Young bottoms in love
The blogosphere’s own male Hothead Paisan, Steve Gilliard, waxes dudely in this disturbi-comic post on the subject of infidelity. He uses as his springboard a Page Six blurb about some celebrity barbie who has apparently gone "thermonuclear" over her boyfriend Jude Law’s insatiable hunger for banging derelict supermodels two at a time. Steve focuses on the barbie’s reported demand that Law provide her with an unabridged list of his conquests. For the shallow spinster aunt, the larger question might have been "what exactly are the effects of thermonuclearity on the appetite?" but not so the insightful Steve, who is mystified that any woman would desire to possess such painful information about her luvaboy.
The basis for his incredulity? "It just seems, well, masochistic."
With which remark Steve has delivered an astute radical feminist analysis of the situation.
It has clearly not escaped his notice that femininity is above all a masochistic enterprise. In fact, it’s the most masochistic enterprise going. I imagine that for those women whose royal lifestyle depends on their mastery of feminine drag, the quest for pain, humiliation, and self-loathing must rise to the level of an art form.
One of the more troubling aspects of the pursuit of femininity (other than seeing it used in Venus-and-Mars essays as a justification for, rather than a symptom of, misogyny) is its prerequisite that one view all other feminine women as threats. Thus it is crucial that Jude Law’s girlfriend knows who to dis at cocktail parties, whose ass to compare her own to, and who to out-cunt at the next Royal Hollywood Gala Benefit For Poor Ignorant Victims Of Something. Without this critical intelligence, she cannot make informed decisions about how much blonder her hair should be, which pole-dancing coach she should employ, and how much liposuction she needs to stay in the game.
So I’ll have to pick a nit with Steve here; in requesting the lover-list, our barbie is not just being a nosy-nelly about "details which are none of [her] fucking business." Such details are precisely what her business is.
Feel free, Steve, to go ahead and blame the patriarchy for that.
Steve takes a well-deserved break from the intellectual rigors of feminist theory to humorously mock sluts who don’t know who the father of their kid is; to suggest that, although he doesn’t see the value in nailing a virgin, a woman should at least pretend to be purer than she really is; and to bitch that when a man asks a woman for her own partner-count, she will always pretend to be purer than she really is.
But then he’s right back in the game with the observation, addressed to the ladies in the audience who might not be in the know, that "blowing 37 guys is worse than fucking 37 guys. Really. […] The images of parked cars and cheap sex come to mind."
See, many people erroneously view the elusive, yearned-for blowjob as a lesser infraction on the slut-o-meter than is, say, goin’ all the way. Anticipating that his readers might not immediately grasp that a woman might find it more degrading to perform in multiples of 37 a sex act that even an imbecile can see has all the glamourous romantic dignity of gagging on a leaky blutwurst, Steve correctly identifies the dispensing of the blowjob as a humiliation more substantive than that of merely lying there and passively enduring a good reaming. Particularly, Steve suggests, when the venue is automotive in nature.
The automobile, says Steve (in so many words) is, in so many ways, a tool of the patriarchy. Too bad it’s not the only one.
Meanwhile, Steve is also advocating on behalf of the displaced animal population of New Orleans, and asks for help in locating for the rescuers an airconditioned animal transport vehicle.