The French Connection

an olympic objectification of man and manhood

2000-year-old Pompeii fresco of Priapus in the style of Hermes, patron saint of athletes

This is my third and final Olympics-related post that has nothing to do with sports. The first, The Passing of the Torch, was about politics and presidents; the second, Olympicus Interruptus, was about promotion and publicity. And with the Olympics about to close, I’m ending on partying and promiscuity. If you’re opposed to toilet humor and bawdiness, avert your eyes.

To deny objectification in the Olympics is to deny the Olympics. The Olympics are all about marveling over performing bodies. And there’s no getting around that those bodies are, well, bodies. There may be inward depths in training, but in competition it’s all about that Nietzschean surface, especially in Olympic broadcast. It’s there in every camera angle, whether an upshot of bared water polo legs bicycle-kicking the water, or a trailing shot of divers as they emerge from the diving well and drip their way to the hot tub. All this is ostensibly to offer us a more intimate view of the competition and the athletes’ emotions, but it also conveniently—strategically, one might say—offers a more intimate view of their too too solid flesh. A sculpted ass or chiseled thigh is always on high-def display.

Though the male gazeish nature of the Olympics is undeniable, especially in the ever higher-cut, ever thongier women’s suits, this gaze is hardly only male. The men are subject to scrutiny too, and often with far less cultural kickback. Just last week, a 21-year-old French pole vaulter became an internet heartthrob and made history when he became, as far as I know, the first Olympian in history to have his medal dreams dashed by his penis. Here’s what happened:

For anyone who can’t access the gif, here’s a still image of the act in flagrante delicto:

the spectator to the right of his elbow must have been watching on the big screen

Anthony Ammirati was understandably devastated, but he had no way at the time of recognizing just how heroically his penis had risen to the occasion. There are 329 Olympic events in Paris, and roughly a quarter are team events. This means thousands of medals are awarded at every Olympic Games. That’s a lot of medalists. But only one Olympian in history has achieved what Anthony Ammirati’s penis managed to achieve for him. And in the pole vault, no less.

The closest we came to this was in 2016, when a dislodging of the crossbar by the Japanese pole vaulter Hiroki Ogita led to a frenzy of sensationalist speculation that his penis had committed the pass interference. Closer video inspection revealed, however, that it was just his leg.

This time there has been no such debunking of the rumors. The porn site CamSoda has offered Ammirati a quarter of a million USD for an hour webcam show “to celebrate his physical stature” and “talent below the belt” in the words of the company’s vice president. And I suspect that many other sorts of offers have been coming his way over this past week. I’ve written about this before:

“As soon as their events are over, many Olympians proceed to do the polar opposite of everything that got them there, and with equal energy and commitment. It’s like the confined high school kid off on a tear at college orientation—same story except amped up and involving individuals way more experienced with their bodies. Newton’s third law of motion plays out in all sorts of interesting ways at the Olympics, especially when the equal and opposite reaction happens all at once and involves thousands of rested, tapered, and toned young adults in the best physical shape of their lives. One needs only a rudimentary knowledge of physics and physiology to grasp just how and why the Olympic Village transforms as the Games progress from a squeaky silent military barracks into a giant international set for a dorm porn production.” (Chasing Water, p. 287-288)

One can only imagine how all this has been playing out for the athletes in Paris, the City of Love, the first host city to include a ménage à trois in its opening ceremony. And, to extrapolate further, one can only imagine how this plays out for priapic phenom Anthony Ammirati. The last time the Olympics were staged in Paris, a century ago, clubs in Montmartre threw Olympic-themed parties that went past dawn and included swim contests in tanks of champagne. As one gold medalist put it, “Paris, I can assure you, is one of the best places in the world to be a hero.” And Ammirati is no doubt a hero, even if not the kind he aspired to be.

It's no coincidence that the manhood that knocked down that crossbar was a French one. A French Genital at a French Games. Never mind Trump and the bullet in the ear. It is Anthony Ammirati who is the heir apparent of divine intervention. That pole vault was a godly omen portending a once-in-a-lifetime Olympian gift, one mighty enough to fell a 2.6kg crossbar and potent enough to crush an Olympic dream.

So don’t cry for thee, Ammirati. Greater notoriety hangs from you than what any medal might bestow. The fruit of your Olympic labors have made you an outlier among medalists, a phenom among celebs, a vaulted pole bearer among pole vaulters.

And fret not, Monsieur Anthony, over that male and female gaze. Show the international community why Paris is the City of Pleasures. Make the Marquis de Sade and Anaïs Nin proud. In these last days and nights in the Olympic village, embrace your destiny and make memories worthy of Priapus.