Isn’t everyone talking about Magic Mike, the movie that has male strippers in it but isn’t really about male strippers?
The fiancee saw it with a girlfriend, and a lady friend of mine who is particularly serious about ogling the male form (especially Channing Tatum’s) has been pretty nonstop about it.
One odd thing about Magic Mike, to this nerd: You’ve got some good geek-genre cred going on.
It starts with Steven Soderbergh in the (digital video) director’s chair. Self-professed “Hollywood geek” Olivia Munn. Joe Manganiello’s too-tall self (True Blood, Spider-Man), Matt Bomer from Chuck and Tru Calling. And wrestling legend Kevin Nash, who – believe it or not – played Super Shredder in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: Secret of the Ooze. (“Ninja Rap,” anyone?)
But anyway, back to the point: I’ve had to overhear a ton of ogling over celebrity men these days. And why not, when they’re starting to be objectified, primped, buffed and polished in the same way the women are? Now it seems every male actor has to do boot camp just to get a part these days.
All this celebrity preening and fascination, have beaten me over the head with one kink of mine.
I don’t have any celebrity crushes.
I just … don’t.
Seems like everyone else does. Not me.
There’s not one celebrity that I go on and on about, or follow around, or made one of those pathetic “free pass” lists with my girlfriend. Just never.
I don’t say this with pride, as if I’m doing what everyone else should. You know, like people who say they don’t own a television.
I don’t say this to draw attention to myself as someone righteous. In fact, only recently have I come out as celeb-crushless. Of all the ways to fit in, I’d love to have this one. But every time I look at some starlet or pop star or reality-TV personality, I just can’t. Nothing moves.
Angelina Jolie? Nah.
Anne Hathaway? Nice, but no.
Halle Berry? Nope.
Kate Upton? Delightful, but still nope.
Sofia Vergara? Sorta, but no.
Beyonce Knowles? Katy Perry? No and no. They’re all great to look at, but no particular fascination with any of them.
Some Facebook friends tried to help me pick a celebrity, especially knowing that I’m a nerd. Emma Stone? She seems smart, and cool, but nope. Rosario Dawson? Brown girl, definitely geeky, loved her in Sin City … but still no. Christina Hendricks, possessor of the body that’s launched a thousand GIFs? She’s awesome, but still no.
Come on, man, just stare once. Just once. You’ll like it, I swear.
Why can’t I celebrity crush? Maybe it’s hidden in my mind. Let’s see if I can find it.
Growing up, I was taught only piggish men ogle and stare, and I didn’t want to be mixed up with them. This was part of the feminist anti-objectification ethic. The idea that you should never objectify a woman ever ever ever, and many women made it a point of principle not to do the same to men as well.
But over the years I think that line of thinking got it wrong; objectification of human beings in a decorative, sexual fashion is not wrong in of itself. But it is wrong when you do it all the time or in the purview of harm or discrimination or violence.
If it’s your job to be eye candy, and you agree to it, then fine. No judging from me. As long as we’re talking about consensual adults absent of harm or injury or danger, you can’t legislate the mind or the loins. Celebrities trade on being ogled and obsessed over, as much as for their talents. They have agreed. That’s where third-wave, modern feminism has sorta brought us, right?
Maybe it’s a contrarian part of my nature?
I think all nerds have a contrarian drive at the heart of us. We’re involved in things that are considered unpopular or weird or against the grain. I’m not even supposed to read comic books in public, right? So why would I want some Hollywood skinny blonde who looks like 10 other Hollywood skinny blondes?
Of course, this doesn’t mean that nerd-world does any better than the mainstream. When the Internet belched up this silly graphic judging that geek culture beats pop culture because it has women from Firefly and Star Trek: Deep Space 9 instead of Snooki and Kim Kardashian and asserts, “Fuck Barbie. I’m buying my daughter a ray gun,” I laughed my head off.
The response to this picture showed Power Girl, Princess Leia in a her slave bikini, a cosplayer as Juliet Starling from San Romero Knights and asserts that geeks “no free passes” for geeks. Not to mention sexism in gamer culture, the “brokeback” pose in comics by which female characters always show tits and ass in the shot, or the comic/sci-fi conventions lacking in women unless they have their boobs trussed up in PVC.
Obviously, my attitudes intersect with my sensitivity to race as well, with a mainstream (mostly white) American culture that takes from items innovated among black people in a society that still keeps those folks “below stairs.” The Western beauty standard excludes my people at the gate, and then lets in a few at a time. Maybe it’s that very knowledge that the mainstream never was meant for you that plays into that attitude? Though I wonder what music video culture and reality TV is changing that dynamic.
Do I just prefer to cut to the chase?
There’s plenty of sexy stuff in the media out there, but I’d rather have the real thing than stare at something that reminds me of it. If I’m looking for sex in my media, I’ll just go to porn and erotica instead. Why dilly-dally with Kate Upton’s heaving teasing in a world with Gianna Michaels?
And I think it’s also my own psyche.
I wasn’t always the sexy beast I am today, and I use that phrase half-facetiously even though today I’ve got the reviews to back it up. At most, I was cute, and it took a while to accept even that.
Today, I still can’t help but shrink a little inside whenever I hear anyone go on and on about some famous person’s looks. There’s a part of my psyche that identifies with those ignored, overlooked, unrecognized and left out. I have felt that way about myself more than enough times in my life, especially about my looks, that I never wanted to do the same.
I didn’t want to make someone feel less-than.
I’d rather look at the beauty in front of me than always staring off at some imagined unattainable, some artificial perfection, some false image that turns humanity into a commercial product. Those fake-people ignore someone who looks like me, so I won’t give them my power, my gaze, for too long.
Guess it’s tough to crush out when you won’t let yourself look for too long, and you’ve got all this rolling around in your brain!
But I do enjoy eye candy, and I do like beauty. I really do. Just not in that ooh-and-ahh kind of way. I guess I don’t need fantasies when I live them every day. My apartment has tons of sexy women and men in it, as well as my fiancee (high-five!). But most are figurines, art prints, pin-ups, statues and action figures. I like sexy designs and sexy looks, but no particular set of people spring to mind.
Oh well. You all go ‘head and ogle at those Hollywood hardbodies and skinny-minnies for me. Stare away. I don’t mind. Wish I could join you.
Maybe one day.
Or at least, let me skillfully fake the funk.
