In my quest to edify my brain in other directions than its usual suspect locations, I have sometimes taken some strange detours off the disinformation side roads. Strange is not the issue. ‘Nothing human is alien to me’, said Cicero, and a very long time ago, I made it one of my own credos.
Nothing alien. Buried in that particular subtext is the vain supposition that some day, the ultimate Bullshit-o-meter moment will occur, that halcyon instant I will have crashed through the wall of my own preconceptions and nothing will ever shock me again. Very little does, these days, but some things…make me wonder.
Not so long ago, I came across Bitch Magazine. Yupp, you read that right. I figured with a name like that, I couldn’t possibly go wrong.
So, perusing the archives to get a feel for this estimable publication based out of Portland, OR, I came across an article on a phenomenon I have never encountered, but then again, I’m slightly too preoccupied to go looking for this sort of thing.
Brace yourself. I almost had to.
In that subterranean quagmire of What Floats That Boat, apparently there are individuals out there who get a literal rise out of superabundant female lovelies on webcams lying in all their splendor – with or without lingerie – who stuff their faces…with eclairs, powdered-sugar doughnuts, pastries, what-have-you. I was rather surprised that carrots had no place here, but then again, that might have been too obvious, not to mention counterproductive.
I sat in front of my laptop for a few minutes, digesting that idea.
It’s obvious that in our sexualized age, where sex is everywhere to an extent never seen before, where certain degrees of pornification have become part of mainstream culture, that the ante on porn would also go up, becoming ever more extreme or even marginalized. If anything goes, then anything really out in left field will go even farther, hit harder. Human desire is a strange beast, and vanilla is just the wimpy beginning of the flavor spectrum.
So then. Feeder porn. Exceedingly Rubenesque women eating sugar doughnuts on camera in lingerie. I can see that the intersection of sex and food is so erotic. I can even see that the current, sanitized, super-exposed beauty ideal of overgrown ten-year-olds with Hollywoods or Brazilians can be…somewhat lacking. The male fans of T&A and women who look like women are legion.
But what disturbs me here is not that such phenomena exist. I’m no prude in the depravity department.
It’s the implications that kill me. You know, the out-of-control control thing.
Because really, people, it’s all about control. The lack of. And control. Having it.
The worship of female flesh is nothing new. Three words. Venus of Willendorf. Rubens. Most of Renaissance, Baroque, Rococo, or even 19th-century Academic art. By today’s standards, Ingrès’ sensual odalisques are gross, lard-like women.
I don’t agree with that, but then again, I don’t look like an overgrown ten-year-old, not even with a Brazilian.
But here we have something that I do find disturbing. Indulgence by proxy. A woman wallowing in the undeniable sensual delights of cake. OK. A man, unseen, taking his vicarious sexual pleasure in that indulgence. Sure, why not? No harm done, right?
Well, actually, all health risks of obesity aside, take the concept just a little further – and you just know it, someone, some day, will – and see what happens.
Because if you – or I – take that idea of feeder porn and follow it where it goes, it gets rather scary. A woman grown so large as to become completely incapacitated, dependant on a man for anything that matters. Indeed, for her very life, which is just how he likes it/loves it/can’t live without it.
“You would die without me, darling.”
“I know, baby. I know. Hand me another èclair. The one with the chocolate. I’ll take off my negligé.”
You get the idea.
Is this some insidious backlash to sexual emancipation? Some skewed slide downhill to where the guy gets his control back, and by extension, his masculinity? Is this an Oedipal nightmare taken as far as it can go, the Great Mother Goddess in all her superabundant glory being worshiped by her acolyte priest/lover/son?
The man calls the shots. He has the control. He buys those èclairs. He holds the desire, the gaze, the right to adore, whereas the woman goes along with it, because in general, that’s what women do.
Err, no. The simple fact is, that where’s there’s a demand for anything at all, there’s a market ready to fulfill it.
I have no business judging these women or the men who enjoy them. The fact that anyone can celebrate femininity in any other form than the standard, artificial porn-star ideal should be applauded.
What creeps me out no end is that sneaky, backwards-manipulative subtext of utter, abject dependency to the point of helplessness, of denying, consciously or not, women any level of autonomy, because those men find it threatening.
Then again, the real world is – threatening. And women are a definite threat, with or without a cream puff in their mouths!