I would like all or any of my women readers to try this social experiment. Visit a modestly populated beach or local swimming hole on the hottest day next week. Now just before you embark, I want you to stop by the Mall to get a swimsuit. I know you might already have a one piece, two piece with a sappy skirt, or that gnarly looking knicker-set, but I need you to buy a special swimsuit for this experiment. I want you to select a two piece bikini 2 SIZES TOO SMALL. That’s right, I’m upping the uncomfortable level a bit on this experiment, but it serves a point. Now, take said 2 SIZES TOO SMALL two-piece bikini(preferably in red or mango color) and take a stroll from your towel seat to the water’s edge, making sure that your pace, your gait, is under the supervision of all the beachcombers around you. Now depending on your current body dimensions you will either be concluded in the annals of public opinion as:
A) Sexy B) Gross C) Unnecessary.
I understand how crass these options are, and by no reason am I affirming that you, my women readers, are unattractive, but I’m hemorrhaging what culture has fed me over the years.
Now what my social experiment seeks to prove is this: the ideal of being “sexy” is not some “thing” one naturally possesses or exudes innocently on celluloid, but is in a matter-of-fact way brandished upon by society.
If an emaciated woman graced the cover of a magazine, her nipples partially exposed next to the Editorial headlines, the populous that deem themselves the marketplace of style, fashion–beauty, would not be offended. In fact, they would charge it, the image of her nipples against her malnourished body, as an example of striking example of feminine sexuality on display. Now, swap out the 110 lb model for an identical woman, a real woman, who just so happens to weigh 200 lbs. You will see the same populous, the marketplace of style, fashion–beauty, turn their applauding mouths into frowns of discomfiture, disgust, and abhorrence.
It’s a two way street, this redefinition of self-image. In the eyes of the sensuously blatant community, partial nudity or attire reaped in sexuality is sorely the rue of what ails man. However, one can not ride down the road toward this blithe of image without noticing the opposite flowing lane of traffic. No matter how accessible one might assume sex on display to be, care must be taken to those “unperfect”; those women who are at times undressed, misrepresented, or miscued by “art” for the appeasement of men.
Deviancy comes from making such mistakes.
My case for this can be made by watching any film that stitches gratuitous displays of sexuality behind plot lines such as “our last year in high school” or “our first year in college” over the top sex-romps. Of course, the argument exists that I’m being bias, and merely attacking mediums of overtly drawn sexuality because I lack the understanding of the “perfect people”.
I doubt this diagnosis highly.
It takes a real mutton-head NOT to see that what transpires or transmits as attractive, acceptably attractive, is put to us as early as childhood. Where our Brothers Grimm regale in their stories the differences between “fair maiden” and “wicked witch”. We move pass these tales to “handsome princes” and “orges and goblins”. It’s cumulative, this re-education of what IS attractive, and what ISN’T. But, one thing decides whether the painted-on swimsuit model or the curvilinear music video are the creme de le creme when it comes to the tertiary order of beautiful, acceptable, and passable: Personal interpretation.
It always comes down to personal interpretation. What one group cries as “one of the world’s most beautifulest”, another group, with a sober eye-roll, spies as an empty vessel to continue the charade of beauty to the unwilling like a motocade down Broadway.