Early in the eighteenth century, visitors to the Tower of London could gaze upon a painted wooden statue of Henry VIII, the English king who'd died some two hundred years before. Royally robed, sceptre in hand, the likeness befitted Henry's reputation for extravagance, right down to its lascivious secret mechanism: "If you press a spot on the floor with your feet," one observer wrote, "you will see something surprising with regard to this figure, but I will not say more." I will: it was the king's codpiece, sallying forth in full regalia. Henry VIII remains the poster boy for codpieces, those profane protuberances that drew eyes crotchward in the sixteenth century. A suit of the king's armor, boasting a bulbous codpiece weighing more than two and a half pounds, is still on display at the Tower; women used to stick pins in its sumptuous red-velvet lining to ward off barrenness. And who could blame them? Sure, Henry sired notoriously few healthy childr
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