Finally. Coffee that will eff my cellulite off.
“Frank” is this anthropomorphized coffee scrub I came across when a hot girl I follow on Instagram posted a picture of herself wearing it. Yes, wearing it. At first, I was slightly horrified at the scat-like sight of this beautifully built goddess of my IG feed layered in what looked like ex-lax induced butt fudge.
Thusly, the irony of her brilliant while smile and impeccable bone structure sheathed underneath beads of feces prompted me to check the hashtag section for #thefrankeffect
I still wasn’t sure what I was looking at.
So I headed over to Google (insert documentary plane map animation)
There, I skimmed the site and a few blogs by ladies who also seem to confuse the Pavlovian caffeine stimulus, the desire for eternal beauty, and the way our loins liquefy whenever we hear a man tell us, “it’s time to get rough, slut.”
For example, this eloquent young author (at least I assume she’s young) of polished.tv describes why the product’s so alluring:
WHY I LOVED FRANK SO MUCH: First of all, Frank uses terms like “get dirty with frank” , “experience the frank effect” , “frankly, it’s time you get rough with me” and tons of other creative things that perked my interested with this scrub. I think his marketing ploy is genius and he really knows how to market to girls and give us what we want!
(It’s funny ’cause she’s serious)
I’m all for the no makeup selfies (although I won’t pretend I’m helping cancer by posting mine). I’m all for the Beatrice Kiddo karate chopping her way outta her own grave look, too (we don’t always look perfect).
But, as titillated as I am by the idea of the last chemical gigolo I have in my life, coming alive like Pinocchio, talking dirty to me, and then scrubbing the fat off my ass – it’s just too confusing for my poor little heart. What if Frank doesn’t have an “effect” on my stretch marks? Will that be the end of him slipping inside of my mouth every morning? The warm, creamy, splash that delights my tongue and ends too soon? That adrenalized high, like a post-coital sigh that is the racetrack gunshot signaling the start of my day?
When marketing tries to reclaim what we already desire, it’s confusing.
Our caveperson sexy urges get reformulated into an adhesive that tacks all our other desires to it, before saying: “that’ll be $15.99, please!” Men get told to be alpha-male and take what they want by force or die virgins. Chicks get told to sit in a sexy pedestal cage and STFU. (But it’s lonely up here. Can’t I come down? We can compare tans now, and wrinkles when we’re 50? Who knows – maybe we’d be happy being epsilons instead of alphas.)
Obviously, I won’t stop drinking coffee because of some shit product.
But trends like Franks do cause a confusion cocktail. There’s the coffee I’m already addicted to – so I have an emotional attachment. There’s the porcelain skin I’d like to have ’cause our culture hates old people. There’s the alpha male whose castle tower I’m meant to go live in till we dance in a yellow dress (just me – not him) and fall in love with my captor. All of that stuff I never came into the world needing, I hafta have now. Which is fine… so long as I accept my role as a sentient BDSM fleshlight at one end and ATM at the other.
That’s too many feelings! Distractions as you prize my wallet from me!
I want Belle’s ball gown, not the ball gag.
So I ain’t gonna pay for a damned thang but my wake-up beverage.
And you know what? I think I have an uneaten orange and the rest of my lover’s granulated sleeping body, passed out in the wet coffee filter from our positively tantric sesh this morning. Looking over the site’s ingredients, all I need’s a bit of almond and sea salt and we should be good to go, right?
We’ve all come too far from caves to live in cages of hashtag ads.
I’m not wearing my lover’s grinds.
And he needn’t wear a pricetag or talk dirty for me..
If he needs to spice things up, I’ll add cinnamon and do it on the lunch hour.
Anything for you, baby.
#thirstyho #getttit?