Slice of Life: Time to grab romance by the balls
Lust was searing a hole in my retina. It was 2010 in Macau, and the Vegas singing and dancing beefcake collective known around the world as The Chippendales were impregnating the auditorium with testosterone-induced bumping and grinding (with help from lashings of baby oil). I wasn’t the only one sweating pheromones. The audience, 99 percent of whom were demure women, had turned into panting tigresses on the hunt for butcher meat. Oh lordy.
Incredibly, these Choo-wearing Wilma Flintstones had casually shelled out a handsome fortune to drool over muscle-bound men grinding their crotches and giving all and sundry their come hither eyes. I’ve never seen women so united in their lust for action. Forget their power vaginas. Forget that glass ceiling and those endless relationship woes. This was all about the gun show.
And the next day?
Well, it was back to the daily grind of finding Mr Right with the Five Cs – career, condo, car, cash and credit cards. Did I say tigers? Then show me your claws, women!
We all have our girly friends who like to frequent swanky bars in a lacklustre attempt to pull a dreamboat, but more often than not we end up chatting about shitty boyfriends and going home to cold sheets. Sipping cosmopolitans and doing the Sex and the City ‘talk’ is so over. (And let me kill the golden goose forever more – Carrie Bradshaw was never a role model; she was an emotionally under-developed ‘girl’ with a latent narcissism level that bordered on the despotic.)
But let’s talk about us, young Hong Kong career women. Must we always cry over that man who never calls after the first date (you know, the one that also turned into ‘the first night’)? Seriously, why are our balls reserved only for the boardroom and not the boudoir? I have girlfriends who often leave their over-developed cortex in the office and go out on dates with men as vacuous as a hole in the air. Just before they victimise themselves, I urge them to listen to their inner thoughts: ‘His job title is going places’; ‘his wallet is massive’; ‘he’s boring but he owns a Porsche’. And then I ask them to judge their even more hideous inner-inner thoughts: “His earlobes are dangling like a pair of saggy balls…”
Does it matter? If I were examined under that very same microscope then I wouldn’t return my calls either.
Objectifying women is as old as the hills. We all know it’s inherently vulgar. But objectifying men as walking ATMs is even more vulgar.
If, like me, you’re going to see the Chippendales on Jun 17 at HKCEC, here’s something to remember: we’ve bought the ticket, we’re all excited, and we expect a rollicking time. But nothing more. If we get invited on stage to be the ‘virgin’ who gets ‘love pumped’ then that’s a bonus. But we don’t go in expecting to be that girl. And we most certainly don’t expect a chorus line of beefcakes to recite poetry or carry us away on a white Arabian charger. If only we can sexpect less and enjoy more...
Just be honest. When it comes to our careers we are fully prepared for the slings and arrows. But when it comes to sex and relationships we usually revert to acting like some 17th century Imperial China concubine. Why so helpless? Why so desperate? Why must we always be the woman with the knickers-down on the bog sobbing to the next cubicle for more loo roll? Let’s embrace love and lust with honesty. Seriously, it’s no biggie girlies.