Friday, August 22, 2008

Why Men Crave Real (Not Perfect) Bodies

Why Men Crave Real (Not Perfect) Bodies, article.


Hannah said...

Great read, Eolake - thanks for sharing it.

Anonymous said...

Oh please! First of all the title to the article is a lie. That's not a good start. One man's testimony does not speak for all men. Second of all, the question posed is absurd. Real or fake, what is better? Why should the answer be the same for all men?

May I suggest another line of inquiry: Notice the difference between the women that attract a man's attention and the women he is actually comfortable being around. Why is there a difference? How can this situation be managed so that men spend their time looking for women they are compatible with, as opposed to looking at fantasy women, real or fake?

The Dissonance said...

Maybe in the way future when everyone has had something done, I might be able to get used to it. I guess it's just how we are brought up. Um, just gonna say my soulmate is both 100% real, smart, and more interested in life than herself.

Pascal [P-04referent] said...

My, what an incredible revelation. NOT!

A few of my many satellite channels, alongside more interesting stuff, sometimes air erotic movies/series at night. Recently I watched one for a bit, while updating the inventory of worthwile stuff in the latest added channels. Not only was it utterly boring and unstimulating (it's as if they want exclusively to frustrate the pimple-faced teenage viewer... which might precisely be the aim!), but I was also genuinely annoyed by the blatantly fake boobies. Hadn't seen some of those bare and moving in years. Seem inflated with compressed air, stiff, rigid, never move, never change shapes, don't even jiggle... reminded me of Lara Croft's prismatic profile in the first angular Tomb Raider on Playstation. They should show such movies in pro-abstinence seminaries!
I pity those actresses. For their body image, and from knowing they don't even have pleasure from genuine sex in these pathetic imitations of intercourse projects with soporific music.
They dare call that erotic? More like erratic. An ideal cure for insomnia.

Why try to believe what you know is a gratuitous lie? Samely, I crave for some genuine women, with genuine bodies. I want to caress a breast without wondering whether she's feeling anything around that balloon's mass or just humoring shallow macho me. I want to kiss lips of flesh, not swollen pockets of dead silicon. I want to look eye-to-eye into a face with more eyelids than mascara, that cannot be traded in thirty seconds for an identical face molded by the same surgeon out of the same plastic, with the same hollow and atrociously empty head, heart and soul underneath.

I have a reference for you: Eddie Murphy's A Prince in New York. At the start of the story, he's a prince who has the tiniest of his every desires immediately fulfilled... provided said desire is not to do something himself with his two own hands! And when they introduce him to his body-perfect princess fiancée (who's not even artificial in body), he is dismayed to find that this superb form holds no person inside, just a living, breathing, blindly obedient prideless puppet, raised since infancy to function on her lord's voice-activated remote control :
"Let's chat. What is it YOU like? What do you enjoy doing?
- (Deep bow) Whatever my Prince likes and enjoys, will be my greatest satisfaction. Your wish is my command."

I didn't wonder for a second why he dumped her on the spot to go seek himself a REAL woman!
Real in body, real in soul. Not the best plastic bimbo that Daddy's money can buy. I'm not that kind of target market!

I know EXACTLY why I'm still single. Because I haven't encountered, in that stereotype-eaten country, an authentic enough woman. Too many are desperately adhering to the national stereotypes, wrapping a horrifying bundle of hysteric hang-ups. My matchmaker aunts are starting to call me picky. Probaly also to secretly wonter if I'm not gay. No, Aunties. Not Gay, Just allergic to marital sadness.

I want to unite with someone whom I feel will be pleasant to live with for years. Someone who's not a bag of cliché frustrations and neuroses. That inspires me affection and respect. With whom I can enjoy an intelligent talk. So far, on TV, in the magazines, in family invitations, at work, I have not encountered such a REAL person. (Okay, except for that gem who was already taken.) But face-rehauled broads who almost openly drool at the prospect of marrying my professional situation and social prestige? I'm getting tired of bumping into those!
At least, they have the merit of being very easy to assess. No half-decent talent for pretending. Thank Osiris for small mercies.

Maybe I am picky after all. If seeking what's so rare on the local "market" is being picky.
Meanwhile, I'm very happy knowing that being alone is far better than some of the other, too "perfect" options.

Honesty commands that I admit it: not all guys are like me:
Men swear to women that they're much prettier with no lipstick. Then they up and go hit on some slut with more paint on her face than a stolen truck
Now this, this really annoys women.
-- Deborah McKinlay