SSRI Victorians Have No Penises or Vaginas

To answer the question before it arrives, no.

I was sitting in an aisle seat on an airplane yesterday, looking at that long row of little seatback television screens, when I had the most startling realization.

You see it? Here, keep looking:

Or this one, which I photographed off my own seatback screen as I started scrolling through movies, taking care to not use the airline earbuds so I didn’t have to hear the insipid part:

Total sexlessness. Emptied, barren, antiseptic, as warm as a stainless steel surgical platform. Those first images are of Rose Byrne, who’s quite pleasant to look at, and that last fuzzy image is of Emily Blunt, who tends toward playful cuteness when she isn’t pretending to be too dumb to shoot a drug cartel’s footsoldiers. They’ve been rendered as sterile as Walter White’s meth lab, which is a dark miracle. Apparently this was a love interest in the first thing, not that I was watching closely enough to know:

Yeah, that’s, uh. You can feel the heat. He can rub his Ken Doll area on her whatever.

Anne Hathaway is dumber than an actual rock, but she’s pretty, and she should sue whoever shot this scene:

Reminder:

Second reminder:

I would like to say that aaaaOOOOOgaaaahhhh, and I’m stomping my hooves on the floor of my stall. There’s more sex among fully clothed people in one 1946 movie than there has been in the last decade of movies and television.

Alongside ubiquitous porn, the surgical suite. A hypersexualized culture is completely sexless. It’s like we’ve forgotten what it’s supposed to feel like. Disconnection, coldness, gluttony without appetite. If media is a reflection of our inner condition, America is sleeping on the couch.

What happened?