Birth Of A Super Stud

In 1980, while the world was busy disco-dancing and dodging Cold War paranoia, I was sketching an alien with a mission: to save a town called Penisville from the throes of malicious sexual activity. Thus, Erectoman was born — a cosmic crusader from a remote planet, armed with extraterrestrial ethics and a phallic sense of justice.

Back then, the concept was simple: parody the superhero genre by pushing it to its most absurd, anatomical extreme. Erectoman wasn’t just a hero — he was a walking metaphor, a bulging symbol of repression, desire, and the awkwardness of human sexuality. He didn’t fly. He thrusted. He didn’t punch. He penetrated injustice.

But as the years passed, the absurdity of the original gave way to something darker — and more personal.

By the early '90s, I found myself less interested in aliens and more fascinated by the psychology of shame. The new Erectoman wasn’t a space traveler — he was a student loner, haunted by sexual phobias and social isolation. His inability to connect intimately led to compulsive masturbation, which in turn made him the perfect candidate for a secret experiment run by the enigmatic Dr. Boner.

This version wasn’t just parody — it was satire with teeth. It explored how society pathologizes desire, how shame mutates into obsession, and how the search for control can turn a man into a myth.

Erectoman is more than a comic. It’s a mirror held up to the weird, wonderful, and often uncomfortable relationship we have with sexuality, identity, and power. Whether he’s battling the Libido Lich or navigating the twisted corridors of Boner Labs, Erectoman reminds us that the line between hero and hazard is often drawn in shame.