6 Pop Culture Icons Nobody Admits They Were Attracted To

Oh Mickey, I got that junk in the trunk!

This was 1980s Minnie -- she was a little more haughty than today's Minnie, but also a little more lascivious. Just a touch. The difference between Britney Spears in the "Baby One More Time" video and Britney during that period before she went crazy when she looked like she'd probably do you if you could just find a way to make her stop crying for a few hours. Probably by giving her some ham salad. Chicks dig that.

I have no idea what the video or cartoon was in which this scene was located, though my brain tells me it was some kind of music video in which Minnie was singing to Mickey. But I remember that scene and I remember thinking "huh." Now in my adulthood, I'm just so disappointed in myself for knowing this happened to me, but that "huh" was a prepubescent precursor to it moving. Which is to say, it didn't move, but it was thinking about it. And it was thinking about it because I got a flash of animated mouse ass and a bit of a slutty mouse expression.

That's a scene in which the magician Schmendrick makes a tree come to life and it turns out to be rocking some F cups in which she encases the poor Jewish wizard. Being smothered by massive oak boobies seemed like an awesome idea to me when I was a kid, so this was always my favorite scene of the movie. Honestly, even now, the theory behind my love of this still seems sound. I would do this if I thought I could get away with it without anyone knowing. Plus, you know, I'd need wizard skills. And, in fairness, if I had wizard skills I could probably find any number of more satisfying ways to use them, but we're not here to poke holes in my shameful fantasies.

The thing about being a kid is that tree titties are appealing even if the tree itself seems to be the wooden version of Angela Lansbury, which should be enough to put anyone off no matter how busty it is, but whatever, I probably ate paint and stuff back then, too, what did I know?

Not even a Thundernip.

But then what are those crotch lines? And where do new Thundercats come from if they have no Thunderjunk? And why was I still inexplicably attracted to Cheetara even though she had no female parts? Was it just the idea of her femininity? Her wily, sexy, feline femininity? Chicks who can kick your ass are hot, especially if they clean up afterward by licking their own crotch. I think. I certainly thought so back then. Like not explicitly -- I think it would be weird for a 7-year-old to be actively wishing to be sexually brutalized by an anthropomorphic cat lady -- but there was something there.

Most female characters in cartoons were vaguely useless even if they were heroes -- what the hell was She-Ra's deal? She had a voice like a tubal ligation, and I'm not even sure that means what I think it means, but it really doesn't matter because she sucked. She brought He-Man down.

Cheetara, on the other hand, was all leapy and fighty, and her voice was like a librarian who didn't give a shit about you. In retrospect, perhaps I'd been damaged by a female authority figure at some point, but in any event, for a cartoon cat lady, she had some nice curves.

I never want to stop watching cartoons. Not ever.

When I got word of the existence of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie back in the day, I was of course stoked. This was pretty much the defining moment of my life up to that point, because I was an idiot and my parents didn't really enjoy my company. The room under the stairs was lonely save for my Ninja Turtle sticker books and a bust of Gary Busey that chastised me for not setting fires. Nonetheless, I was all about overlooking the jarring presence of Corey Feldman's voice and immersing myself totally in this movie. And then I saw April O'Neil.

My adult self will start out with an apology to actress Judith Hoag, who I am sure is just a super lady, but my child self wanted to push your ass off a cliff into a pit filled with sharks that were swimming in glass shards and Fresca. Ms. Hoag, you were no April O'Neil. My one-time happy feelings brought on by the prospect of cartoon naughty were dashed like a melon under the hammer of the callous and cruel Gallagher at the presence of this unbusty, unyellow-jumpsuit-clad non-humptastic reporter. April O'Neil was like underdeveloped boner Miracle-Gro and you were a turd on a tulip. Fuck.

Will cause boners to flee like peasants from an angry volcano god.

Every episode of The Golden Girls, every single one, had at least some storyline devoted to sex, generally focused on Blanche, who was "the sexy one" (which, as a description, would be on par with lining up four turds and picking out the most appetizing one). With all that degenerate, retiree dirty talk going on, it was nigh on impossible to not develop an ability to wield sexual euphemism with the skill of Bea Arthur, and make no mistake, that woman could toss out a nasty joke. I wouldn't have thrown a shot in her, but I would have been proud to do it in the room with her cheering me on.

Thanks to The Golden Girls, I was aware that it was possible for a woman to have sex with a football team, or an entire boat on shore leave, or a new man each and every day for literally 100 years. Nowadays we have pop stars who can do that, but back in the day, no one who was under 12 knew anything about that kind of thing if they didn't watch the show.