Eager Dick Puppets

I've been reading a lot of "post-feminist deconstruction" lately. Many writers and literate thinkers have been wondering about the current trends in feminine cultural images. It seems that now, as opposed to the height of the feminist movement, women are not only accepting of female objectification but have a desire to actually become objects. Once it was unacceptable to flaunt your boobs instead of your brains, now a woman uses her brain to figure out how to better flaunt her boobs.

Well, here's my non-boob contribution to this discussion. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this with the belief that I am not the only woman who feels this way.

Sadly, I would rather be a muse than a creator. I'd rather be Helen of Troy than Marie Curie. I'm pretty ambitious and am fairly insecure with a gigantic chip on my shoulder, so I will probably opt the Marie Curie track (not specifically, but you know what I mean) rather than the lusty busty babe on the cover of Maxim route. Even so, I do hope that, someday, there will be poems about my joie de vivre, oil paintings of my ample figure, and novels in which I am portrayed as a strong and noble woman with an hypnotic allure. How many fucking poets, short story writers, musicians, and visual artists did I try to seduce so that I could be immortalized and passed on to future generations as a model of femininity? Too many and hardly worth the cheap rhyming couplets I received on the backs of napkins. Most of them with not so clever images all rhyming with the word "Nantucket".

In some way, we all want to grab our little piece of immortality. I cannot say if this intense need to be proclaimed a great beauty is genetic or if it is a part of my socialization. All I know is that the need is there. Some women have achieved this great goal and you can see them hanging in the Louvre or the Metropolitan Museum of Art or on the shelves of your local bookstore. You may not know their names, but you know that, at some critical point in their lives, someone was fascinated by them. Someone was interested enough in them to study them, observe their mannerisms, capture their ever changing essence and this exercise feels like love. It is the closest thing to immortality we can give one another.

So why all the cheapness?

Right now, cheap is all we got. Now, more than ever, the Paris Hiltons, Jessica Simpsons, and Pamela Andersons of the world can get as much attention as they want because the inner thigh is a completely public place now, so what's the problem? Ladies have allowed the boys to become "Laddies". Laddies are easily amused, beer swilling, illiterate pigs who love fart jokes and corn chips and there are a lot of them. It's cyclical, since we do not really demand more from them they are more than happy to let these things slide. The more they slide the less "artistic" attention there is to go around so we'll settle for letting it all hang out. Then the laddies get the message that their behavior is just fine with us so it just goes on and on. We either take what we can get or we give up on our dreams of being exalted, honored, and desired for the closest thing to eternity we can find.

Why does this matter so much to us? Because we're freaking vain, that's why! Duh! Vain and insecure. Love me, validate me, paint me, write me, capture me, hold me, keep me, secure me, make sure I don't float into oblivion, need me, desire me, touch me, free me, make me sacred, flatter me, be a part of me!

In my particular case, I want the PR. Something that can unleash my greatness to the world or, more importantly, help me see the greatness in myself. No more. No less.