Even Shiva (or is it Nataraja?) can't resist hot god-on-pole action. Thanks, Maxim!
Maxim magazine, beloved bastion of women’s naked pole-dancing empowerment, is exporting its important message–that true male fulfillment depends on a connoisseurship of airbrushed T&A–to India.
Lucky India! Perhaps now that backward hellhole of a subcontinent can retrain its recalcitrant female population to lovingly embrace the male gaze, just like their enlightened, surgically-enhanced western sisters. Because, let’s face it; until now Indian women have been woefully ignorant of the enormous sense of freedom and self-worth that obtains through sashaying around town in hot pants and stiletto heels in exchange for male approval. Would you believe that in India “men never touch a woman in public, unless she is elderly or sick”? I’m not even kidding!
That’s why, as any white liberal American Maxim reader will tell you, western culture is best! The editor of the new Indian Maxim lists the western-style commodities to be enjoyed magazinally by the “new urban male,” presumably in order of importance, as “wine, gadgets, cultural trends … and beautiful women.”
To the honky who dabbles in feminist rhetoric, the main problem with all those barbarian Hindus and Muslims and terrorists and what-have-yous over there is that they force their women to schlep around in too much fabric. It’s so sexist! It’s so oppressive! How the heck can such inhibited females ooze the kind of liberating sexmissive pornstar availability that earns a woman her rightful place in western society if nobody can see a red patent-leather thong sticking out of her butt-cheeks when she bends over the nonfat yogurt bin at the Piggly Wiggly?
Maxim can change all that. By introducing to a grateful nation the superior form of western sexism, it can help India repurpose its women. Oh, they’ll remain wholly-owned subsidiaries of the male state, all right, just like here, but now, because the male state will confer treats on them for compliance, they’ll be raunched-out sexbots at the same time!
Like any hostile takeover, this swapping out of one sort of tyranny for another may require a period of adjustment, since Indian men are “more educated, literate, and tasteful” than the average western metropalooka. Maxim will start by replacing the outdated “typical coy, sari-clad Bollywood pose” with the “scantily clad woman who looks directly at the camera.” And then everything will fall into place.
Imagine the rush of liberated well-being that will seize her like a sweaty palm when that first lucky young Indian woman lands a job at the New Delhi Hooters–for where Maxim leads, Hooters fears not to tread–and experiences first-hand the joy of getting her ass pinched by an appreciative member of the ruling class of dogbreathed drunk businessmen. Tears of fierce pride will well up in her Maybellined eyes when she tells her worried women’s studies friends with a wave of her French manicure to lighten up, that feminism is for angry frigid dykes, that she’s making shitloads of dough, that she’s getting her boobs done to please herself, and that she bought that $600 leather bustier mainly, you know, for other women.
And soon no middle-class Indian rec room will be without its brass pole.