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xmag.com : Sept 2000 : The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas

The Gospel according to Viva Las Vegas - "the laziest gal downtown"



Most recently in my unending quest to justify the sex industry to ignorant non-believers, I’ve been thinking a lot about objectification. To many of our detractors, this is the cardinal sin of the sex industry: the whittling away of Woman to one attribute, her sexuality. Not even her sexuality, which is indeed a many-headed monster, complex and stinkingly human, but her pussy. They’re just desperate to frame us with some crime against humanity, thus ‘objectification.’
According to this charge, when men see a naked woman, ALL they see is her nakedness. However, this totally flies in the face of the male psyche, with its incredible aptitude for fantasy. That, in a nutshell, is why porn is so much more appealing to guys. They see a two dimensional pussy and then dream up all the qualities and other appendages of the woman it belongs to. Given the same Christian Dior ad ripped from Vogue—you know, those ads with two long limbed girls all sweaty and scantily clad and apparently hot over each other’s monogrammed boots and purses—most women will see the boots and purses and fantasize about taking them home, but most guys will see two sweaty

"Spread and Smile."

babes and fantasize about taking them home. Which is worse? Which is more demeaning to the human in the photo? Which is more objectifying?
So, why do men and women go to strip clubs? Often it is for entertainment: visual stimulation that is personal, intimate, and pretty punk rock. They get spontaneity, grace, joy, and skill—everything you can find at the ballet, but in a much smaller venue, on a more intimate, real, and correspondingly unique scale. And there’s a lot more to see than t’n’a. Dancers talk, they’re in control, and that’s what’s sexy about them.
I’ve always felt that there are two schools of customers: guys who go for eye contact and guys who don’t. The latter has a purely sensualist’s eye and sees a clad stripper and wants her unclad; his eyes follow your hips at all times, and he cocks his head unnaturally, signaling what he wants to see: pussy, no more. The rest is wrapping. For some reason, this type has always unsettled me somewhat. Perhaps I hear my foes’ echoes of “objectification” ringing true?
However, I know lotsa girls who hate eye contact with customers. “Don’t look at my eyes, look at my pussy!” It makes the job a hell of a lot easier—and not as totally nude—when you shield your soul from the prying eyes of strangers. Just spread it and smile. Or don’t smile! Just spread it. Easy as pie.
But I firmly believe there are two reasons guys come in: for a little bit of fantasy and a little bit of soul. A little bit of lies and a little bit of truth. Probably the second most-asked question at a titty bar, following close on the tail of “What’s your name?”, is “No, what’s your real name?” Who cares! You saw my pussy, right? But they always want more. They want to know you, the real you.
Objectification? Maybe initially, but give ‘em a few sets and most come around. Lord knows there are plenty of folks out there—men and women—who admire a fine body and wanna take it home and touch it all over, no more! But even then, our hearts get the best of us and we want more. It’s the stuff sitcoms are made of, and what separates us from higher animals—most of them keep their friendships and their fucking separate. But we can’t separate our hearts from our genitals! It’s rather endearing, really, and makes true “objectification” in the sex industry impossible.
Now Vogue, that’s another story.

X

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