Khadija Magardie
Body Language
If I may be forgiven my cynicism, I have, of late, been pondering over the hype surrounding our National Women’s Day: particularly, one of its commercial spin- offs.
I am sure that mine was only one of thousands of female titters to be heard around the country, as we sat in front of our TV sets. This was, of course, the heralding, with much fanfare, of the “not to be missed” show of those illustrious pectoral-and-gluteal gods, The Chippendales – for “one night only” – in our living rooms. No doubt, the promoters would be somewhat disheartened to find that, far from reducing women to salivating in anticipation, most of us diarised the event in the hope of getting a few laughs. This, of course, because the producers of these anti-climaxes (pardon the pun) think that the tried and trusted formula used in girlie mags works for women as well.
Nowadays, contraception, coupled with female assertion of their right to be sexually satisfied, has meant a loosening of the bonds around sexual activity. And if it is true that, as the old saying goes, “what is good for the gander should be as good for the goose”, women, like men, should be able to objectify the pretty, young bodies of the opposite sex. After all, it would be the ultimate status symbol of our liberation …
Why, then, is it that women, confronted with the image of a pleasant, airbrushed- looking type like a “Chippendale”, are more likely to burst out laughing, than swoon in feverish ecstacy?
Because the whole issue of giving us women something to pin up on our office boards and behind our loo doors, is missing the point. And I dare say I do not stand alone in this assumption.
One has only to study the behavioural patterns of men and women who frequent “strip joints”. For most men, this activity satisfies their voyeuristic tendencies, and gives them some kind of licence to grope and leer at the performers. Some even see it as a primary ingredient towards sexual stimulus. The motives of women, on the other hand, can be gauged, first and foremost, by the fact that they almost always go with groups of other women. This is often for the sheer amusement of it all. Indeed, there are women out there who pay to see the male body reduced to an object, and to get their kicks, as it were. But most of them, I am told, see “beefcake shows” as an excuse to revert to adolescent-type shrieking, leering and, of course, guffawing. This is because women see these half-hearted attempts to turn them on as nothing but celluloid copies of the real thing. The real thing, of course, being real men …
To date, nobody has been enterprising enough to find a pornographic formula that women would find a turn-on. Whoever did, as Germaine Greer once noted, would “quite soon be able to make Hugh Hefner look cheaper than a postcard peddler in Port Said”. Because more women buy magazines than men, particularly those devoted to the beauty and body industry, the potential would be enormous – a veritable goldmine. But the question is, do women want, or even need, pornography?
In my estimation, women do not have the penchant for visual stimuli as a necessary precursor to intimacy. Of course, that is not to say that we do not regard physical attractiveness essential in terms of whom we choose to, and not to, sleep with. But this whole idea that we, like men, should have our own little “beefcake cottage industry”, just because this is a sexually liberated world, is off-track and naive.
One of the arguments against pornography is that it reduces human relationships to the proportions and dimensions of the body. And in most cases, this means the female body. Because a substantial element of pornography is devoted to portraying women in positions of subservience, bondage and even pain, there is always the chance that purchasers of pornography will make the connection that the sight of a sexually humiliated woman is attractive.
Opportunists seeking to carve a niche for women in this whole scheme think that erotica, a form of sexual art that can be mutually beneficial for both sexes, is the same thing as pornography. Somehow, one doubts the sight of a naked man in a dog- collar, being presided over by a dominatrix wielding a riding crop, will have the same implications for the sexual thoughts of women, as for those of men. The average woman would find it rather pathetic to sit in a secluded corner and devour the contents of a mag showing men, with coy smiles, and strategically placed hands, instead of looking for a real man.
Men, on the other hand, are easily able to divorce their minds from an emotional connection with a woman, and cavort with prostitutes, or “utilise” girlie mags. And pornography is dangerous for the status of women for the very reason that it regards her feelings as nothing more than a life- support system for her “vital parts”. So to assume that women, by looking at pornographic images of men, or, even more mysteriously, by watching it on a TV, would think the same, is devoid of common sense.
Promoters who assume the motive behind women remaining glued to their sets to watch The Chippendales is the same as the reason why men would do so for similarly clad women are insulting the sexual intelligence of women. Because, as biology would have it, the “tits ‘n ass in reverse” formula does not work.
I don’t have any answers as to what exactly should be prescribed to make women want to buy pictures of naked men. Because consumers should be kept, as well as bought, this needs to be somewhat substantial and mind-grabbing. But what I do know is that what is currently on the menu is nothing more than a cheap imitation. One that is drastically off the mark, and perhaps sells more subscriptions off the homosexual market than to women.
Women have enough on their plates in terms of relationship, career and home, and do not have the luxury to pursue their lusts off the magazine racks. I cannot claim to speak for all, but it seems unlikely that this kind of thing is a turn-on for women. The aesthetic magnificence of “The Chipps” is admirable. But in the long run, neither they, nor any other “beefcake” strutting his stuff on the pages or the telly, are likely to push our hormones into overdrive.