For the benefit of anyone who has been wearing a raincoat over their eyes instead of their private parts, allow me to point out that sex is quite the obsession these days. A lot of people think the contemporary fixation began with Larry Flynt, but I think it predated and bypassed the Hustler "mystique" and in fact is now rearing its head and waving its flag (insert snarky chuckle here, please) in every school, church, shopping center, hotel and leather goods emporium in the country. It's gotten so that you can't even walk into a college town nightclub without some buxom young thing balancing the slight protrusions of her post-adolescent pudenda in your general or specific direction.
The truth is, of course, that things have always been this way to one degree or another. To one generation it's the mini-skirt; to another it's the string bikini; and to yet another it's those nipple patches girls wear on the beaches in Mexico. The fact that people--especially young people--are comfortable with their inherent sexuality is in all likelihood a good and healthy thing and there's really no reason for me to get my shorts in a bind over such a silly subject, now is there?
No, certainly not. That is, not until things become overtly exploitive, by which I most certainly do not mean provocative. The latter word is often a very fine thing, one which I suspect holds together the fabric of the American life and without a doubt makes for interesting travels through what might otherwise be sadly uninteresting times and places. But once the provocation turns into exploitation, then, alas, we have a serious concern. This should not be confused with a matter of degree. Prudes were outraged by short skirts just as their grown children were freaked out by skimpy swim wear, just as others have been aghast at thongs and sticky things that just manage to cover the female nipple. The real issue, it seems to me, is one of intent.
There is, for instance, a huge difference between a sultry blonde roller skating along the sidewalk beaches of San Diego wearing the above alleged clothing for no other reason than to enhance her Vitamin D intake or, more realistically, to feed her own fragile ego, than to do so because she hopes to get the attention of people who, she hopes, will buy bottles of Gatorade or Captain Morgan.
It all comes down to commerce. Personally, I feel that once a financial component intrudes upon the otherwise provocative aspect of things, then those things have become, paradoxically, perverted. For some reason this nearly always involves the exploitation of women, an expression most out of favor these days, and yet one which is as prevalent as at any time in recent memory.
Here is a case in point. Yesterday was my birthday. I don't mind birthdays at all. In fact, I welcome them. There was a time, however, and not that long ago, when my own idea of celebrating such an occasion was to blow as much money as possible getting the attention of the most deranged and avaricious nymphomaniac in the universe, for no other reason than to delude myself into believing that I was still young and vital and highly competent, if you catch my meaning and I suspect you do.
But because my appreciation of women has evolved from the puerile and lascivious to the more aesthetic and cerebral, I have developed a nifty way of sublimating whatever remaining sexual tensions I may still have while at the same time avoiding being guilty of the same crude and commercial behavior I deplore. What do I do? I indulge in home improvement.
Looked at one way, I see that this may sound pathetic. But it really isn't. The best conversations I've ever had with women have been about art or food or school or friendship, pretty much in that order. And I find that I am especially receptive to these genuine pleasures--just listening to a smart woman talk is far more arousing in its own way than watching some intellectual casualty shaking her ass on the dance floor--after a hard day of painting the patio walls of my condo, or raking leaves, or running the vacuum.
I'm sure I will always continue to derive some stupid pleasure from admiring the delicious curves and upturned lips of women in various stages of dress or undress. But these days I feel all the more lucky because I can dismiss the looming commercial aspects of such visual transactions and simply roll in psychic ecstasy whenever a female tickles the thinking part of my brain. I recommend it to one and all.
The truth is, of course, that things have always been this way to one degree or another. To one generation it's the mini-skirt; to another it's the string bikini; and to yet another it's those nipple patches girls wear on the beaches in Mexico. The fact that people--especially young people--are comfortable with their inherent sexuality is in all likelihood a good and healthy thing and there's really no reason for me to get my shorts in a bind over such a silly subject, now is there?
No, certainly not. That is, not until things become overtly exploitive, by which I most certainly do not mean provocative. The latter word is often a very fine thing, one which I suspect holds together the fabric of the American life and without a doubt makes for interesting travels through what might otherwise be sadly uninteresting times and places. But once the provocation turns into exploitation, then, alas, we have a serious concern. This should not be confused with a matter of degree. Prudes were outraged by short skirts just as their grown children were freaked out by skimpy swim wear, just as others have been aghast at thongs and sticky things that just manage to cover the female nipple. The real issue, it seems to me, is one of intent.
Here is a case in point. Yesterday was my birthday. I don't mind birthdays at all. In fact, I welcome them. There was a time, however, and not that long ago, when my own idea of celebrating such an occasion was to blow as much money as possible getting the attention of the most deranged and avaricious nymphomaniac in the universe, for no other reason than to delude myself into believing that I was still young and vital and highly competent, if you catch my meaning and I suspect you do.
But because my appreciation of women has evolved from the puerile and lascivious to the more aesthetic and cerebral, I have developed a nifty way of sublimating whatever remaining sexual tensions I may still have while at the same time avoiding being guilty of the same crude and commercial behavior I deplore. What do I do? I indulge in home improvement.
1 comment:
You may be surprised at what those intellectual women are capable of shaking, just starting with their derriere!
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