Penises in World Literature: Günther Freitag, Brendel's Fantasy

Are you asleep? Sophie throws her coat over the back of the armchair, puts her shoes beside the bed and goes into the bathroom. Through an open door Höller watches as she undresses, tying her hair up with a ribbon and stepping into the shower. He sees white skin as if through a film of fog: outlines only, never her entire body. Under the covers he begins to rub his penis. Timidly at first, then harder, but the ridiculous piece of meat between his legs will not grow erect. Despite the great arousal; certainly a reaction to the painkillers, thinks Höller.

Höller is dying of cancer - hence the painkillers - and in a fit of moribundity decides to essentially throw over his business and spend the money staging a performance of Wanderer Fantasy. Sophie, his wife, doesn't know that he has cancer; she only knows that her husband is acting strangely, blowing the family's money on trifles, and threatening her promising legal career.

Naturally, their relationship has suffered a bit.

The line refers to Höller's "great arousal," but this is difficult to believe. He essentially seems to have apathy for everything except Schubert. In this moment it's more like Höller is trying to remember something he used to care about (sex, not Sophie). Hence the penis.

Today's Daddy: Nelson Appleton Miles

Ambivalence alert. This guy rocked a great mustache, looked incredible in his uniform (epaulets, sashes, and sword), and persecuted Native Americans during the post-1860s Indian Wars.

I love uniforms, but with a couple of hard limits: Nazis and Confederates. The stiffest dick can't override the knowledge of the purpose those uniforms served. I don't find a lot of elderly heartthrobs from the Western campaigns, so I've had the luxury of not deciding whether to add them to my exclusions list. On the other hand, I have read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee (years ago; don't ask me to quote it) and it was tough stuff. So I leave it up to you.

I'd have to imagine Miles as a father to his men. He'd be the type who'd threaten to spread me out on a wagon wheel for some strong Western discipline. Only as we all know, men of action don't make threats, just promises. It'd be very John Wayne of him. Ugh, speaking of ambivalence...

Today's Daddy: Robert Todd Lincoln

Robert Todd Lincoln isn't the hottest daddy I've ever dug up, but he earns at least an honorable mention for his broody circumstances.

Let's run down the list:

• Father assassinated
• Mother institutionalized
• Mother later publicly embarrassed him for institutionalizing her - she was released and they were estranged
• Witnessed James Garfield's assassination
• Was in the vicinity of William McKinley's assassination
• Son died at age 16

Yeah: ouch.

It kind of comes across in the photograph, where the slant of sunlight illuminates a hand but most of the man is recessed into the dark. Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.

I can imagine (read: fantasize about) his desperate desire to continue his family line, resulting in his grumpily/tragically attaching himself to a much younger woman and spending whole orgasmic days in bed. (The nice thing about fantasy is it's immune to decreased libido and performance concerns.)

Today's Daddy: Joseph Fielding Smith Jr.

The younger, son of the elder. Both were presidents of the Church of Latter-Day Saints at some point. His dad is actually better-looking thanks to the Old Testament beard, but Jr. isn't bad either in a 1950s middle-school librarian kind of way.

I know very little about LDS...or any religion, really. In fact, my background note on LDS is the following: "This church has produced some of the hottest patriarchs in recorded history." You know, if you're into that kind of thing.

See, for example, Wilford Woodruff, who single-whiskeredly made the no-mustache beard acceptable in my fantasy life.

Or Heber Grant, whose beaky nose and hawkish gaze create an impression of stern avuncularity that warms my backside in anticipation.

Or there's David McKay, whose genial grin must be undergirded by a core of true steel. (I'm talking about his personality.)

It's a shame that the religion practiced polygamy when polyandry was obviously its calling.

Today's Daddy: Louis Gerhard de Geer

Pickings were slim today, but I'm fond of this one nonetheless. Louis Gerhard de Geer was, according to Wikipedia at least, the first prime minister of Sweden, and also a writer.

His son, Gerhard Louis (see what he did there?), was also prime minister for a while, and not bad looking himself:

I still prefer the father, though.

De Geer the Elder was apparently known for his modesty and wit. His explanation of why he was the first Prime Minister: the pool of Swedish elites was so small that it was hard to find someone who rose even to the level of mediocrity required by the job. Aww!

Secretary fantasy again (I have a lot of those). In this case, I like to imagine the Elder worn down by the cares of state, and needing a sympathetic young companion to ruffle his sideburns at the end of the day.

Today's Daddy: F. Sherwood Rowland

The Nobel Prizes are another great source of daddy material. A lot of distinguished, gray- or white-haired scientists in suits, august and accomplished, in somber photographs...daddy heaven.

This one is Frank Sherwood Rowland, who helped discover the role CFCs play in destroying ozone and won the Chemistry prize.

Professors and scientists tend to trigger my secretary fantasy - politicians, too. Strangely, business magnates don't, unless they're from the Gilded Age; contemporary businessmen usually activate my junior-marketing-coordinator fantasy. With a chemist, I like to imagine an after-hours lab accident that requires me to strip off my clothing and safety gear, then hop under the safety shower. Naturally said chemist, being a senior scientist and very responsible, would want to make sure I was thoroughly clean...

Today's Daddy: Pavel Prudnikau

Wikipedia is a great source of historical daddy pics if you're in the mood. Just take a look at who was born that day - or, if you're feeling macabre (or you're a necrophile), who died. Today's daily daddy is Pavel Prudnikau.

I could talk about how he's a Belarusan writer who spent time in a gulag. But you can read the Wikipedia article and I'm writing about sex. Mainly I'm thinking about his getting out of the gulag on his seventieth birthday, when Stalin is forcibly overthrown by American-style progressives (none of this happened historically), and decides to write his memoirs. He hires a young, impressionable secretary...a secretary he soon realizes he can't live without.

I don't understand the pattern on that shirt, but I think it's hot.