Booty Is in the Eye of the Beholder
© Copyright 1998, 2001 by Linda Avey
Okay, maybe it’s just me, but I’m not titillated by pictures of naked men. And it’s not because I haven’t tried. Yesterday–purely for research purposes, you understand–I purchased a magazine that is the women’s equivalent to men’s “entertainment” magazines that you can find under the mattresses of boys ages 15 to 50.
When I returned home, I removed my trench coat, sunglasses, wig, hat, and rubber mask, and then I ripped the plastic barrier from the magazine and opened the magazine randomly in the center . . . Omigod! Is that thing on? He could hurt somebody with that thing, put an eye out even.
I was so offended that after a few more minutes I turned the page. On page after page I inspected the glossy photographs of sprawling men–some ready, some aimed, and some apparently already fired. Yes, right there in that magazine were more phalli erecti than I have seen in my entire life. But it wasn’t good for me.
So I squinted at the hunky man with no tan lines and tried to imagine him in a really cute outfit. That helped a bit–until I looked at his face. I know that his lusty expression was supposed to turn me on, but I reacted the same way I would react to any naked stranger who was leering at me while fondling himself: I called the police.
Hardened and jaded to all but the most heinous crimes, the police were less than compassionate when I pointed to the open magazine and cried, “There’s the offender, officers!”
After assuring me that photographs rarely act out, they left.
Well, I took their word for it and went back to page 37. He had pretty eyes, nice hair, and . . . I swear I couldn’t help myself, I began mentally dressing him. And then I began fantasizing: I pictured us going shopping for clothes together. And that was good for me.
Still, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get beyond his pornographic, uh, spread. It would have been easier if he hadn’t been so obviously into his work. (“Hey look, girls, it’s the Washington Monument!”) A guy can’t fake that sort of thing. At least not without a prescription.
Until a few years ago I was still a porno virgin. No, no, it’s true. I watched my first X-rated video with a former boyfriend I was temporarily insane with. He prodded me into it. The movie’s plot was not believable, but the dialog was pretty good: “Oh! Baby! OO-OO-OO, oh yes! In my face, baby! In my face! OO-OO! Oh Yes!” (I may be paraphrasing here.)
I have to admit it got my thoughts racing: “Those fingernails can’t be real. How does she do that–are her jaws double-jointed? Oh gross! I am not ever doing that again.”
“Boy!” said the boyfriend, “you can tell she’s really into her work.” I turned to him to share in this joke but was stopped mid-guffaw by the enraptured look on his face as he stared at the screen. It was a look that said something like, “I am unsullied innocence, I am child-like naiveté, I am dumb enough to believe anything you say to me if you moan loudly enough.”
Who was I to disillusion him?
Porno flicks do not turn me on, but I think maybe I could enjoy printed porn if it came in the form of paper dolls. It would be fun to dress the guy up: you could match his socks, throw out that “I brake for beavers” T-shirt, and never again be embarrassed at office parties because he didn’t have time to change after his golf game. And after the party you could take him home and rip his clothes off.
Okay, another nice fantasy, but then what? Paper cuts I suppose.
In the right circumstances I like to look at a naked guy. It’s just that I’m not turned on by his private parts unless I’m turned on by his private self. Even then, if asked to name his best feature, his genitalia would not immediately pop into my mind, which is good because I imagine that would hurt.
I say, give me a real, live man. He can be wardrobe impaired, color challenged, or even socially clueless–as long as he starts out with his clothes on.