Posts tagged ‘Sexuality’
The (Out of) Shape of Things: Part II
Lester Burnham: (running astride fit neighbors) I figured you guys might be able to give me some pointers. I need to shape up. Fast.
Jim Olmeyer: Are you just looking to lose weight, or do you want increased strength and flexibility as well?
Lester: I want to look good naked!
-from American Beauty
When I made the decision to stop “running seriously” three years ago, I realized that I had only been running for one purpose for too long. I asked myself, “If your body were to look the same whether you ran or not, would you still run regularly?” An unequivocal “no” resounded through my disturbed mind. I put my shoes into my closet and laced them up twice a week at most.
I have always conflated my body image into my sexual identity. The unhealthy marriage was consummated in 1995 when I hit puberty. I felt extremely uncomfortable in my own skin. To make a long story short, I made my period go away. The thought of developing breasts and hips absolutely terrified me, so I started exercising and virtually stopped eating. A year later, running saved my life. I felt entitled to eat again, and I gained self-confidence from excelling at something other than schoolwork (“Athlete” sounded better than “bookworm.”).
“Bootylicious” topped the charts the summer before my senior year in high school. Its sexy, charismatic message failed to reach me.
Fast forward two years.
Competing in collegiate sports put me in the best physical shape of my life, but I managed to keep subtle “lady lumps” throughout the years of intense training. Never before had I received so much attention from the opposite sex. I felt at once exhilarated and horrified. After three progressively problematic incidents, I started forcing myself to throw up. My experiences and surroundings seemed to convey to me that my body and my desires had provoked predatory behavior: My burgeoning sexuality could and would be used against me. When my breasts and hips refused to disappear, I tried to “act like a man.” I felt more attracted to women than ever before and feigned apathy toward “catching feelings.” I became aggressive, power hungry, and, occasionally, hateful. None of these pretenses worked, of course, and I started to fear the monster I was becoming.
I quit bulimia cold turkey when I left New Haven. My distance runs became fewer and occurred further between. I gained a nominal amount of weight and an immense amount of self-respect. I now run mostly to feel good. Looking good is just a fringe benefit.
See also “The (Out of) Shape of Things”
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The Sexism Behind “Sexy-Ugly” (Updated)
“You don’t have to be beautiful to turn me on.”
– Prince, “Kiss”
In Kissing Jessica Stein (2001), Helen describes Harvey Keitel as “very sexy-ugly.” Urban Dictionary defines the term as “a person (usually male) who is not conventionally good-looking but who is, through their idiosyncrasies, charisma, attitude or other mystery factor, sexually attractive.”
I take issue with this concept for a number of reasons. First of all, pseudo-lesbian movies like Kissing Jessica Stein are – to me – mostly fodder for heterosexual male masturbation and not accurate depictions of the LGBTQ community. Exploiting a group of people for capital gain and trying to pass it off as art is not cool in my book. Aside from that, why are only males usually “sexy-ugly?” I can think of quite a few reasons.
For better or worse, society assigns a much higher value to the attractiveness of women than to that of men. To an extent, this makes sense because men tend to be more visual than women, but I cannot help thinking of how it is the exact opposite in the animal kingdom (male birds’ vibrant plumage attracts mates). In addition, most women would find the description “sexy-ugly” offensive (if applied to them), whereas men might see it as a compliment. Implicit in this double standard is that–unlike women–men don’t have to adhere to as many social conventions to be attractive. Bottom line: It’s somehow OK for men to be “sexy-ugly,” but women have to be “sexy-sexy” to be considered attractive.
In efforts to resolve this gender bias, I have composed of list of male and female “sexy-ugly” celebrities. But, first, I want to express my feeling that “sexy-ugly” is a misnomer: There’s nothing ugly about being sexy! Instead, I term it “unconventionally sexy” or “uniquely attractive” because these people have some kind of physical feature and/or intangible quality that makes them attractive beyond traditional standards.
Men: Steve Buscemi, Billy Bob Thornton, Sean Penn, Lil Wayne, Benicio del Toro, Adrien Brody, Jack Black, Tommy Lee Jones, Alfred Molina, Christopher Walken, Dennis Hopper, Willem Dafoe, Philip Seymour Hoffman, John Malkovich, Tom Petty, Stephen King, Peter Dinklage, David Spade, Quentin Tarantino, Jason Segel, Kevin Smith, Dennis Rodman, Jake Gyllenhaal, Joaquin Phoenix, 50 Cent, Lyle Lovett, Elijah Wood, Thom Yorke, John Lithgow, Sid Haig, Tommy Lee, Trent Reznor
Women: Francis McDormand, Lucinda Williams, Chrissie Hynde, Sandra Bernhard, Liza Minnelli, Missy Elliott, Natasha Lyonne, Christina Ricci, Sandra Oh, Amy Winehouse, Pink, Heather Matarazzo, Courtney Love, Anjelica Huston, Joan Cusack, Toni Collette, Siouxsie Sioux, Margaret Cho, Nia Vardalos, Juliette Lewis, Tilda Swinton, Mariel Hemingway, Martha Plimpton, Lili Taylor, Whoopi Goldberg, Amanda Plummer, Cher, Cassandra Peterson (Elvira, Mistress of the Dark), Patricia Arquette
I’ll add more as I come up with them. Any suggestions?
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Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Your misogynistic poetry
what’s so wrong
that it’s about me
or that it’s not
Good
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From the Vault: Nine 1/2 Weeks Gets 8 1/2 Stars
Three years after I was born, Adrian Lyne (Unfaithful, Indecent Proposal, Fatal Attraction) directed Nine 1/2 Weeks, starring Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke. I saw it for the first time this weekend and felt puzzled by the film’s poor critical reception. Lyne manages to forge a balance between art and sex, creating an erotically-charged drama rather than soft core porn. The film is a meditation on the ambiguities and limitations of consensual liaisons between women and men.
Elizabeth (Basinger), a “divorced white female, beautiful statuesque blonde,” meets John (Rourke) while shopping for dinner party fare. John is concomitantly creepy and desirable as he makes overt sexual advances toward Elizabeth. “You’re taking a hell of a lot for granted, aren’t you,” Elizabeth remarks as John pointedly changes the bedsheets after their first outing. And thus begins a 9 1/2 week sexual journey. Elizabeth’s endearing naiveté complements John’s carnal authoritativeness. Scenes of sadomasochism, female masturbation, spontaneous lovemaking, and erotic food usage ensue. Lyne’s images at once titillate and disturb as the couple crisscrosses sexual boundaries and societal norms.
In her early 30s at the time of the film’s production, Basinger is, in retrospect, living proof that some women are like wine; they improve with age. While undoubtedly attractive, Basinger’s Renée Zellweger-like poutiness in this film pales in comparison to her fetching sophistication in L.A. Confidential and The Door in the Floor (both filmed over a decade later). Rourke, on the other hand, has endured a transformation in the opposite direction. The intensive reconstructive surgery he underwent after his professional wrestling career has rendered his once-alluring face almost unrecognizable. That said, he still has the body of an Olympian and acting talent that ranks him among the very best. His portrayal of John in Nine 1/2 Weeks made me further appreciate his wide range as an actor, as evidenced in Body Heat, Sin City, and The Wrestler.
If nothing else, this film depicts two major actors at pivotal moments in their respective careers. Beyond that, the disquieting interactions between Elizabeth and John speak to the complications of human nature and the overwhelming responsibility that accompanies sexual desire.
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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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Collecting Shells
(written May 2002)
Collecting shells
Some people spend most of their trip to the beach
Doing it
Others, occasionally
The best thing
To do
Is stand right where
The ocean’s brim meets the shore
Each wave
Brings in the new
And replaces the old
Shells
Many options
Limited time
Few worth putting in the bucket
One, in particular
Might catch the eye
But seen hitting
The bottom of the pail
Already has lost
Its luster
The pretty ones are always the broken ones
The plain white,
Complete
Shape, size, color, texture
Smell, taste?
All taken into account
The bar rises
As the collection increases
Carelessness,
Selectivity?
There it is!
It
The
One
Floating, lingering
In the foam
Fluttering, fumbling, tumbling,
Hiding?
Whether or not the imagination’s figment
The Moon speeds up the tide
And on One
The
It
Slides past
With the next wave
Out of reach
Out of dive
Out of mind
Out of sight
So good
That it is missed
Without being experienced
Let’s ignore the
Sandcastles
And plastic shovels,
White tummies,
SPF 30
Sometimes the best ones get away.
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Motherhood
I don’t want to have a baby
Right now or when I’m forty
Just so I can tell myself
That I’m no longer lonely
I don’t want to change its diapers
Or clip coupons from the mail
To buy mushed food and formula
I’d just as soon bail
I don’t want to quit my day job
Or wear maternity clothes
The thought of all that crying
Sends me into fits of woes
I don’t want to lose my interest
In afternoons of fucking
When one orgasm once a week
Chalks me up to lucky
I don’t want the picket fence posts
Ever after, happily
I don’t want to have a baby
(I don’t want a little me.)
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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?”
The Lollygabber 
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