Posted By Smple Staff

The Sad Truth About Frank Ocean’s Cock Ring



Getting screwed by an artist never felt so pricey. But one day, you may find yourself somewhere special with someone who can’t get their hand off your junk. Neither can you. Kissing and blind, you hush them off with a grin. They stop. You know what they’re thinking. It’s the first time they’ve been at your place, but they’re really knowledgeable about you. Sometimes you achieve radical insight as one lush organism. So with a yank of the bedside drawer, you emerge with The Object, and at first the stone frazzles them, stabs their willing eyes. Then they get used to it. They look again. Oh, you both drool. Diamonds. Diamonds on your penis. Yes. On a ring. Like getting down with an emperor’s finger. You’re both so into it, the ring itself doesn’t even need to squeeze on. You clip it instead. What an easy-peasy penile superweapon. 

If this is you, and you very much enjoy Frank Ocean’s cock ring, what’s it like? I’m scared to know. I’m terrified the cock ring is actually the most fun you can have without being pulled over. The Frank Ocean cock ring. Sometimes I just say it to get used to it. I wanted to talk about music, a headstrong release maybe. Now we are talking about an appendage to an appendage. In terms of cock rings, it’s quite dashing, which is notable, but not in the upper echelons of the market which would surely be better. I mean, if we’re talking about Frank Ocean’s cock ring, we might as well pit it against other legendary cock rings like the handcrafted J Cobra silver cock ring with “natural pearl,” or the cobra accessory built by interior experts at Rolls Royce, because if they can fit climate controls on a leather seat, you can damn well bet they’ll buckle your boy in. 

Has Frank Ocean been wanky before? Yeah, there was the green baby episode. However it was the Met Gala and that’s hardly out of the realms of provocation. The accepted kind, mind you – nothing too violent or clever. Ocean just made a baby animatronic that could blink and burble and steal your data. Points to him, even though he’s not making a point. The clothes were the sell: Homer, his fashion line, toddling upon a little neon body. A rich kook thing to do. You expect people as expensive and adored as him to just assume they’re in for smash after smash. Do they agonize? I want Frank to second guess himself. I want anything but a cock ring. 

Rap and r&b is hardly averse to selling outrageous products to diversify a portfolio, but this is a new watermark for bling cling. Perhaps bankers and racing drivers might pour shots over their naked bodies, down the cock ring, to ‘Swim Good’. Maybe a sly man with assets in Malta and a bloody harpoon at his side might have a birthday on which the ring is presented by a vacant yacht girl, and they both kind of screw and laugh. Either way, the cock ring isn’t for you. Neither was his initial run of jewelry. Homer is a brand for extortionate individuals to put pixelated dogs on their ears, to get a bracelet that probably feels like fitting on kingswear. Other rappers have done it. Remember Lil Nas X’s Satan Shoes? And Quavo from Migos, with his Ratatouille chain – even the Linguini on the chain has a chain. We’re used to seeing dumb shit from ballers. They have a right to do whatever they want even if it’s not music for a while or ever again. 

Yet for Frank to do this takes some level of unmooring that genuinely concerns me. Fair, he was meant to headline Coachella, and were it not for the deep loss of his brother Ryan Breaux in 2020, may have released an album by now. He is turtling. He is sad. We have no idea what he’s been through. The song that has made its way to us, as if in a sudden wind, is ‘Come On World, You Can’t Go!’, a self-affirming piano jam released on iTunes for Christmas. That’s been his latest since the ‘Dear April’ and ‘Cayendo’ double-A release in summer 2021. 

Ocean’s newest track, lifted from his Blonded radio show, puts us in a room with champion bather Wim Hoff, better known as The Iceman, who has withstood temperatures of -15°C for almost two hours, has suffered frozen corneas and is considered somewhat of a marvel for regulating his temperature like a mixing valve. Frank lets us listen in as Hoff describes mental stress and its physical ignition. “Being powerful, being there beyond thoughts, just in the ear, and now . . . that’s sanity,” he says on the recording. “That’s meditation.” 

Frank’s always been the kinda shy man, the one who’s worried about people texting different than they look. He’s the good guy on the edge. Hoff is familiar with edges because his wife killed herself, and the Blonded interview confronts the irrational rage of believing life should be different. This is why deep breathing helps – it changes your body, helps you achieve control and cleanliness. The Iceman speaks of “the loop that feels like it’s eating you alive,” the shock of cold you’d never believed in. ‘Come On World . . .’ is a closing freestyle, where Frank speculates on summer bodies made in a hibernated winter. “I saw your eyes | I saw your eyes fall | You didn’t wanna cry | So you kept your eyes closed.” It’s for a person he dated as a teenager, but the scenery is tellingly rose-tinted. We are back in Frank Town surrounded by children running in sunlight, scheming, making movies, and a young poor boy noticing a white Rolls Royce at the church gates (oh man, another car plug). Narrow your eyes and you might see a tall tower of milk crates, the super rich kids from Channel Orange gazing at lads knocked around town. 

So studiously you look at Frank Ocean’s cock ring again, at the 18-carat winking gold, the bone and boner-aping cast studded with 60 diamonds grown from a high-pressure laboratory machine, and you’re thinking: How did we get here? As in, there must be a reason we’re staring at a cock ring from one of the greatest svengali artists of his generation. The reason he’s not releasing music – his natural way, soured by mourning – has to be worth this object. Because if he’s sad, you wouldn’t expect him to make a cock ring to cope. Unless it’s meaningful. 

And then you pivot desperately to anything from Frank to explain it, which is like asking a mugger for a receipt. He’s off and gone and sprinting to another project or his Playstation room like it’s nothing. So you look at the Homer Instagram ‘bone ring’ announcement a fifth time expecting the pixelated phallus to have moved at least in a kind of salute to the bullshit you’re facing. And then you research the press statement that came out with the cock ring. This is more like it. In the year Homer was announced, publications clung to the quote that diamonds “represent carving history into stone,” and that “childhood obsessions” on top of “heritage as fantasy” are what Homer set out to commemorate. 

Precisely at that moment, finishing those words, you sit back nursing a glass of flavored water, your forever-ringless dick stuffed firmly in your pants in contemplation, and think about an item that lasts forever. A person who cannot. A brotherhood swiped by a car fender. There’s every chance Frank made a cock ring because the stones at its center are a dazzling display of permeance. The fact that they’re wrapped around a penis tells us that an expiring man muscle is the least of our worries. We might as well wear diamonds on our cocks since relationships above the belt can be stolen by the passing drama of life and coincidence. 

Meanwhile, you’re firing into Ocean’s big theme – nostalgia. How his albums kiss the necks of past lives and urge the people in love stories and shit-kicking youthful friendships to find something as special as the days you spent together, but with somebody else; the cry-happy narrators of ‘Self Control’, Bad Religion’ and ‘We All Try’ who confess crisis while never wanting to alter history because grief can be treasured. Yeah. The cock ring is an extension of that. It’s an adjunct to ‘Pink + White’. It’s the boy trying to stay eternal with the one instrument he really knows. 

But finally you realize the absolute truth about Frank Ocean’s cock ring and why you committed to writing about it is that you don’t have an answer, and there probably isn’t one that anyone but Frank can understand. That you immediately attempt to forgive a singer for the crassest dick move he could make when the world is waiting, genuinely waiting, for the album that Blonde deserves. That you’re kind of a mess of expectations and opinions and, somewhere colder than you’d ever believe, misplaced hope in a man who resists being roped down, who could only sell you a $25,000 cock ring to express loss and death, but likely wants money, and in the nakedness of your cock seeks it, the move of an icon killing some of what he should be. 

 

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