The absurdity of this culture’s attitudes toward sex never ceases to amaze me (or to provide fodder for this blog). Most recent example: I was in a bar last week where the TV was tuned to a cable series called The Girl Next Door, which apparently follows the misadventures of a trio of bimbos and their octogenarian playboy-in-chief, Hugh Hefner. In several scenes, the girls were topless—the skin-covered bags of silicone that pass for breasts bouncing around for all the world to see. Except for one oddity: their breasts had huge pink smudges where the nipples should have been, pixilated for mass consumption. Apparently, the FCC has no problem with funbags per se; it’s just nipples that scare them. Nipples—the one thing that female breasts (real or not) have in common with men’s. If exposed nipples are really so offensive, then how on earth does Matthew McConaughey sustain his movie career?
It’s the arbitrariness that gets me: You can show every square inch of a breast, but ooh, watch out for that nipple—it might shoot milk at you! (I guess men’s nipples are safe because they’re not loaded.)
You can show an entire ass, but make sure the crack is covered by the butt floss that passes for a bikini.
And let’s not forget that the complete outline of a penis, head and all, is perfectly acceptable in an underwear ad—but the thing itself, in the flesh (so to speak), that’s the ultimate taboo.
Whom, exactly, do these uptight idiots at W’s FCC think they’re kidding?