Because You Never Asked

     (This essay is the second of a series including "Pornography", "Pornography Revisited" and "Feminism".)

     Although it might be considered a romantically deodorized way of stating it, there has never been a truer statement than "love makes the world go round". The sexual urge is the motor of human endeavor and such manifestations as greed, envy, happiness, ambition, aggression, kindness, tenderness, etc., would all be meaningless and irrelevant without the chemistry that makes one being desire another. Even one's quest for chaste purity is probably someone's particular way to attract another. Would there have been a Trump Tower without the boss's tawdry taste in women? Would Hitler the eunuch have tried to conquer the world? Would we still remember the Queen of the Nile without Julius and Marc Anthony? Would the ludicrous career of our seemingly asexual crime fighter, J. Edgar Hoover, have ever happened without his somewhat kinky cross-dressing appetites? I think not. Geldings are placid creatures that breathe and eat and concern themselves for little else. Who can blame them?

     If we accept what's just been said above, it's logical to conclude that a culture's way of dealing with the urges that culminate in the sexual act is a good indicator of who and what it is, or, at the very least, says something about it. With regard to my own western culture, I can't say the picture is too flattering. The banal nature of this essay's title is no accident, but rather, a proper reflection of these attitudes. It has become quite fashionable to blame this state of affairs on male crudity, a premise I find unacceptably simple-minded. As I shall argue in a future essay entitled "Feminism", this is a team effort, with the female role contributing its fair share of "crudity" to the problem.

     The inspiration for this essay comes from the routine perusal of the principle street in the town where I live. This town is a typical, warm weather tourist trap, and the average day provides a prodigious if not overwhelming display of feminine allure. Let's examine the principle manifestations of this dizzying display, that being . you guessed it, tits and ass.

     Right on! Get down!

     Let's start from the back with "ass". A woman's posterior is one of the foremost weapons in her arsenal for life fulfilling possibilities. She will not step forth into a public place without having a perfect idea as to how it is encased and what effect such packaging will have on the market. Some of the decisions that go into this presentation must be quite difficult. For instance: how much buttery buttock should be let to escape below the Rio Grande? When I think of the gyrations that must take place in front of a woman's full-length mirror, I feel fortunate in having my skinny little masculine butt, freeing myself from such degradation.

     Which brings me to the main event we've all been waiting for, that being, "tits".

     My culture has built a folklore around the female breast that could only be called an irrational obsession. Obsessions stir the human mind. This is evidenced by the ingenious creativity displayed in dressing this piece of anatomy. One can only marvel at how the designs both slyly cover and expose the creamy hillocks, creating the ultimate tease; tank tops, halter tops, cross designs, V-necks, willowy fabrics that cling and suggest or manage to give us a peek in certain lights. The designs are infinite, ever changing, and premised upon the offering of the longed-for handful in its most provocative form. Round, pointy, firm, floppy, white, black, burnt, freckled, stretched, taut, pressed, spread, proud and once proud, natural or artificially flavored, from the front, side or rear . what an endless Sierra of lactic splendor and decay. (Obviously, like any other red blooded American boy, I've devoted much of my post-pubic life to such observation.) If this all sounds crass, cheap, or somehow pornographic . you're right! Which brings me to . (see essay "Pornography Revisited")