As the revival of Beauty and the Beast begins to take up more wind in its sails (the Emma Watson-starring version is out this month), it naturally leaves one to reflect on the iconic Disney rendering that came out in 1991–which may never be able to be topped by the sheer fact that Angela Lansbury voiced Mrs. Potts and Celine Dion contributed to the soundtrack. Still, the main thing about the animated Beauty and the Beast is that glass-encased rose that’s supposed to demarcate the amount of time the Beast has to fall in love/get someone to fall in love with him as each petal drops, leading the rose ever closer to death. Said enchanted rose is given to the Beast by an enchantress disguised as a beggar, who gives him a touch of instant karma after the prince–in his attractive pre-beast arrogance–balks at her request to seek shelter in his castle for the night. Her response is the odious curse that follows, proving, once again, don’t fuck with women.
Luckily, Belle, a conveniently beautiful and bookish commoner ends up getting lost near the castle while searching for her dad, crazy old Maurice, who the Beast imprisons because he’s surly and dealing with the psychological effects of being half man/half beast. After offering to take her father’s place as the Beast’s prisoner, Belle starts to wander the confines of the castle, whereupon she discovers the illustrious enchanted rose. Mesmerized by its length and glowing pink hue, Belle is practically hypnotized as she reaches to lift the glass. She wants the D. And we’re not talking D(estruction of patriarchy). For “men” to believe there’s any innocence to her “mysteriously” overzealous desire to touch this “rose” is complete denial. That she only wants the rose while it’s in its full form (a.k.a. peak virility) is also a testament that, just the way “men” don’t want aging pussy, neither do women want ancient peen.