I’ve always had a thing for guys in glasses. Nerdy guys. Real intellectual types. I guess you could say I have a thing for “thinkers.” Guys who read Foucault. Guys who are so into skincare that they can teach you what the ingredients’ names mean. Guys who stay up late at night, typing up some absolutely daring article for the Herald—so entranced in his writing that I have to walk by in a sexy little number and whisper, “Babe, come to bed. The Arts Desk will still be there in the morning.” The guys who love to tell you about what they’ve been studying—be it some ancient Roman poet or the Capital Asset Pricing Model. You know, cute geeky guys who blush and stammer when I call them handsome and bat my eyelashes at them.
So when asked by one of my dear editors-in-chief, “What piece of art would you most want to have sex with?”, I didn’t hesitate to answer. Obviously, it’s Auguste Rodin’s The Thinker.
I mean, we’ve all thought about having sex with The Thinker, right? He’s the original hot nerd. Sitting on his teeny tiny little pedestal and flexing every big strong muscle in his hard body as he contemplates death or whatever. What’s he really thinking? Dirty, filthy things. Nasty, lewd, and salacious things that cannot be published here. But in short, he’s thinking about how to make my bed ROCK.
Both Rodin and The Thinker share a common tragic trait in being French. The Thinker is, after all, a translation of Le Penseur. Ask anyone who’s been to Europe, and they’ll tell you French men are absolute dogs. With their dumb sexy accents and their annoyingly good taste. One minute, they’re pouring you wine, calling you ma chérie, and telling you that they’re different from other French guys and really want something monogamous. Next, they’re stealing your wallet and your panties, and giving that same spiel to another unsuspecting victim. Since pretty-boy muscles often displace a man’s moral compass, I don’t expect that The Thinker would be any different from those other Frenchmen. And I hate to be a weak gay man in a world full of them (I’m looking at you, every gay man at Yale), but for that big, strong man made out of metal, I can’t say I would be able to resist my urge to bounce on it.
My hunky wunky Thinker was originally modeled after boxer Jean Baud, who also had an impressive physique. But the rock-hard Thinker’s bulging biceps and rippling intercostal muscles leave little room for competition. Let’s just say his calves aren’t the only things that are veiny. His muscles are only complemented by his strong browbone, sad eyes, and dumb, ugly haircut. Most sexually talented men have something wrong with them. For The Thinker, it’s his helmet-hair. But that imperfection is how you know the dick is going to be good. It’s like when a guy has no bedframe, or when a guy was raised by a single mother, or when a guy is ginger. Ya know? Something really sick and twisted.
Now, the idea of sex with The Thinker naturally raises some logistical questions. Namely, how big is he? The original statue was exhibited in 1888 (okay zaddy), and it only measured seventy-two centimeters. That’s twenty-eight inches for all of you dumb imperial-measurement-using sluts. I’ve seen bigger. Yet, in 1902, the statue was enlarged to its current standard size of approximately 181 centimeters, or about six feet. Lucky for him, I also know how to make a man grow twice as big. *wink*
The Thinker is widely found and thus readily available. There are about twenty-eight different castings of The Thinker in the world that are authorized as official, and that’s not including the hundreds of knockoff thinkers who could wear me down after a few drinks. Twenty-eight chiseled hunks. And all of them want me. At the same time. That’s a train that’ll run all night long.
There’s a reason why those horndogs down at Columbia have a Thinker outside of Philosophy Hall, and it has nothing to do with philosophy. No, sir, those absolute sexual deviants have all the shafts in NYC to choose from, and yet they still need the sculpted image of a naked man on campus to get their rocks off. It’s impossible to focus on the core curriculum when you’re just imagining his core weighing down on you. But what those Columbia dweebs don’t know is that their precious eye candy fantasizes about taking the Metro-North up to New Haven to have his fun with me.
All in all, it makes sense why The Thinker became such a sex symbol. There’s something inherently sexy about brooding. We all want a moderately unhappy man, deep down. They’re also the most fun to flirt with. I would go right up to The Thinker and say: hey there, mister big brooding man, aren’t you soooo upset about the state of the world? About AI? And the new Epstein files? And Nicki Minaj? Isn’t this world so meaningless and full of suffering? It’s meaningless enough to make you want to become a monk and search for enlightenment. Unh yeah. Meaningless enough to make you want to end your own life. Mmm. But no, don’t kill yourself, babe. You’re too sexy. The world is meaningless, and you think so deeply about it. I need you to think deeply and hard. Think slowly at first. And then think faster, and faster until you’re about to have a philosophical revelation. And then, in that moment, let the knowledge loose and think your thoughts all over my face.
