Posts filed under ‘Sexuality’
Blame It (On the Concert Hall)
Warning: This post contains a lot of adult language.
I surprisingly didn’t feel offended when D12 ordered “all the independent women in the house” to “show [them their] tits and shut [their] mother fuckin’ mouth[s]” in 2001’s “Ain’t Nuttin’ But Music.” Nor did I get upset when Jay-Z boasted, “I thug ’em, fuck ’em, love ’em, leave ’em/’Cause I don’t fuckin’ need ’em/Take ’em out the hood/Keep ’em lookin’ good/But I don’t fuckin’ feed ’em,” in “Big Pimpin.'” With lyrics so blatantly misogynistic, it’s difficult to take these songs too seriously. Maybe that’s why I rhymed along with the rappers instead of sending them hate mail. Lately, however, two songs have almost made me lose sleep at night.
“Baby, Let Me Rape You” might be a more appropriate title for Jamie Foxx’s (feat. T-Pain) latest hit, “Blame It (On the Alcohol).” The song describes a relatively innocuous situation: A bachelor is in town for the weekend and hits up the club scene because he wants to get some tail. But then he meets a “girl” whose looks probably wouldn’t suit him in the light of day (I was unaware/How fine you was before my buzz set in), and she doesn’t seem too interested in hooking up (She say she usually don’t/But I know she front). Deciding to create his own window of opportunity, the guy “seduces” the girl with alcoholic beverages (Girl, what you drinkin’?/Go on, let it sink in) until she gives in to his sexual advances (Fill another cup up/Feelin’ on your butt, what?/You don’t even care now).
I could be overreacting. After all, there’s nothing wrong with sippin’ on some “‘tron” and gettin’ it on. But if the prospect of having sex isn’t consensual before drinks enter into the equation, it’s not OK to proceed. Jamie Foxx goes beyond just talking smack about women: He seems to endorse forced sex through inebriation. All that said, the song is catchy as hell. Maybe I just need to take a few shots, crank up the stereo, and blame it on the ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-alcohol.
If “Blame It (On the Alcohol)” teeter-totters the line between impertinence and acceptability, 3OH!3’s “Don’t Trust Me” completely obliterates it. The female victim is under 21 (X’s on the back of your hands/Wash them in the bathroom to drink like the bands), and the guy we shouldn’t trust preys upon her vulnerability and anonymity (B-b-b-bruises cover your arms/Shaking in the fingers with the bottle in your palm/And the best is, no one knows who you are/Just another girl alone at the bar). The instructions he gives her speak for themselves: “Shush, girl! Shut your lips/Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips.” If “Don’t Trust Me” is an electronica or hip hop parody, it’s one thing, but the song doesn’t give me satiric vibes a la Weird Al.
Sometimes I really miss the days when Milli Vanilli and Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam dominated the air waves.
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ACLU Presents Case of Savana Redding to US Supreme Court
When she was 13, Savana Redding endured a humiliating strip-search (in which she had to bare her breasts and genitalia) after a classmate falsely accused her of possessing ibuprofen pills. The school officials who instigated this traumatic event violated Redding’s civil rights and betrayed the trust and respect of the parents and students of Safford United School District.
Most news articles regarding this event and its aftermath criticize the school officials for acting so rashly on uncorroborated evidence. While I agree that using mere accusations to justify a strip-search is completely uncalled for, I think the act of forcing children to reveal their private parts for any reason needs to be seriously examined. If Redding had been accused of bringing cocaine to school, I still think other avenues of interrogation and corroboration should have been explored. After all, if the officials had found ibuprofen pills on Redding’s person, the civil rights of a child would have still been violated. Which is worse: Possessing prescription-strength painkillers on school grounds…or forcing a minor to show her body parts to adults?
The other issue this case brings up is that of the “war on drugs.” I remember when, as a middle and high school student, I received explicit instructions (punishable by the wrath of God) not to keep any kind of drug in my backpack, locker, or car. Even asthmatics had to check their inhalers in at the nurse’s office. I was so used to this rule that I endured all of college without using Advil, Tylenol, etc. (it was second-nature not to pick it up at the drugstore without first consulting an adult). Shouldn’t the school have spent more time handing out condoms than taking away aspirin?
And now I’ve been hearing all these ads about how terrible marijuana is and how it will ruin your life. “Above the Influence” commercials air on any TV station that caters to the “under 30” demographic. I recognize that weed, in addition to being illegal (which it shoudn’t be, but that’s for another time), impairs ones ability to drive and operate heavy machinery. That said, shouldn’t we be spending our publicly-funded advertising dollars on preventing the use of drugs like heroin and speed? Again, which is worse: Allowing a bunch of potheads to binge on Doritos and Ding Dongs after school…or overlooking a group of students snorting coke in the locker room?
This morning, the US Supreme Court heard arguments from Savana Redding’s attorney with the ACLU. From one woman to another, I commend the young lady (six years have passed since that fateful day) for having the courage to pursue justice.
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Excerpt from “Those Bright College Years”
My gregarious Californian roommate, Evelyn*, decided to throw a Jilted Lovers’ Party the weekend after Valentine’s Day. Not yet into the party scene, I took a backseat role in planning the festivities. I did, however, suggest we write enticing messages (think alternative conversation hearts) on the heart-shaped helium balloons lining the walls and staircase. “Fuck Me” and “69” seemed to go over pretty well.
Still high from dancing the night away with Johnny* at the Sadie Hawkins dance, I emailed him an invite to the party. He responded that he would likely arrive a bit late since his improv comedy group had an after party that same night. I kept my heavily-lined eyes peeled for him as I danced listlessly in my black faux-leather mini and tiger skin top. The girls across the hall volunteered their suite for serving mixed drinks, and our common room doubled as the dance floor and hook-up room.
Apparently, word of the party spread like an STD at a brothel because hoards of people arrived to take advantage of the free alcohol. People impatiently filled the 5-floor entryway, even half an hour after the drinks ran out. Swarms of disappointed partygoers ended up on the dance floor by default in their failed escape attempt. I frantically scanned the room for signs of Johnny, but I felt hopeless and overwhelmed by the crowds of students eagerly awaiting inebriation and/or orgasm.
The campus police must have arrived around 12:30 to bust up the party. They couldn’t care less about the serving of alcohol by minors to other under-aged drinkers. Someone had supposedly called and complained about the noise level, so the music and, therefore, fun, had to end. And still no Johnny. I felt like the girl who bought a new dress and make-up set in eager anticipation of the middle school dance, just to watch her recent purchases gather dust as she assumed the wallflower position throughout the 180 minute session of swaying, giggling, and back-of-the-gym exploration.
My whole body seemed to droop as I dejectedly helped clean up the spilled liquor and red plastic cups. A few of the guests from my residential college announced that they were heading over to a frat house. Having only been to one fraternity party, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to expand my social horizons. Later that night, out of desperation and a low sense of self-worth, I made the first in a series of life-altering mistakes.
*For privacy purposes, some names and minor details have been changed.
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“Oops, I Didn’t Know We Couldn’t Talk About Sex”: Feminine Angstiest Songs #1
In 1994, Madonna released Bedtime Stories, an album with less overt sexuality than Erotica (1992) but with plenty of imagery nonetheless. Although “Secret” and “Take A Bow” were the most popular singles on this multi-Platinum album, “Human Nature” takes the cake when it comes to expressing feminine angst. I’ll explain why in this first installment of many about songs I like to jam to when I’m feeling like a man-eater.
Before Madonna rendered herself curveless through yoga and God only knows what else, she filmed the music video for “Human Nature,” wearing body-hugging black vinyl and donning chestnut cornrows among a sea of smutty men and women. Anonymous hands begin to fondle a seated Madonna just before she slams her legs shut. We then see her dancing in a white box, along with the other dancers in S&M-esque garb. Throughout the song, Madonna seductively whispers the following mantra: “Express yourself, don’t repress yourself.” The backless, frontless boxes could represent superficial repression from which Madonna is ultimately free with access through the front and back doors.
Madonna is unapologetic about her sexuality, self-expression, and decisions: “I’m not sorry / It’s human nature / And I’m not sorry / I’m not your bitch / Don’t hang your shit on me.” Sometimes a partner’s words and actions serve as an attempt to silence us, but we can take the upper-hand in the blame game. I’ve taken this too far by refusing to apologize for things that actually are my fault, but I like the concept of using human nature as a defense when appropriate.
“Human Nature” came back to life in Madonna’s 2001 Drowned World Tour as she performed it while riding a mechanical bull. Not to be outdone by her past self, Madonna recruited Britney Spears to sing along in November 2008. This version of “Human Nature” includes the infamous line, “It’s Britney, bitch!” The cougar and her cub have been released into the wild yet again.
Unabashed and unwilling to adhere to haphazard social constructions, Madonna delivers yet another knockout performance. My favorite line of the song poses an age-old question: “Would it sound better if I were a man?”
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I Didn’t Mean to Be Mean
I didn’t mean to be mean
When I screamed, when I wept
I didn’t want to be wanted
I just needed to be kept
I’m so used to being used
Your pure intentions
Are abuse
If you’d struck me, if you’d fuck me
You’re like the others –
Cold but lucky
It was simple being easy
So I blame you
When you please me
For saving me from deadly habits
That die hard
For making me smile
For taking me far
Far from here
Far from blue
Further from home
Furthest from you
So, to that end, I must implore:
If you hated me
Would I love you more?
Disparate but never desperate
We’re violently in love
As luck would have it
The Lollygabber 
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