Did you really just take a picture of her rump?

Yesterday, I had the great pleasure of a man's day with my good friends, Marcus and Bill.  The "girls" were in Room GA2/4 in the Med-Dent Building at Georgetown University enjoying some sort of lecture I could never hope to understand entitled Maxillofacial War Injuries and Reconstruction by Dr. Michael Will of the Georgetown Dental School Class of 1986.  I understand that there was standing room only and one could barely hear Dr. Will over the grunts and chants of "Go Incisors!" and "86, your bite, we'll fix!"  I believe the Incisors were the Dental School's football team who, in the final 5 minutes of that epic game back 25 years ago -- scenes still shown on NBC Sunday Night Football flashbacks -- beat the equally ferocious University of Pennsylvania' Dental Schools "Fighting Impacted Molars."  It was a grueling game against a worthy adversary, a knuckle biter to the very end and, as you might expect, the Incisors won by --what else -- the skin of their teeth.  How sweet is victory, how bad, decay. 

Cute, huh?

The girls had invited us boys to go with them to this lecture but we politely declined, saying that we couldn't bear the thought of taking a seat away from some poor bleary-eyed denta-phile who had camped out all night on the renowned steps of Healy Hall -- only a pup tent and a thermos of hot Indonesian Kopi Luwak coffee as company -- just to get a single glimpse of Dr. Will and his cause celebre, a guy named Max -- after all, Dr. Will is taking care of our country's heroes who have suffered so that we all can remain free.  Now, I didn't know what any of that had to with their 25th class reunion, but it just didn't seem right that Marcus, Bill and I would occupy seats that were better filled by dental professionals.

So, instead, Marcus, Bill and I tried to pull together the dashed pieces of our own personal and bitter disappointment and fill our time with guy things -- you know, hunting for bison, precision urination contests or, in our case, a stroll through the Smithsonian Institution's National Gallery of Art to see Chester Dale's impressive collection of impressionist paintings and whatever else happened to be nearby.  Now this was real male bonding. 

The National Gallery of Art -- the crown jewel of the Smithsonian Institution.  The actual reason for the visit, and in close proximity to Mr. Dale's personal collection, was the Capitoline Venus.  The Capitoline Venus is a marvelous marble statue, originally created by the renowned classical Greek sculptor Praxiteles around 360 bc.  Damn, even way back then, we Greeks had it going on!  But we lose interest quickly and tend not to take care of our things, so the orignal was destroyed and replaced by a copy -- by an Italian guy, no less, named Eddy Big Thumbs I think -- who recreated the statute almost perfectly except that he covered one of her ample boobies.  As my dad used to tell me about paper towels -- but I think it applies equally to boobies -- "why use 2 when 1 will do?"

Anyway, this statue was for years at some shrine dedicated to Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of Love, on the eastern shores of the Aegean Sea.  In 475 AD, some nutbag took her to Istanbul for a weekend away from the kids where she got lost in the crowd and was never heard from again.  A few years later, Adrian, the guy who cuts my hair heard that she had moved to Montauk, New York with her "friend" Holly.  They were apparently running a nice little B&B and the local Dairy Queen franchise.  Oh, how far the mighty fall, but, hey, who doesn't like a good ice cream treat now and then?

Back to Venus -- this statue was the cause of not a small amount of attention in the ancient world.  The Smithsonian reports that Pliny the Elder called the statue "superior to all the works, not only of Praxiteles, but indeed in the whole world."  What they don't tell you is that Pliny the Younger was jailed briefly in the 3rd century BC for trying to clean Venus's buttcrack using only needle-nosed pliers and his tongue.  His father bought off the Roman Centurions and that's why you usually don't hear much about this.

In 1860, Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote an entire novel about the Capitoline Venus entitled "The Marble Faun."  Hawthorne's book created an awful lot of buzz and made Venus go all "Kim Kardashian" for a while and she got terribly over-exposed.  She became so famous during that time that, in 1867, Mark Twain visited her to see if they could collaborate on a line of organic skin and hair products -- which she declined -- but Twain, ever the gentleman, described her as the "most illustrious work of ancient art the world can boast of."   They must have done the horizontal rumba like dogs for him to say such nice things about her after she so dumped his hairy ass.  But the truth is that no lady ever likes being called old and, really, it seems so unkind to boast about the entire sex tape thing, doesn't it?

But the whole uncomfortable incident brings up something very timely and current.  The Capitoline Venus was the world's first large-scale, free-standing, fully nude female.  Yes, fully nude as in no clothes.  Naked, bare, unclothed, au naturel, birthday suit, in the buff, raw, not a stitch on and buck-ass nekkid.

I can attest to this because, I myself, saw her in her altogether -- titties, tummy, tee tee and tushy -- all right there for all to see -- for me to see -- and, oh yes, you know darn well I took a picture of her shiny marble tushy.  Why did I do that, you ask?  Well, first of all, I'm Greek and a cliche, and second of all, she left it hanging out there for all to see.  You know how I hate to disappoint.  If she didn't want it photographed by some dirty old Greek middle aged guy with an i-phone, she should have covered her ass with, say, green plaid culottes or some pastel colored granny panties -- that ass is, after all, over 2300 years old.

This is not to say, on the contrary, that her old ass isn't beautiful, artistic, classic, expertly rendered and impressive.  It is all of those things and more.

But it is also ripe, so to speak, for the picking or, a least the photographing -- all apparently A-OK with her.  Oh sure, maybe once when she was out shopping for nail polish remover at the Forum or walking along the Appian Way on the way to get a burger with her girlfriends, or later that night on the prowl at some club, she had second thoughts and modestly attempted to cover her danger zone and one full, round breast -- but it was already too late.  And, at any rate, that doesn't change the fact that she is naked naked naked and dragging her business through the streets.  If she -- or, more correctly, if the US Federal security guard -- did not want me to take a picture of her inviting rump, then they by God should have covered her up or posted a big-ass sign saying "do not take a photograph of the ass."  Of course, this might have caused mass confusion as many people would have become cautious about photographing their step children or in-laws.  But I think I've made my point.

And, really, here is the point.  Today, June 5, 2011, on the front page of The Washington Post's Outlook Section is a huge article by Jessica Valenti, leading the page with a full color picture and headline print thicker than my thumb is wide, proclaiming that the "new feminists" can be "as slutty as they want to be."  There they are, in all their glory, carrying signs, protesting -- short hair, long hair, green hair, blue hair and plaid hair -- we are sluts and we have the right to wear whatever the hell we want, and bare whatever the hell we want.  These sluts are correct, of course.

This SlutWalk in Washington, DC, currently scheduled for August 13, is just one of more than 75 now planned around the world in slutty places as far flung as Canada, Sweden, Australia and South Africa, according to Miss Valenti.  Apparently, the SlutWalk started in Canada where other cool things come from  like hockey, Canada Dry, the Canadian gallon -- bigger than the American gallon (size queens) -- Cirque du Soleil, Walter Pidgeon and Celine Dion.

Anyway, the SlutWalk is now a world-wide phenomenon.  These sluts -- including a number of men -- carry signs that say things like "My Clothes are not my Consent," "Stop Slut Shaming" and "My dress is not a yes."

Again, I say, wholeheartedly, these sluts are correct.  One's state of dress or undress, or visible panty line, is not, and should never be considered to be, an invitation, request, acquiescence, desire or demand for sex or abuse, whether consensual or not.  Only a person's overt actions and/or express words, knowingly communicated with proper capacity, should be considered to be agreements to have sex.  The whole idea that a woman "asked for it" is abhorable and should be unacceptable to all thinking people.

But, I must admit that I feel some discomfort in seeing these women in their brassieres, boom-boom shorts and thongs -- those things must get filthy -- cut low, cut high, skin and tramp stamps proudly showing for all to see and read.  But I am not really talking about the people who are marching in the SlutWalks because I completely get them.  Really.

I am talking about any Saturday night in Dupont Circle or Adams Morgan.  I can clearly and easily see nipples, butt cracks and private areas -- for God's sake, I can read their lips and they're NOT saying "no new taxes."  And while I will be among the first to argue for their right to dress in any way they please, at the same time, I recognize -- and I think they should recognize -- that their manner of dress communicates something as well.  Just because it's their right does not mean that it is good judgment.  You have to admit, whether you are proud of it or not, that 1st impressions are based on appearance and, also, that 1st impressions can and will influence how you react to, interact with and think about, people.

Back when I was young and horny and I went to dance clubs -- I know, I'm always joking, aren't I? -- I used to see guys who wore tight little gym shorts on the dance floor all the time, their t-shirts skimmed off their tight little sweaty bodies and tucked into the back of their elastic waist bands, pulling the shorts tighter so you could their breakfast.  Were they just having a good time? Yes probably.  Were they grooving to the dance beat?  Of course.  Were they also looking to go home with the good looking Latino guy named Estefan with a crotch as big as a grapefruit?  You betcha, Sister Sledge.  Action, reaction.  Observe and learn.  Pavlov's hot dog.  Tight little sweaty gym shorts on the dance floor often equal male slut.  It's as true a rule of thumb as always cut the green off before you eat the cheese.

That reminds me -- when I want to beat off, I do not grab for the most recent issue of "Interior Design" magazine -- although, as a gay man, to be brutally frank, I did feel a little warmth in my leg pit when I saw pictures of the new David Yurman store in New York City on page 54 of the May 2011 issue.  But, that aside, when I want to beat off, I reach for the closest magazine that says "hot" or "naked" or "nipple" or "butt crack" or "twins."  I completely ignore -- as in I DO NOT EVEN SEE -- my copy of "Down East" magazine and its seminal article on "Why We Love Maine's Beaches."  No, my friends, I reach for the skin and the filth.  I am goal oriented.  But it illustrates that all of us, me included, do in fact judge a magazine by its cover.

What would you say if you saw me walking down the street at say 2 or 3 in the morning wearhing nothing but a smile on my face and a Speedo covering my private parts?  Other than, "I think I'm going blind and he should be institutionalized" you would probably think that there has got to be some sort of blubber prevention law to stop this fat bulgy old Greek guy from scaring people like this.  Okay, bad example.  Let's say I was 22 years old and in really good shape -- just go with me on this one -- it would be reasonable to surmise -- because of my prior decision to show you my business -- that I was proud of my body and that I wanted to attract someone to me -- for a sexual purpose.  This of course leads to all sorts of assumptions, right or wrong, but they are reasonable under the circumstances. 

And just like my dad used to tell me never to drive my car down any alley anywhere because that is where nails and broken glass and thieves and murderers are found -- and I might get hurt or worse -- the same goes for dressing suggestively.  Right or wrong, there are consequences in life and nobody but you are responsible for your own safety.

I see it in downtown Washington just like I saw it in the National Gallery of Art when Marcus, Bill and I were enjoying the Capitoline Venus.  I was taking a picture of her rump, because I could, because it was there, because it wasn't covered and because it looked juicy.

And the entire time I was exercising my Greek prerogative, I noticed both Marcus and Bill -- red-blooded all-American men and sexually active heterosexuals married to beautiful and stunning women -- I noticed them enjoying, staring, ogling and imagining the statue's perky bosoms, alluring curves and fertile crescent staring them both right in the face.  And thank God they have both the drive and desire and testosterone to enjoy all those things -- in a delicate balance with the decency, restraint and respect of enjoying it from afar -- without touching or licking.  But, the sad truth is that not all men or women -- or people -- are as decent and polite, or have as much control, as Marcus and Bill do.

Believe me, you will never know from just looking whether Joe or Brandon or Estefan, those guys you will meet when you are out for a good time on a Saturday night and scantily clad -- either because it is warm or just because you want to dress that way because it makes you feel good -- are there to meet a new friend or Miss Right or just Miss Right Now -- or whether they are even thinking of anything other than a "thrilla in your Manila."  Dressing to attract attention seems okay if you are a naked 2300 year old marble statue, ogled mostly by Pliny the Elder getting his Roman rocks off reading "Slavegirl" magazine

or Lew James Hages staring at your bum in the National Gallery of Art -- because the potential consquences are not so dire.  Believe me, at my age and in my condition, I am harmless except for the random rogue toenail.  Of course, I can't speak for Pliny and, to be honest, I have my own suspicions about how he got that nickname.

But, where the consequences are potentially severe -- wrongly or rightfully -- it seems prudent and an exercise of good, safe judgment -- to protect yourself by wearing more rather than less.  It's a lesson in life just like not standing too close to the edge of a cliff.  Yeh, you can stand right on the edge of the cliff if you want to -- nobody but your mommy will stop you.  But what happens if you get a chill?  Or vertigo?  Or get pushed?  Weigh the risks and act accordingly, Little Miss Hide the Sausage.

And, please, never ever, let a short little Greek man with his lips slightly open and one hand in his pocket take a jiggling picture of your rear end because you know for sure that THAT is just going nowhere good.

As my good friend, former US Senator Bill Frist, has said, "Our top focus - protecting our Nation - must go beyond homeland preparedness; America will only be secure if we deal with threats before they happen, not just after they happen."

To be sure, of course, he was talking about keeping the United States of America safe from terrorist attacks.  But, if you think about it just a little bit, the same thing really applies to keeping your own coochie hole safe.