Sexualised Society

By: Jonathan Seidel

Bikinis and mini skirts: are woman causing their own demise? Are they partially to blame for sexualising themselves? (Barthes, 84)

Self-sexualisation is a dominant theme in contemporary culture. Following media tropes and beauty standards, a desire mounts to be validated by sexuality. Yet it may also be self-defeating in male reaction further harming the problem.

Men do act viciously concerning women but the desire for the woman is not out of nowhere. It is spawned by her beauty. Her beauty enshrines his mind. Capturing him in a psychotic hypnosis. He feels connected to her. He wishes to have her. Her beauty is overwhelming. His lust increases with each passing second. Her image pleases his neurotic foundation. He ponders the fun. Fantasising of the jolly endeavour. He is deeply attracted to her appearance. It tingles his body and his body reacts. Urges creep into his mind. He musters up the confidence and heads her way. He wishes to chat her up and charm her. Hoping she’ll reciprocate his infatuation with her. A surface level feeling fleeting as he converses with her. Rejection angers him breaking his expectation. Acceptance mellows his heart. Her beauty applauds the direction of the hall. 

Her beauty is contagious. Her epidermis showing. Her curves potent and dress tight around her waist. Her depiction to the crowd alarms the spectators. Her beauty gleans through. A ray of light seducing the crowd. An unintentional consequence but one that occurs. A display of planned innocence is corrupted into devilish lust. Her image is the same as billboards. The slogans have male pleasing fulfilment. She is dressed like those posters. She is sending lustful energy. A sexualising effort to attract mates. She is calling to me. Her movements are all too clear. Her messages are easy interpreted. She hasn’t turned my way but she is looking at me with eyes behind her head. The back of her head is ridiculous. Her ponytail shines under the purple light show. Swaying her hips to the music as she attempts to sing out of tune. Her smile is genuine and her laugh irresistible. The male gaze is only apprehending the situation, not stalking. Enjoying the show. She is performing for me. A spectacle for my taste.    

Look at her clothes she is asking for it. She is giving me those fuck me eyes. Is liberation really a form of undress? Free the nipple is only refuted by the religious. Return to the pre-sin paradise. Nudity in public is the lustful man’s dream. Yet its false medium between dress and undress is overtly appealing to the eye. More skin showing. The outline of cleavage is pronounced but it is still behind closed doors. Her boobs are covered, her nipples not shown but her indent is revealed. A striptease spectacle. She has decided to undress just slightly. She has decided to display her body openly yet with some restrictions. She refuses to permit the rest of her body to be unveiled. The tightness of her dress does make out her figure. Her butt is only fattened by her high heels. The observer sees this spectacle of undress. She is dressed but at the same time undressed. Unlike the stripper, she is not intending to put on a show. She does not begin dressed and slowly remove articles of clothing but enters the scene in such garb. Her openness does give off an aura of teasing. Look at my body but only what I permit you. 

The perspective of the male and the female is different. Is she wearing this dress to say something or does it feel good to wear less clothing. The feministic liberation point may have some truth to it but their taint of patriarchal exodus is misused in the context of heightened libido areas. To dress in such attire under the guise of liberation yet attending a promiscuous dance scene seems to be a little hypocritical and an idiotic tactic. Though the beach may be different. A bikini is fitting for the hot sun. Men go shirtless and wear swim trunks. If men are maximising their epidermis to the hot sun women may as well. The same can be said of joggers or at the gym. A sports bra is akin to shirtless. It is implementing the best clothing for a workout. Hell I workout in my underpants because I find it to be the most liberating and the easiest to manoeuvre (I also then do less laundry, everything is less smelly—it’s all about productivity). To avoid problematic male stares, the sexes could be divided up but that is not easy in the park or on a beach. People just need to behave themselves. The option is either to force women to cover themselves up and endure the vibrant heat or men just keep it in their pants. Staring is not the biggest problem it is the advances made afterwards. 

Men may stare more than women but the staring should not be overblown. Beauty is contagious. It can’t be helped. It is hard to avoid the luscious skin and figure of the opposite sex. Women stare at men with jaw dropping consistency. Men like the attention. Though unwanted advances are made frequently and society cares little. Potentially because of the lacking negative consequences or because male issues elicit unconcern. The imbalance works one way. Nevertheless, the former conclusion is a dangerous one. A man may be able to fend off a few stares and even unwanted advances. He is stronger and faster. He can be emotionless and ignore them. Women on the other hand can feel threatened and afraid to escape. Their emotional outbursts are credibly disastrous. The glances may be equal but the advances not. The ego may also play a detrimental role. As a rejected advance may result in an assault. Rejection isn’t a problem it is the frustration that builds up from the expectation. The social phenomenons of deathly male glances are a product of the tragic cases of egoism gone awry. 

To differentiate the club scene and the beach scene is to recognise a difference in methodology. The function of less clothing on in an intoxicating atmospheric dance floor may be of patriarchal liberation but also may be to swoon men. To look sexy on the dance floor for the observers. While they may not want unwanted attention they may indeed desire wanted attention. If a hot guy approaches them no big deal. It is the other ninety percent. The statistics are blurry but look like a stripper is to intentionally do so. The scene calls for objectifying oneself in a colosseum. A spectacle on display. Modest clothing veils the prized objects observers wish to glance at. It is a tease. Swaying to the music with cleavage showing is an indicator to onlookers to engage. Look at my body sexualise it from afar. It is a subconscious expression. It isn’t about liberation nor dance clothing but to exhibit in an image of sexiness. It is in this type of scenery that such dress is pounced upon. Whether the intent is simply for boggling there is an exposure for attention though selective. 

The beach scene is to undress in the heat. To be comfortable in the blazing sun. It isn’t to arouse attention but to enjoy the moment. Applying this to everyday wear may also be of enjoyment. Dressing openly for the breeze of its simplicity. There is a certain modelling to it. Yet there is also a strata of desiring that others look. Why put on makeup to look presentable? For self esteem as well as complimentary looks from others. Attempting to enjoin respect from others. Whether wearing a button down or a t shirt. Looking at oneself in the mirror before heading out, making sure hair looks clean and the outfit fits right. Comfortable and ready to seize the day. Feeling good but also wishing for positive gazes. Both sexes strive for admiration and acknowledgement. Dressing in a particular way to evoke desire. Desiring gaze but solely a glance of approval. Though there is an aspect of the beach body that is aspired. Going to the beach undressed to show off the body. The abs the curves the butt. It is not all in hopes for fawning attention but there is an interest in attention grabbing eye popping suckle blinking. The extent of desire is limited but is warranted.

Absent the advances the gazes may not be too problematic. The staring is the issue not the temporary glance. Catcalling and hollering at women is disturbing. The catcalling suggests lewd intentions. It isn’t harmless and cute, it is with grave intent. Catcalling in a club may feel good but not on the way to work. It is annoying and bothersome. The situational element is instructive. Its frequency in the wrong setting is cruel and tedious. It also depends on the terminology. Yelling nice tits versus you eyes shine are two different things. There is an enjoyable Key and Peele skit on this.  Yet even the simple neutral compliment can come off as derogatory. While this is entirely subjective, the sexual innuendos do hold up to scrutiny. As well as the whistling followed by the intimidating technique. Their harassing aspect is where it goes too far. Speech may not be violence but it is hurtful. It is demeaning and may precede a physical encounter. At the heart of the hurtful comment is the hurtful rejection. A catcaller ought not to be offended when he has offended her. If you give it you got to take it. There is a way to swoon if it is in good faith or if can be backed up and taken like a man. 

The catcalling issue speaks to itself. Catcallers may frequent those women with more cleavage showing but that isn’t always the case. A favourite barista may be hounded or a businesswomen in a pant suit. It isn’t always about the exposure. It may be more likely with more cleavage showing but necessarily so. The arousal higher shooting darts through the neural framework. Horniness spits out in a conjugated rhyme that is ignored in disgust. Catcallers may be themselves victims of a seductive society. The free porn, the half naked models. Women walking the streets in tight clothes. Film has them believe that women will prey to their needs. With one call they will be possessed. Hypnotised by their charm. It isn’t necessarily about power but about expectation. It is about self esteem and acknowledgement. No wonder they take rejection so hard. In their minds, this was the female’s intent. She was seducing him with her clothes. The fictional character was able to do the same. Men are also victims of a sexual matrix. A hyperreal mantra that attempts to feature film as reality. Translating those techniques ends in failure. There is malicious intent in certain circumstances but also may be a psychosis that believes in a predestined outcome. 

There is an imbalance between men and women. Missed communication and thus misinterpretation. The catcaller is paying a compliment but the female feels objectified and belittled. The harassment is unidentified in the catcaller’s mind. The same can be said of clothing. Are women wearing it to say something to men? Is their intent to tease them? Who knows. The issue is the assumption in the affirmative. Maybe she is so take the chance. Yet the passivity is not an admission of activity. Her clothing is not an admission of approach. Yet it is luring and seductive. The social apparatus condones the dress but not the verbalism that follows. The self-objectification is to be dismissed. Feminists have argued that men need just keep it in their pants. They need to shut down their libido, female autonomy is the most important. Yet this also works on the other side. Women ought not catcall they ought not to approach men in the same lewd manner but they do and nobody says anything. The imbalance is also a model of power. The equality heuristic must be applied evenly. Just because the threat is less frightening does not make the action equitable. Their male indent is scary yet the fault ought not to be the seduced alone but the seductress as well.

The hope is reach a point where this is unnecessary. Women need not cover up because men can’t keep it in their paints. Their arrogance seeks to win the female over by domineering. Yet she has made herself vulnerable but wearing such desirable attire. The fact it happens out on street in average gym clothes is parcel of the issue as well. Meaning that catcalling is greater than just a change of dress. The nudist colony may be the sole solution to habituate to the nude. To be desensitised to the vulgar. The tight dresses with a low cut pressing the breasts and butt out are intoxicating. It is a message to observers to look. Even if that isn’t the intent, the flawed deduction does so. Maybe some women are intending this but it would be misguided to group all women into such a group. To some degree it is just the style. Yet the frequent exposure of the sexualised areas does spell otherwise. Harassment must be voided. Rejection must be taken stoically. There is fault on both sides of the aisle. Responsibility must be applied. Knowing that this is the male response whether it be biological or sociological. Erasing such behaviour is implausible. Instead, compromise and protection is necessary. Yet accountability cannot be denied for some so-called liberation. 

Beauty is the hallmark of this problem. The cognitive function sees the beauty and responds lustfully. His neural network is seduced and he acts in a desirable manner. The psycho-sexual matrix is magnified by the societal tease. To want and be wanted is a dialectical binary that each is reflective. Both sexes wish simultaneously. They wish to be noticed festively. To be acknowledged purely positively periodically. Beauty is the seductress. The hypnotic label that is embedded in the ontology of a person. A spellbound locative presence. A flirtatious design to strangle the autonomy of neural function. The aesthetic is enticing and compelling. The subjectivity of beauty does arouse the endorphins by more sexual action than others. It is the pleasure seeking enjoyment that raises the emotional high. Dostoevsky proclaimed through the Prince that Beauty will save the world and there is a certain acknowledgement that raises self esteem. Yet beauty is also the riding dimension to hell. It is beauty that is prized and grasped with force. Beauty is desired. Verbal assault is either the first step or the cathartic attempt to shut up. A desire so powerful and so difficult to close. How to end this abhorrent harassment. 

Looking ugly wouldn’t change. Beauty is subjective but it is also relative. Modest clothing works when immodest clothing is in fashion. Yet for those sucked into the modest world, the hint of an ankle showing is seductive. Beauty is dangerous since it is desired. This desire becomes objectified and thus grasped. The mind has shamed man to struggle. A sin of the unalterable. Yet for all this disaster is the illumination of being. Beauty is an acknowledgment of the self. While the ogling and sexual innuendos are burdensome it is an acknowledgment of the other even if inverted. Beauty is contagious and it is difficult to suspend the compliment from the critique. The better version is to marvel from afar. To perceive beauty like a painting. The painting is to be observed complimented but not touched. The same with a queen. Women need to reclaim this regal charm. Does this occur in the feminine worldview? It remains to be seen. Yet the queen exists in a masculine society. A strong-willed women at the top of the food chain. It isn’t about strength or character but status. It is a respect. The sexualised comments became beauty assessments.  

       

The shift is not in dress or censorship but in attitude. Does the dress prompt less respectful attitudes? Potentially. They are perceived as a piece of meat because they are exposing their sexuality to the world. Yet there is also a sexualised matrix that doesn’t care for the dress insofar as the social attitude cultivates it. Whether in antiquity or medieval or modern. The libido is heightened not so much by beauty but by the aura of sexualised motif. A mass hypnosis of psychotic entrapment. To see beauty for its genuine purity, men need to break the spell and rise from the slumber to soak in the sublime beauty. The dress isn’t helping and only feeds into the struggling libido but it isn’t at total fault nor should it be the objectification. Instead of subjecting is the real need. Encountering the beautiful experience in affirmation. A respect for the tantalising appearance in complimentary form. It is not a legal but social outburst. A need for a new societal realisation for routine. 

Meaningful Sympathy

By: Jonathan Seidel

Forgetting the healthy life: how years of illness feel lifelong (Sacks, 33) 

The disparity between the ill and the healthy is not only a physical difference but an emotional one. Mentally, illnesses take a tremendous toll on the mind and body disorienting a person further. While physically troubling, the stress added is heavily taxing. It is this additional emotional component that makes life’s struggle feel lifelong in a matter of weeks.

It doesn’t take too long for the ill to forget his healthy past. In the beginning, he closely recalls his healthy life running through the streets cheerfully. Waking up with little stress from the bodily symphony. Early on, those feelings of distress are dwindled in the face of a hopeful future. Optimism endures imagining the free life. It sucks now but this is only temporary. Only recently was jogging along the beach a daily activity. Reassuring that all will be healed. The days of health are not forgotten nor will they be missed. The ill cannot picture the horrible tragedy that may be permanence. Instead clinging to whatever positivity he can for a swift recovery. The night and day transformation can easily be reversed. If he body could go numb it could also heal. If it at one point he could run then he will run again. The possibility of permanence is ignored in the face of self empowerment and hope. Memories of the recent past. How life was bliss fill the dreams. Fantasising a line with a single bump in the road. Off course for a second but now back.

Some pessimism takes hold but it is denial that has the strangest effect. Namely, ignoring the potential catastrophe of the injury. The injury or the disease is simply an obstacle to overcome. A challenge in the pathway. Once the test is overcome, the road will open up and the injury over. In some deluded metaphysical interpretation, the haunting demise of the injury is isolated for a more warming possibility. The universe is testing his resolve. Once overpowering the needless force, he will be empowered. It is a struggle but a rite of passage. Everyone has their challenges some more difficult than others. Some more deadly than others. Yet he will bounce back. It is inevitable. A test that wishes for him to put his all into it. Once he gives it all his strength he will succeed. Hope fills him with strength to keep moving forward. All types of spiritual phenomena seep into his psyche. He is tested but he also must undergo recovery. He must see a doctor and take medication. He is aware of the sloppy symmetry but the overarching goal fills him with purpose. It does empower him as he recognises his destiny awaits. After his recovery he will have a greater appreciation. These thoughts soothe him in his challenging trek. 

He never concedes to the permanence. Anything is curable. After countless visits with no change his cynicism does enter his mind. He begins to doubt. Struggling to comprehend his suffering. It was a good joke now it is time to end it. Learned the lesson where is the antidote. Yet there is no reply from his doctors nor from above. Alone in this venture his attitude turns negative. The debut is never-ending and cynicism creep slowly as the days pass by. His outgoing positivity crumbles into nihilistic denial. Everyday is a deathly routine. A sorrow of grief stricken on the innocent. The cold winds surround him. Clouds blocking out the sun. He is stooped in the lightless mould. He only sees grey. Unable to enjoy the simple moments. His attitude demoralises the beautiful. Cynically mocking the joy. Sad he cannot do what others can. Unable to do what he used to be able to do. Robbed of his ability to feel human. He feels incapable and inferior. Sympathised but misunderstood. His bleak perspective is colourblind. He cannot see the expansive blue sky or his wife’s dark brown eyes. He only sees the monotone natural nothingness. 

Gradually, he forgets what the world looks like. What it should be like. More than the appearance of the world is the attitude to it. How not only to perceive in colour but in norms. How to emotionally connect with the outside world. His suffering undermines any normative relation. He doesn’t act accordingly. An outcast in many regards. His scepticism verges on conspiracy to most. Offended by his lack of polity. His suffering has provided him a new outlet. One that places him in his own sphere. He has transformed. Consecutive years of tribulation has created a new monster. One that does not heed to traditional mannerisms. One that cares little for the expected. If he cannot enjoy the benefits like everyone else why should he act like everyone else. He is an outsider and deservedly so. It wasn’t his intent to alienate but by virtue of his illness he has been sidelined. He has been forced to adapt. The suffering preys on his normatively and counteracts it with a depressive tone. He no longer remembers the good ol’ times. He only knows grey. He only knows the world of suffering. There is no past or future. It is a continuum of bleak greyness. 

He is forced to reject the world. The world that expects perfection from him. A world he cannot satisfy, he cannot provide for. He is irregular. A natural mishap and selectively diminished. What is his hope for the future. What is his perception of himself. The days of old have passed. Reality closes itself on him. Shutting the door in his face. He tries and tries to reach the qualifying aptitude but fails miserably. He can’t see colour. He can’t march up the steps. It is a lost cause. An impossible task. Reality thrusts its own version on him. Never lowering the bar. Never victimising him. Deal with it. Be a stoic. Hustling down the boulevard to keep pace. It is not as if he hasn’t figured out the trick. Victorious at the rigged state fair games. This is a simple movement but for him it is difficult. Everyone else moves with ease while his shoes are filled with rocks. Carrying a yoke glued to his shoulders. He is handicapped but not given a handicap. To some extent he doesn’t want one. He wishes to be treated like everyone else even though he isn’t like everyone else. He cannot execute like everyone. His constant failure unable to reach the thread haunts his soul. Unable to do that which was so simple so recently. 

Societal isolation is the only place of solitude. The only place he feels stable. He is strong away from all that he cannot do. Regulating the normative capability to his strength does little for his confidence. He is distraught and demoralised. His isolation is a protective scheme. Away from everything leaves all the expectation behind. Without engagement with the demanding outside world he can live freely. It is only with the engagement with otherness that his strength is met with expectation. No assistance just execution. In any aspect of life from family to profession. There are no free treats, deserve what is provided. Unlike a superpower this isn’t one that supplies any unique aid. It only deconstructs the physical and mental elements of existence. It tortures the soul. Isolation transitions to alienation. No need to be with others. Loneliness does straddle its satanic urge but solace is in solitude. The only one who understands his condition is himself. No doctor no parent no spouse. Yet his isolation is merely temporary while his condition permanent. He must live his life. Corralled in human development. He studies, works fucks. Whatever human need he must check off. There is little time to grieve and much time to haul ass.

His experience is quite different than others. He is in the same boat as others. Living routinely like his neighbours but he has that yoke breaking his collarbone. They are all in the cave but he is without a flashlight. It is pitch-black. He wanders aimlessly looking for a way out. He must get out or he will die. The cave is dangerous but he desires to live. So he continues to move forward on instinct. Crawling forward through sheer will. At each turn he either finds a passageway or a dead end. Yet for him the passageways have become increasingly less dramatic. The first few times, the passageways seemed to be a gateway to the castle. Gold-plated regal carpet flowed endlessly to the exit. Yet each time ended with despair. Each passageway led to another endless passageway or a dead end. Each moment of positivity or potential clarity ceased ever so quickly. With this impossible maze, passageways were taken periodically and unemotionally. Doing so simply to do it. Hit a dead end need to turn, it wasn’t without suffering. An endless maze bordering on the blasphemous. Disadvantaged and despondent, there is moot hope. 

Life in the dark cave becomes adjustable. Not fun but passible. So long wandering the cave, what life outside the maze or even outside the cave is blurry. Memories are pictured but not experienced. What health felt like is a foregone conclusion. He can never feel the serenity of a painless existence. He is doomed to suffer. He accepts it but never can fully internalise it. Always holding out hope that somewhere there is an answer. That someone he will be cured. His greatest dream. A fiction, a figment of his imagination. Even in his dreams he never fully experiences the painless wonder. He truly only constructs a plausibility. The recesses of his mind conjure the past in the present fantasy but is beyond his conscience. His drunken state alleviates but it never is stable. It is never real. It is an altered mental state that numbs his credibility. The neurological framework is stunned yet he is not fully in control. His hard drive is haywire. It is a ruse, only optimal in the subconscious instinct. A lie based on an aspired fantasy. A fantasy with terrible consequences. 

Suffering is his reality. Existence is a nuisance. Yet it is better than death. At least he can feel. Though feeling horribly is better than not feeling at all. Yet the tradeoff is the destruction of the self. A torture like no other. Feeling nothing may even be a blessing in some respects. Placed in anaesthesia, he can rest without qualms. Every minute of every waking hour he roars in agony. He may never vocalise his hurt but he is wounded. It grows tiresome to wallow. Tedious to sulk. Though no enlightenment follows the graceful bootstraps. He knows no other life. He has forgotten the old. He only recognises the maze. The darkness that engulfs him to perpetuity. He can never break free, chained to the painful illness injected into his body. Adverse reactions are side affects of the poison. The natural poison eating away at his sanity. Demoting his joy and beholding his sorrow. His anger flares while his calmness halts. A man of total solitude. Alone in the cave sitting down and relaxing. Acknowledging the absurdity and the shallow debris. There is no victory nor prize. Suffering is life and and there is no escape. 

Worst of all is for those who do remember him prior to the illness. He forgets but they do not. Their minds access the memories of health. Their minds have not been obstructed. Colluded with clouded images of torture. An eternity in a matter of minutes. While they run through time effortlessly he hobbles with boulders attached to his ankles. They recall the brazen extrovert who has transformed into a lonely hermit. An introvert with little connection nor desire for outsiders. For them it is an instant, for him it is millennium. Time is linear but also relative. Quantity is symmetrical but quality is asymmetric. Perception of time differs. Each day is twenty four hours but to him it is longer. Suffering elongates his day. He is chastised in hell. A world far away and yet so close by. Punished for being born. Doomed from his conception. Yet he lives now. Protracted life. Immortality is not cinematic. Without invincibility longer life is just more heartache. It is no blessing to live long if life is atrocious. Long life is always accompanied with happy and healthy. For him, each day correlates to such dubious mantras. 

His family fails to understand his dilemma. His is still existing. He can still execute. He should provide. As long as he can still see, can still move he ought to assist. Treating him as an equal. Such humanistic morals. Burdening him with expectations he surely cannot deliver. Even if he can, it is at the expense of his own depressing state. Their unapologetic incomprehension is a side affair. They see a mobile individual yet their view fails to account for the situation. Context thrown out the window. Demanding without measuring capability. He is in the maze and they continue to shout for him to follow their voices. They are so far away. They expect him to follow them but they are on different planes. Different parts of the maze. Failing to realise that he doesn’t have a torch. He is walking blindly and cannot tell from where they are calling. They fail to account for the difference in aptitude and conditioning. He thus suffers further from preconditions that he cannot fulfil. He lacks the tools but the tools are believed to exist even though they are absent. 

Straddling the tightrope, he settles into his routine. Alone in the cave but he marches forward. The life he knows is tough but accepts its deficiencies. There is little else he can do. He showers his fate in flowers. He finds respite in his meditative sessions. He lingers in the absurd but such is his place in the game. He a pawn in the game of life. Branded deficient internally but acceptable externally. Awarding himself with reinforcement. Life is to live and he will counteract any false hope. He uses what he knows to his advantage. He may be disadvantaged but he is not weak. He may impaired but he is not stupid. He needs no pity just an antidote. He only desires freedom from the pain. He may have forgotten the feeling of freedom but that does not mean he cannot aspire for it. Enslaved for years, freedom may be a forgone sensation but it is not a forgone dedication. Liberation from the shackles exceeds the numbness manipulated by drunkenness. With freedom he no longer sips to stay alive, he drinks in salvation. Hydrated and healthy. Yet simply a dream.