I know I’m in desperate need of some sex because lately I’ve been checking out mannequins. The other night I stayed to the bitter end of a house party, not because I was having an absurd amount of fun, but because I was looking for a mate. It didn’t work out, and I ended up alone in my apartment eating a bowl of porridge while watching “A Perfect Storm.” The book is much better.
It seems that an industrial revolution of some kind has transformed mannequins, from a collection of prosthetic limbs and an ivory torso, to a stunning, one-piece, life-like figurine with all the natural curves of a breathing woman. Now, I don’t know if the revolution involved savage child labour and fatal accidents involving machines and children being in them, but whatever went down in the mannequin warehouses – bathroom breaks or not – the outcome is something like window ass-shopping, and it’s making me question my sexuality.
With Lululemon merchandise roping its breathable fabrics all over the face of the clothing industry, the plastic buttocks of inanimate models are being cupped just like real booty. I feel that my double-takes are only natural, but with that fatal second look comes a harsh reality. Their counterparts, the male versions of our time, cause a similar reaction but for a much different reason. This specifically applies to those male mannequins modeling the Under Armour brand of sporting apparel. As Lulu’s masculine alter ego, Under Armour manufactures tight-fitting raiments and presents them to the public via mannequins that are on ‘roids.
These extremely jacked mannequins have way too much muscle. I’m trying to purchase a thermal spandex undershirt and my eye is caught by the massive, black mannequins modelling the very item in my hands. This inert hulk makes me question if I should even bother. With muscle definition like mine, I won’t be able to “protect this house,” on the contrary, if an intruder came into my home whilst I donned a skin tight shirt, I would feel a little insecure about myself and probably flee in fear whilst he robbed me of my expensive Under Armour collection and leafed through my diary. He’s grotesquely yoked and it’s unhealthy to present this image to shoppers. For God’s sake, he’s rocking double XL and stretching it to the limit!
If he had a brain, and maybe some synthetic genitalia, I’m sure that the Under Armour mannequin would desperately want to be close to the Lululemon doll so that he could bone her doggy-style through osmosis. I know I would.
~Rupert Common
