The recent cover of Rolling Stone magazine is disturbing for more than one reason.First, there's the picture: pop star Justin Timberlake, sopping wet, striking a quasi-Springsteen pose with a guitar. (Let's hope the boy owns that guitar, because all that water will ruin it.) Does he even play guitar?
Then, there's Rolling Stone's bold proclamation that Timberlake — once just "that one dude from N'Sync" — is now "the New King of Sex."
Finally, the self-declared dean of rock critics — Robert Christgau — reviews Timberlake's new album "FutureSex/LoveSounds" with the words: "He knows more about sex than you do, and when he talks about whips he doesn't mean cars."
Justin Timberlake — King of Sex? I know young Justin is a fixture on People's Sexiest Men Alive list (a list which has, in past, featured Nick Nolte). I know his hit single "SexyBack" is rife with junior-league, vanilla perversion references like "You see these shackles, baby? I'm your slave / I'll let you whip me when I misbehave."
But — for real? Must the men of this world bow down and let this usurper take the throne? Must we simply allow Timberlake unquestioned dominion over the fantasy lives of post-adolescent girls, gay guys and three-quarters of "The View?" Must we simply accept that while previous generations could look to, say, Clark Gable or Elvis or Barry White as the exemplar of male hotness, we're stuck with a former Mouseketeer?
I say no.
I say, if Timberlake is the so-called "King of Sex," it's time for a peasant revolt! We can do better than this. Somewhere out there, the real King of Sex awaits his (or ... her?) coronation.
from The Associated Press / Zach Dundas
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