<h1 class="left">Ancient Greeks called their games agones, meaning agony, or struggle. The 2024 Summer Olympics were all about desire and its agony. Take, for instance, the now-infamous case of French pole vaulter Anthony Ammirati. Ammirati’s attempt to clear the bar was foiled not by a lack of skill or strength, but by an unexpected anatomical hindrance - his penis. The vaulter’s endowment got in the way of his jump, getting him out of the competition. It’s a story that’s been told and retold, mostly with a wink and a nudge, but it exposes the Olympic tension between the desire for control and the agony of the uncontrolled. Ammirati’s moment of vulnerability - where his physicality got in the way - highlights how the very attributes that make these athletes so exceptional can also make them objects of fascination. Ammirati was offered 250,000$ by CamSoda, a porn site for a 1-hour long webcam of his, uh, goods (which he politely declined). To whoever ended up winning the pole vault, Twitter mourns your tiny penis.</h1>
<h1 class="right">Our response to Ammirati isn’t singular in embodying the blurred line between athleticism and entertainment - remember Danell Leyva, one of the most celebrated American gymnasts of all time who stripped down to briefs in the middle of his 2016 routine on the parallel bars? After an illustrious (and eye-grabbing) acrobatic career, he moved into TV, modelling, and choreography. Leyva had an elegance to his every move, one that coupled technical perfection with sensual entertainment. Watching someone so completely in command of their physical self on a global stage approached the aesthetic ideals of power, desire, and performance.</h1>
<h1 class="full">For women, sexualization and near-constant pressure to be fully made up, well-styled, and ‘demure’ even at the heights of human capability has always plagued their professional career. Yet, more recently, some women have, like Levya, understood how to use their platform to their advantage. Alica Schmidt, a 25-year-old sprinter from Germany has suffered being termed ‘the sexiest athlete in the world.’ Still, despite having won no Olympic medals, she has over 5 million followers on Instagram, modelling contracts, and brand deals with luxury houses. Shmidt, perhaps, is playing a different game.</h1>
<h1 class="full">But the true sublime aesthetics of sport surpass any porn-brain male gaze-afflicted viewing of sport. Simone Biles, the undisputed queen of gymnastics, is a powerhouse, combining raw athleticism with an artistry that is nothing short of decadent. Her routines are an insane marriage of strength and grace, executed with a precision that borders on the divine. Watching her soar through the air, rejecting gravity with every twist and turn, is to witness the human body at its most extraordinary. There’s also a vulnerability to Biles, taking a deep breath to a Taylor Swift song, worshipping fellow black athletes on the podium, saddled with a controversially unappreciative husband. What we’re seeing then, is how the Games were fateful, the Games were mythic, and the Games were base. It’s reality TV, with half-naked people who are undeniably ‘there for the right reasons.</h1>
<h1 class="left">In the summer of Challengers, we have learnt a few things about bodies and sport. With sweat dripping down to the camera lens and rallies more intimate than sex, Challengers is the perfect erotic thriller for our cultural moment: everything is sexy, and yet there is no sex. Simultaneously pornified and repressed, we agonise over our effectiveness – everything must be optimized, glazed, and edible. So, was there any actual sex at the Olympics? Or were we only projecting it as a fantasy?</h1>
<h1 class="centre">At 2010 Olympics in Vancourver, a group of Canadian, German, and Austrian athletes had an orgy at a house outside the Olympic Village. In 2012, Usain Bolt spent his night after winning the 100m sprint with three Swedish women from the handball team. Rio de Janeiro handed out a record 450,000 condoms when they hosted the Games back in 2016. The 2020 ‘intimacy ban’ which prevented sex between athletes at the Olympic village in Tokyo was lifted this year. This time round, we saw the Olympians doing TikTok dances to Charli XCX’s ‘Brat’ and plugging their OnlyFans accounts. They went on podcasts talking about bed-hopping at the village and jumped on their mattresses to test how sex-friendly they are. It’s clearly not just our projection; putting athletes at the peak of fitness in a village together will inspire at least some messing around.</h1>
<h1 class="right">The Olympics gave us more than buildup. They gave us heartbreak (like with Vinesh Poghat’s disqualification), resilient victories (like Imane Khelif’s boxing Gold after facing, weirdly, transphobia), and love, in at least 6 proposals. They gave us medals to robe on necks, and even a couple of weeks’ worth of patriotism. They gave us a host of new world records, instantly indelible images, and bodies teased into triumphs. We had days of Tashi’s “come on!” moment. In women’s triple jump, Thea LaFond crouched to her knees and screamed in jubilance after winning Dominica its first Gold. When Elena Lilik knew she’d won the silver in white-water rapids, she “gave vent to an elemental scream, smacking the water for an extra splash.” </h1>
<h1 class="centre">Speed, power, and nationality played out in a sublime tournament of aesthetics. We couldn’t help but gawk at the human form chiseled by discipline into its elite ideal. We became patriots for the day. We learnt all the rules of a sport we watched for the first time five minutes ago. There is something inherently seductive about watching athletes push themselves beyond all limits in the pursuit of glory. “Come on!” is right. Sports, like desire, is about agony. It is also about the euphoria of release.</h1>
Cover Image via The Chive
<h1 class="full">Ancient Greeks called their games agones, meaning agony, or struggle. The 2024 Summer Olympics were all about desire and its agony. Take, for instance, the now-infamous case of French pole vaulter Anthony Ammirati. Ammirati’s attempt to clear the bar was foiled not by a lack of skill or strength, but by an unexpected anatomical hindrance - his penis. The vaulter’s endowment got in the way of his jump, getting him out of the competition. It’s a story that’s been told and retold, mostly with a wink and a nudge, but it exposes the Olympic tension between the desire for control and the agony of the uncontrolled. Ammirati’s moment of vulnerability - where his physicality got in the way - highlights how the very attributes that make these athletes so exceptional can also make them objects of fascination. Ammirati was offered 250,000$ by CamSoda, a porn site for a 1-hour long webcam of his, uh, goods (which he politely declined). To whoever ended up winning the pole vault, Twitter mourns your tiny penis.</h1>
<h1 class="full">Our response to Ammirati isn’t singular in embodying the blurred line between athleticism and entertainment - remember Danell Leyva, one of the most celebrated American gymnasts of all time who stripped down to briefs in the middle of his 2016 routine on the parallel bars? After an illustrious (and eye-grabbing) acrobatic career, he moved into TV, modelling, and choreography. Leyva had an elegance to his every move, one that coupled technical perfection with sensual entertainment. Watching someone so completely in command of their physical self on a global stage approached the aesthetic ideals of power, desire, and performance.</h1>
<h1 class="full">For women, sexualization and near-constant pressure to be fully made up, well-styled, and ‘demure’ even at the heights of human capability has always plagued their professional career. Yet, more recently, some women have, like Levya, understood how to use their platform to their advantage. Alica Schmidt, a 25-year-old sprinter from Germany has suffered being termed ‘the sexiest athlete in the world.’ Still, despite having won no Olympic medals, she has over 5 million followers on Instagram, modelling contracts, and brand deals with luxury houses. Shmidt, perhaps, is playing a different game.</h1>
<h1 class="full">But the true sublime aesthetics of sport surpass any porn-brain male gaze-afflicted viewing of sport. Simone Biles, the undisputed queen of gymnastics, is a powerhouse, combining raw athleticism with an artistry that is nothing short of decadent. Her routines are an insane marriage of strength and grace, executed with a precision that borders on the divine. Watching her soar through the air, rejecting gravity with every twist and turn, is to witness the human body at its most extraordinary. There’s also a vulnerability to Biles, taking a deep breath to a Taylor Swift song, worshipping fellow black athletes on the podium, saddled with a controversially unappreciative husband. What we’re seeing then, is how the Games were fateful, the Games were mythic, and the Games were base. It’s reality TV, with half-naked people who are undeniably ‘there for the right reasons.</h1>
<h1 class="full">In the summer of Challengers, we have learnt a few things about bodies and sport. With sweat dripping down to the camera lens and rallies more intimate than sex, Challengers is the perfect erotic thriller for our cultural moment: everything is sexy, and yet there is no sex. Simultaneously pornified and repressed, we agonise over our effectiveness – everything must be optimized, glazed, and edible. So, was there any actual sex at the Olympics? Or were we only projecting it as a fantasy?</h1>
<h1 class="full">At 2010 Olympics in Vancourver, a group of Canadian, German, and Austrian athletes had an orgy at a house outside the Olympic Village. In 2012, Usain Bolt spent his night after winning the 100m sprint with three Swedish women from the handball team. Rio de Janeiro handed out a record 450,000 condoms when they hosted the Games back in 2016. The 2020 ‘intimacy ban’ which prevented sex between athletes at the Olympic village in Tokyo was lifted this year. This time round, we saw the Olympians doing TikTok dances to Charli XCX’s ‘Brat’ and plugging their OnlyFans accounts. They went on podcasts talking about bed-hopping at the village and jumped on their mattresses to test how sex-friendly they are. It’s clearly not just our projection; putting athletes at the peak of fitness in a village together will inspire at least some messing around.</h1>
<h1 class="full">The Olympics gave us more than buildup. They gave us heartbreak (like with Vinesh Poghat’s disqualification), resilient victories (like Imane Khelif’s boxing Gold after facing, weirdly, transphobia), and love, in at least 6 proposals. They gave us medals to robe on necks, and even a couple of weeks’ worth of patriotism. They gave us a host of new world records, instantly indelible images, and bodies teased into triumphs. We had days of Tashi’s “come on!” moment. In women’s triple jump, Thea LaFond crouched to her knees and screamed in jubilance after winning Dominica its first Gold. When Elena Lilik knew she’d won the silver in white-water rapids, she “gave vent to an elemental scream, smacking the water for an extra splash.” </h1>
<h1 class="full">Speed, power, and nationality played out in a sublime tournament of aesthetics. We couldn’t help but gawk at the human form chiseled by discipline into its elite ideal. We became patriots for the day. We learnt all the rules of a sport we watched for the first time five minutes ago. There is something inherently seductive about watching athletes push themselves beyond all limits in the pursuit of glory. “Come on!” is right. Sports, like desire, is about agony. It is also about the euphoria of release.</h1>
Cover Image via The Chive