GLAMOUR

2-28-11

GLAMOUR

My immediate thought was a question: Are men ever called glamorous? There may have been some rare occasions, but in truth, only women are glamorous. And, if only women are glamorous, we are talking about sex. Unlike the relationship between peacocks and peahens (and others of that ilk) in which the boys have the fancy plumage it is Western civilization women who support the rag trade. Most women, and I thank the powers that be, want to be attractive, it is a desire or habit which persists until dementia. The goal is to attract my attention. I know women jabber about dressing for other women, but that only means they are aware of the competition between all women to get men to look at them.

Glamour is the apex, the ultimate expression of the process. I recently saw a history of the Bikini, a minimalist approach to attracting attention. It had its origins when the government, during WWII asked that all clothing manufacturers use less material; and that lead to the two-piece bathing suit. The bra was all-concealing and the belly button was securely covered. This was called glamorous. But, in the mid-sixties, a French man decided that that style was boring and created what was immediately called the bikini. Bikini was an atoll where the US exploded a major nuclear device and the new Bikini exploded onto the public consciousness. Notice that it was a man eager to see more of women who designed it. He could not find a model who would wear the thing and finally hired a stripper who cavorted around showing considerably more flesh than a man could expect to see. (Sometime later a fashion designer produced a one-piece bathing suit for women . . . showing bare breasts. But, unlike the bikini, it was never worn again.)

Public reaction condemned the bikini. That only a stripper would wear the revealing suit condemned it as a sexual device to lure lustful men to their doom. It was immoral. The Pope declared that no Catholic could wear it and it was essentially stillborn. Parenthetically, women's bodies have always been a problem. During Napoleonic times, high-toned ladies wore gowns that exposed the pink of their nipples. Later, women were tightly bundled up. Have you not seen photos of women bathing in early years? Only their faces and hands were exposed and what they wore fully soaked weight 50 pounds.

The Bikini, which no decent woman would wear ever and no slutty woman could wear in public almost instantly disappeared . . . until ten or so years later when the French sex kitten, Brigitte Bardot began to wear one in public. Instant sensation because the combination of glamour and sex had finally become acceptable. Young women began to emulate her, but everyone knew what they wanted. Look at me, have lustful thoughts and who knows what might happen? Bardot, the international sex symbol let the world know not to be shy about sex. Still, the vast bulk of woman wanted nothing to do with the Bikini. It had too much to do with sex and women tend to be shy about blatant advertising.

That's where things stood until Walt Disney, the Mousqueteers and Annette Funicello. You will remember she and the other Mousqeueteers were the epitome of the virginal ideal. Protective clothing, belly button covered up and no hint of sexual attraction. But, somewhere along the line, whether from Disney execs or Funicello the idea popped up. Yes, she wore a Bikini, but her navel was exposed as was much more of her body. Was there a condemning uproar? Not at all. Funicello was so pure that even wearing a Bikini did not turn her into a lustful, sex-crazed teen-ager. Even with the dreadful device, she was pure. Young girls everywhere emulated her. As much as parents protested, there was Funicello, sweet and demure who showed it could be worn with dignity.

Enter Raquel Welch, tall and curvaceous in 1,000,000 Years BC. With a bikini, you could have it all; you could be demure or sexual as you chose. And of course, the string Bikini is about as minimum as you can get and still be socially proper.

The Academy Awards always show women in their best plumage. They are rated in how well they chose their feathers and they become the year's standard for glamour or, as it really is, the men-look-at-me game. It all has to do with the never-ending dance of sexual desire and provocation. It is our manifest destiny. Consider some research done by Masters and Johnson. Men tumesce about twenty-five times a day; women start to lubricate about twenty-eight times a day. We are sexual creatures and I think that's swell.

There once was a girl who was cussed

By men who demanded she must

All of them she'd eschew

Not even trying a few

Until later she discovered real lust