A visitor’s-eye-view of the Museum of Sex’s new boob exhibit, aptly titled “Funland”.
commentary and multimedia by Christopher Vitiello and Julia Smith-Eppsteiner
Chris: I have always had a healthy, mild obsession with boobs. When I was 12 years old, I tried to convert to Mormonism in hopes of one day having my own boob ‘planet-heaven’. At 14 I used to steal my sister’s bras to practice the art of unhooking in order to fast-track my way to what was then the mysterious unknown. By 17 I would go to Tijuana by way of San Diego and sneak into strip clubs. Now, at age 31, I feel like I have come full boob; I’m still unclear about the tenets of the Mormon religion (i.e. if they do in fact have so-called planet-heavens), but when the Museum of Sex opened an exhibit in June called Funland that featured a boobie bounce house, I had to see if my own refined version of heaven was in fact accessible to me right here on Planet Earth, by way of Manhattan.
Julia: Pink. Beige. Brown. Rose. Black. Cream. We bounced. Laughed. Rolled. Tumbled. Grinned. Because we, the universal we, love boobies. Circular mountains with multicolored cherries on top. The cherries that give life. The cherries sucked by children of every gender and sexuality and ethnicity. The cherries sucked by straight boys, straight men, gay girls, gay women. We Are You boys, We Are You men, We Are You girls, We Are You women.
Chris: As far as cities go, one might think Manhattan is already as much of a “Funland” as a heterosexual guy could ask for; the unresolved 4:1 women to men ratio, the ample amount of male actors, dancers and artists who have been known to compete for the sexual attention of one another and of course the 1992 case People v. Ramona Santorelli and Mary Lou Schloss, which overturned Penal Law 245.01 and allowed women in New York City to be topless. However, besides a stroll down Fort Tilden Beach, one doesn’t encounter many topless women regularly. If someone went to these lengths to overturn such a law, why would there be more topless breasts in a “museum” than on the streets?
Julia: I’ve never fully understood men’s obsession with boobs, but that’s possibly because I am the owner of ballerina bumps. There’s little-to-no cleavage to my name.
Aren’t they just lumps of fat, after all? But, no. No. Because of the nipple.
It’s all leading to something.
In this case, here and now, it’s leading us to Jump for Joy in the “Bouncy Castle of Breasts” where the only two rules are 1) remove your shoes, and 2) remove any sharp objects before entering the home of many plump, plastic Queen Bs. ‘B’ as in boobies (sorry, Bey). We’re talking singular titties without their partner in crime; no longer attached to a body, but clinging to the four walls of this adult moonbounce. My brain was releasing endorphins just like it did in the spaceship-themed “moonbounce” I jumped in at my little brother’s eighth birthday party. Sure, there was an added element of excitement in a theoretical way, like making the adult upgrade from Disneyland to Vegas—but nothing monumental. Non-secret secret: I still prefer Disney.
Chris: As the information sign to the entrance of the bounce house pointed out, this was a boobie bounce house built to “increase awareness of the body”, “create the thrilling possibility of interaction between strangers” and “promote endorphins—the same as those released at the point of orgasm”. For $19, they’re damn right one of those things best be happening. And yet I still found myself stuck between a boob and a hard (albeit inflated) place. Yes, my endorphins were raised, and yes, I had an increased awareness of my body, but I found myself in the same predicament as with all boobs: not having an increased awareness of other bodies (especially not with any women), not having thrilling interactions with strangers (especially not with any other women) and definitely not reaching any level of orgasm, simulated or otherwise. If anything, after five minutes of jumping around this boobie bounce house, the giant plastic boobs might as well have turned into giant plastic lollipops because everyone seemed to forget about them as they reverted back to being children.
Julia: What if Funland was a dick bounce house? That sounds threatening even though it would just be a bunch of soft plastic sewn to look like human hot dogs. Maybe it’s so different from a boobie bounce house because imagining multiple penises makes me envision a mass of men. And envisioning a mass of men makes me think of rape. Of gang rape. Of cat calling. Of forced deep throat. Of derogatory everythings. Of cockiness. Of cheating. Of cheap motels. Of red lights and poles. Of groping. Of unpretty whistles. Of cash and underwear. Of animal eyes. Of nothing pleasurable. Of nothing gentle. Of nothing sexy. Nothing good.
FUNLAND from Christopher Vitiello on Vimeo.
Chris: This is what breasts do best. They fuck with you. They tilt your perception. They play to your deep-seated subconscious yearnings. They get your imagination whirling and spiraling. They tease you. In some ways they are kind of like cats; they do funny things but they are unaware that they are being funny because they have zero sense of humor. And yet they still want to play with you, like a cat toys with a mouse.
Julia: “Boobs or butt?” one bro might say to another. Is there an equivalent for women? “Are you a dick or balls chick?” Nope. No one says that. What if we were jumping around in the bounce house with our shirts off? Does it make it less appealing if it’s the real thing and not a perfectly perky object? Funland’s Jump for Joy hypersexualizes boobs, but at the same time it strips them of their natural, individual je ne sais quoi. Might as well be a bounce house decaled with Jupiter and Mars. Round is round is round, am I right?
Chris: So how do we know when to take them seriously and when to have fun with them? When should they be freed and when should they be hidden? Why are we allowed to look at cleavage but not at the nipple? I have nipples. Batteries have nipples. Hell, my cat has nipples. Let’s be real, we all know what a nipple looks like. And yet women keep them from us. I used to suck on my own mother’s nipple. I still constantly want to know what almost every-woman-who-walks-by’s nipples look like. Admittedly, I have even dated girls two dates past what would normally be ‘not-calling-them-ever-again’ just to see what their breasts might look like.
Julia: Bompas & Parr, in collaboration with National Fairground Archive, described their Midtown exhibit as an exploration of how “the fairground was viewed as a venue for the pursuit of pleasure.” The word choice “the pursuit of pleasure” is of interest. It’s all about the game. The chase, as they say.
Chris: At times it feels like I am simply trying to win the game, a game that both men and women are equally playing into and is as complicated as undoing a bra strap. Or perhaps, the bra itself. The bra is not some necessity to life ordained from on high. Like most things, it was culturally created, commoditized and sold back to the public as something that was mandatory. It not only hides breasts away, but it keeps them lifted. The notion of a boobie bounce house might not even exist if it weren’t for perky and buoyant breasts being celebrated the way they are in our Western culture.
Julia: A non-buoyant breast feeds the baby just the same. A non-perky set of double Ds still brings rise to a limp dick. Nipples are important. From birth, until you’re a teen groping for taut parts in a dark movie theater, until you’re a saggy mama who just watched The Notebook and perked up at the sight of Gosling among lake full of doves. You either have them, or you like them. Or both. Pink. Beige. Brown. Rose. Black. Cream. Here at 235 Fifth Avenue, it’s about the idea of the boob. The Americanized idea where Hooters meets MoMa, and it’s an underwhelming show, Manhattan.
Chris: The bra supports more than the fat of the breast, it supports the ‘idea’ of the boob. Instead of letting something that’s natural be natural, we have gone so far as inventing things like breast-feeding contraptions for women to hide their breasts (and their babies) while breast-feeding in a park. We have taken nature away from ourselves and in doing so have created a confusing interplay between the sexes where we now have a bunch of horny, biologically confused heterosexual men trying to talk to women who have hidden away what is most sacred. We remain stuck in the cleavage of a Venn Diagram somewhere between ‘fantasy’ and ‘reality’. Yes, the boobie bounce house is fun but it does not bring me any closer to my planet-heaven than my imagination does walking down Fifth Avenue on a hot summer day, hoping for a nip slip.
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Julia Smith-Eppsteiner is a New York-based writer, dance artist and lemonade maker. She’d love to hear from you (especially if you’re sassy with a heart of gold).
Christopher Vitiello is a Brooklyn-based storyteller who often wrestles with the truth.
They previously collaborated for the Riveter feature “Speed Dating in the Trader Joe’s Line“.
Top photo from the Museum of Sex.
