Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬

[1] Imagination “Body Talk”

[2] Fairground Attraction “Perfect”

[3] Marilyn Manson “The Beautiful People”

[4] Queen “Fat Bottomed Girls”

[5] Jermaine Stewart “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off”

 

It sucks being body-conscious. What is this big obsession with how we look anyhoots? Who decides what classifies as a “hotty” and what “notty”? Is there an industry standard? A level of sexiness that we much aspire to reaching? Has anybody patented the real-life air brush yet? And how many filters must we apply to this selfie before we don’t resemble Amish milk maidens? It’s madness I tell you, madness. I miss au naturel, playing with the deck that you were dealt at birth, not trying to fit in to what others deem as “acceptable”. Personally I think there is far too much emphasis based on how we look and have a fair idea that I’m not the first person to say that either. What can I say? I was washing my hair. I just thought it would make for an interesting topic of discussion; ice-breaker if you will. Besides, when does it ever become less relevent? I’ll tell you when – the day when Rocky Dennis can buy his weekly groceries without some heedless heathen calling him Lumpy McGibbon, that’s when. This one’s for you Rocky and anyone else suffering from craniodiaphyseal dysplasia. Fuck it, why stop there? Roll out all the “freaks” and we’ll prove to the trolls that they’re the freakish ones dagnabbit.

You wanna know who I blame? So do I and that’s why we’re here, to sneak another peak beneath the veneer of society and find out who’s got it in for us. There has to be a ringleader surely? Somebody so “perfect” in design that even their daily stools are worth considering slipping your tongue into. You know the type – hair seemingly scalped from a unicorn, flawless complexion, eyes you could raise a dolphin in, adorable little button nose, lips like plumpened rosebuds, neckline to die for, breasts to kill for (complete with perfectly symmetrical areolae), six-pack plus change, navel you could dip celery into (even though frowned upon by management), perfectly pruned genital garnish, sex organ that doesn’t resemble road kill, tight buns you could bounce to market on, thighs you could crack a safe with, legs you have to put out an APB on, and ten exquisitely proportioned piglets, polished to the cuticles and back. This copybook hotty positively farts primrose and is so utterly superlative that she does so without an anus. Let’s be honest, there are only so many garlands one can throw around the old sheriff’s badge before they have to accept that it ain’t pretty. At best it’s like a knot in a hundred-year-old oak tree and, at worst, The Great Pit of Carkoon with a tummy upset. I’m sure this error-free model exists and, do you know what, I bet he/she is truly miserable.

You see, it can’t be easy meeting others without assholes. And when is the correct time to slip it into conversation? I know sexual relations is customary at around the third date but how long until we’re comfortable enough to leave the light on? Furthermore, how long until we’re at ease picking up that quarter as we take the naked walk of shame to our 2.00am bladder evacuation? It’s our best kept secret, the jewel in the Nile, and traditionally the very last stone we’re open to having romanced. I can see it now, statistics suggest this relationship to be 98% viable, there’s undeniable attraction of the animal variety, enough two-way chemistry to give Stephen Hawking knee trembles, and surely a match has been struck. That is until your opposite number makes the mistake of sleeping with their legs akimbo and you slide in for closer inspection. There it is, one unmistakable anus, and no hope whatsoever of birds suddenly appearing from this point forward. And to think it was all going so well. One rose on the pillowcase later and it’s off to assign that Death March ringtone, leaving a broken heart to fend for itself.

Yet what becomes of our picture perfect ten? Lonely that’s what. Looks are everything to some and that doesn’t leave a whole heap of room for those winning personalities. As a result, unhappiness soon follows, and the only thing left to do is make sure everyone else is miserable too. Seems like a sad existence to me and all because of an endless quest for something way beyond pragmatic. And all the while there are so many glorious imperfections going unnoticed. Some of us conceal our scars, whereas I’ve always been more prone to kissing them. Who cares if your nostrils resemble a pair of oversized cashew lockers? If toe number two of on each side is a dash too elongated, then that still leaves eight others to lavish with attention. Cracked heels can be fixed with the correct lotion, athlete’s foot can’t be expected to keep beating its personal best forever, and even veruccas get bored eventually. Anything left is fair game and really shouldn’t be regarded a deal-breaker. Let’s not go knighting me Sir Richard of Avalon just yet, I draw the line at hairy facial moles, but only since watching Invasion of The Body Snatchers. It’s really nothing personal.

There is nothing more unappealing, nay downright repulsive, to me than people who believe whole-heartedly that they’re all that and a bag of chips. Body confidence is great and all, but not when it’s bloated to such an extent that everyone else starts to resemble plankton. Anyone culpable of believing their hype too enthusiastically have but one solitary claim to stake – that they have discovered new and exciting ways to make themselves physically repugnant. Suddenly those perfect tens become sketchy fives at best and the bar goes lower still if they really must insist on treating us mere mortals with such indignity. Besides, the last I heard, it was horses for courses and there was no such thing as everybody’s type. If there was then Lyle Lovett wouldn’t have snagged himself a pretty woman. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all. So why spend our entire lives desperately attempting to “appeal” when we should just be loving ourselves? Seems like a lot of legwork to put in just to meet someone else’s strict criteria. Can’t they just meet us in the middle? If we were to put in a vested effort to make ourselves marginally less ugly, could they perhaps be 50% less superficial so we can get to the happy medium?

Of course, there is such a thing as type, and again this is a partiality that everyone is entitled to. I’m not about to suggest that physical attraction doesn’t play a significant part in our selection process and it’s actually nowhere near as shallow an endeavor as some suggest. There ordinarily needs to be a certain level of animal magnetism between two people for things to flourish romantically and, when you think about it, that makes rather a lot of sense. Last time I checked, I possess five senses, one of which is sight and this one is critical to proceedings. Perfection doesn’t even come into it, simply individual preference, and there’s no great science behind my predisposition. It just is. Slide a plate of brussel sprouts before me and, chances are, I’ll throw a childish tantrum and insist that they be removed at once or else I’ll shit my pants and sit in my own feces until the stench becomes unbearable for everyone. It ain’t ‘cos they’re ugly as sin (and they truly are in my eyes), just that they don’t appeal to me personally. I feel bad for brussels, really I do, but I’m sure they’ll find love elsewhere and wish them all the best in their future endeavors. One thing is for sure, I’ll never be culpable of thinking myself better than them when they quite clearly provide one portion of our daily five.

One thing that seems to be a bone of contention with many is weight and they desperately frantically attempt to shed the pounds so as not to receive the dreaded judgement from their bathroom scales. I get this is if the reasons for doing so are personal, but struggle when it entails pleasing others and meeting their demands. One cunningly placed dig can do so much damage, should we be particularly sensitive about our weight, and it saddens me to see folk striving so hard just to satisfy others and not themselves. I happen to adore a dash of puppy fat and body mass doesn’t figure into my own personal inclination one iota. It’s all ultimately about being comfortable in the skin you’ve been given and this is easier said than done when society dictates to us what it deems righteous. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard the words “she’d be quite attractive if only she lost some weight” I’d be stinking rich right now and that statement ranks pretty highly in my list of bugbears alongside “you’d think she’d wear something a little more flattering given her size”. Can these people hear themselves? Moreover, are they satisfied presenting themselves in such a deplorable light?

Yet still glossy publications shift millions of units, not so gently coercing their readership into coming round to their way of thinking over what they believe qualifies as the body beautiful and it’s often so far off the mark that it’s positively scary. As far as I’m concerned, true radiance shines from within and, in that respect, beauty really isn’t skin deep whatsoever. While it may appear clichéd suggesting that it’s what’s inside that truly counts, there really is no greater aphrodisiac to me than kindness and sincerity. Why should it be required for us to “punch above our weight” or “lower our standards”? Where is the even playing field? Trashy bi-weekly magazines can do their very worst and will no doubt amass themselves plenty of subscribers in the process but eventually the world will wise up and, when it does, their life’s work may amount to precious little. While a strong believer in each to their own, I’d much rather make a difference through alternative means, remind folk that they damned well deserve the same opportunities as anyone else to be considered desirable, regardless of whether fat or thin.

A few nights back, while flicking through the channels in my usual uninspired manner, I happened across a new dating show by the name Naked Attraction. Considering it boasted one of my buzz words in its title, I tuned in out of vague curiosity, and was promptly left speechless as I was greeted by more wonky schlongs than I’m comfortable with in a single sitting. With interest (and nausea) now peaked, I pressed on with my investigation, and discovered that the clue really is in the title with this one. Suitors of both sexes were cooped up in all their glory in what were effectively life-sized test tubes, before being gradually revealed from bottom to top to a potential mate before a live studio audience and post-watershed viewers. Said one-strong jury possessed the power to eliminate each in turn if anything wasn’t hanging right and this resulted in a walk of shame as they suddenly realized just how naked they actually were. It was a bizarre experience to behold but also rather moreish as there’s no shame in attempting something a little out-of-the-box and this qualified with the bare minimum of effort. While still not entirely convinced that this is the best way to snag that life mate, it did make for good telly and heaven knows we could do with that right now.

To certain individuals, the true credentials lie between the legs or beneath any layers of clever concealment and, I suppose, this cuts out three mildly uncomfortable dates and a handful of dashed expectations. Personally I love nothing more than the build-up, and would much rather confirm that my opposite number is not a hateful human being before so much as contemplating taking things to the next level. Who cares if their vagina is tucked in neatly and nipple placement satisfactory if they repulse us each time they open their mouths? It’s an interesting experiment, great to see someone taking the initiative, and cannot help but supply compulsive viewing material by adopting such a bold and fearless approach. But I think I’ll stick to the old-fashioned selection process thanks very much and play the guessing game like everyone else. It’s far more fun, especially when cranked to the absolute max and then some.

You heard me, I’m old-fashioned dagnabbit, and happen to enjoy riding to town atop my Penny Farthing, regardless of whether or not I career off into the bushes every handful of yards as I haven’t the faintest idea how to pilot such an antiquated vessel. My mouth may have a tendency of veering towards the dirty side on occasion but I’m really not all that filthy when you truly get to know me. Indeed, I pride myself on conducting myself in a gentlemanly manner, and reserve any deviancy for each time I pick up the Crimson Quill as it makes for a fascinating topic of discussion. That is not to say that I’m anything less than freaky behind closed doors but only with a partner who agrees to and is at ease with the rules prior to engagement. As for the body beautiful, well I believe that is under the ownership of those whose souls shine brightest. I am but one of over seven billion beholders and wouldn’t alter my stance to fit any kind of spoon-fed criteria. Chip away at those top layers and we’re only flesh and bone after all.

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