Thursday, February 03, 2005

wild wild women

clearly, I don't read enough tabloids or watch enough cable - well, I don't read or watch any, actually - because this 'new' porn genre has alerted me to responses that I didn't think my well-bugger-me gland was capable of any longer.
for those who, like me, have been living the monastic life for a few years and/or are as cutting-edge-tabloid deficient as me, this is how it is: documentary access, would you believe, to wild, wild girls-only parties where the male strippers are there to be used (and we're not talking about their conversational skills here) as well as to be ogled at. reality TV meets stereotypical fantasy. Endemol eat your heart out. the girls booze and boogie and giggle at the boys (the music is utterly frightful, needless to say). the boys preen and tease and finally geremoff. the girls, egged on by lots of screaming and laughter, take it in turns to see who can give the most outrageous performance. it graduates from smothering the boys pecs and cocks with baby-oil to full-on blowjobs and fucking.
all good clean fun.
what's remarkable (to an uptight Franciscan rhino like me) is that whereas, a few years ago, this would all have been a low-budget studio setup, these sites (English as well as American - nice to hear a Taunton accent in amongst the Texan corn - well, it might have been Dutch - sound quality not the best ...) are showing the real thing: wild, wild girls-only parties where ... etc. I don't say 'purport to show' because, quite clearly, there's nothing phoney about these shaky handheld clips. I might be a monk, but I'm sufficiently media-savvy to be able to recognise the difference between a real party and a studio one (in the real ones most of the partygoers don't look like Caprice). and these guys are partying. they are partying! I grant that the filmmakers have probably set it all up in the sense that they've announced their intentions, hired a club (complete with djFUNky and his box of nineties grindcore) for the night, paid for the strippers, and offered all the girls free booze, at least - but hey, a party's a party - and they don't look to me like guns that are pointing at those women's heads. they're paysites, of course, and I don't do plastic porn, so I'm judging on the basis of a few fifteen-second teaser mpegs that burst out of my computer, grabbed me in a headlock, and made me watch.
but still ...
far be it from me to make any judgements about human sexual behaviour - live and let live, I say - total mystery to me, mate, gave up on trying to understand any of that centuries ago - but what seems to distinguish this genre from most others in porn, and what has tweaked my well-bugger-me gland so noticeably, is that this seems to confirm something that I've suspected for a very long time: that, far from there being any fundamental differences at all between men and woman (you know - those earnest answers to 'what do women really want?' articles that enumerate characteristics evolved from female nurturing as opposed to male hunting skills - as if evolution took no account whatsoever of reality), here's proof, of the most in-your-face, four-of-a-kind kind, that men and women are, fundamentally, exactly the same when it comes down to hypothalmus-related appetites - and that, given the right combination of socially liberating circumstances (ie contraceptive security, convivial company, booze-relaxed-inhibitions), there are just as many women as men whose idea of a good party is to shag the socks off a decent-looking stripper.
which isn't to say that there aren't equally a considerable number of women who find the whole idea of this totally appalling (I mean, that music! - you'll have to take my word for it), but my guess is that very few women would muster the old arguments about exploitation that used to be applied (are they still? I had this argument with Jenni Murray once) to the gender-reversed situation - male party, female strippers - and that the general view would be that what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.
seems fair enough to me.
something else that strikes me, and that's related to the whole post-Warhol thing: there seem now to be vast swathes of the post-Big-Brother generation who will do anything - absolutely anything - in return for their fifteen minutes: a spurious entitlement which seems nevertheless to have been adopted as a fundamental human right. the word 'shameless' has become subject, in the twenty-oughts, to the same semantic alchemy that transmuted 'hypocrisy' and 'greed' in the 'nineties - an upending of the relationship between words and values that corresponds to the relentlessly amoral tracker indices of the stock markets. this is hardly surprising, given that the universal perception of 'success' - whether in business, politics, or Hollywood - acknowledges that it predicates on one's being shameless, hypocritical, and greedy. which, you might say, is a lesson better learnt late than never. personally, I'd find it problematic looking anyone in the eye after admitting to doing anything - aerobics, flossing, wanking, whatever - to the soundtrack of a djFUNky mixtape. but hey, I'm a baby boomer - shame's my middle name.

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