheral neuropathy–and I think, precisely because of Diana’s analysis, that it would be worth exploring how the penis-with-a-life-of-its-own metaphor, which is certainly alive in our culture (I think, actually, Adrienne Rich uses that phrase precisely in Compulsory Heterosexuality) both emerges from and shapes–or shapes, and so emerges from–the experience of the male body.

And thanks for the kind words about my writing; I am interested to know why you think I have a gender essentialist view of masculinity, though please understand if I don’t respond right away.

It did not come across as hostile. You used “I” statements.

Since Richard is out of action for a while, I’m going to make this request of everyone on the thread: use “I” statements.

This is a personal topic. We are talking not just about sex, but about intimate views of sex. It’s fine to criticize things, but everyone, please try to center your response within your own world view. For instance, “I find… x creepy” is fine. Telling someone else what their reaction has to be is not.

I believe that you are correct about this. This is the reason that I, like Diana, find penis naming so disturbing. Slang terms for “penis” are one thing, but actually referring to it as “little so & so, ” is just bizarre to me. It’s like naming your legs or fingers. Legs do things that are seemingly out of our control (cramps, spasms), yet we don’t refer to legs as having lives of their own. Hell, I’ve suffered severe intestinal cramps for years - totally out of my control - yet I’ve managed not to name my intestines. Why? Because they are part of my body. So count me as one who just doesn’t get it. Not that I think that this is limited to men - I’ve known women who named their genitals.

(I think that the previous paragraph may come off as more hostile than I intend. Well, I hope I can be forgiven for not figuring out how to modify that.)

This is just one example of how my views of sex, sexuality and gender differ from yours, Richard. Not to say that I’m not interested in reading the remaining parts of your essay. You write well and, I think, are able to get your meaning across clearly and that will enable me to at least understand how you view specifics of those subjects. In fact, if there was anybody I was going to have an in-depth conversation about personal views of masculinity & sexuality with, it would be you because you really seem to have analyzed things to a great enough depth to be able to communicate your ideas in an understandable manner.

I think that a large part of the reason that we view what it means to be a man so differently has to do with how we were taught, what we were taught, by whom we were taught and the circumstances surrounding that education as well as the personal experiences resulting from that learned view. From my POV, you have a much more traditional view of masculinity than I do as well as a more, for lack of a better term - but I’m open to one-, gender essentialist view.