Lack & The Eroticization of Otherness

A bit of prime redneck Americana was on display lasy night in the small town of Glennie, Michigan. I was invited by a booking agent to go and perform at The Oasis, which was to be the anniversary celebration of what appeared to be the only drinking establishment within a 30 mile radius (that's life in the backwoods, off the beaten path, folks). Anyways, I arrived at about 8:30 PM, in plenty of time for the 10 o'clock slot I was pegged for. Just in time to witness the 'Wet T-Shirt Contest.'

Unfortunately, my date for the evening, Monica, was not nearly as intriguied by the whole thing as I apparently was. After getting a tall drink for myself at the bar, and upon sitting down there at said bar, she promptly decided to turn her back to the whole affair (God, I love fiesty chicks like that!). Me? I proceeded to check out the freak-show aspect of the whole thing. I reassured Monica that it was merely an anthropological interest on my part--not a testosterone laden one.

My initial observation was that Northern Michigan isn't just a place where Big Trees grow. My goodness! Morganna would have felt right at home there on the stage with the 5 other beauties. And being a redneck-haven I would have to guess that this was an au naturale, God-given, Goddess-bestowed display of monuments to fertility. Silicon or saline need not apply! These were the real deal: inherited traits, not manufactured ones.

Afer the first round of elimination--going from 5 contestants to the final 2--my view from the bar was becoming increasingly scarce. A mass of guys about 3 or 4 rows deep congregated in front of me. I could hear the comments that now filled the bar as the girls jogged in place to the tune of OUTKAST'S 'Hey Ya':

'My Baby don't mess around cuz she loves me so and this I know fo sure...'

Like a polaroid picture fo sure! ; o )

Monica was still glaring in the other direction. Gotta love that girl's backbone. I swear she didn't even peek once. Unlike the guys hooting and hollering 'Skin to win baby!' 'Gotta flash for the cash!' (Yeah, this is all true shi-ite folks!).

Standing there swizzling on a tall mug of Amber Bock it dawned on me that this was a prime instance of many of the things I have been writing about on this here blog over the past couple of weeks. It struck me how the utter fascination on the part of the men was relative to what they each lacked!! It was like a form of worship and devotion to some sort of innate otherness. It hit me so hard how guys were so keenly interested in seeing some Big Hooters because, well, they didn't have them. There was a sense of being this other-worldliness to the large breasts. I swear, a UFO could have landed out frickin' side and not a head would have turned to notice. 'Oh aliens have landed! Big deal... we got Grade A Tits in here!'

That is what I was left with last night--that and a date none too happy for the first part of the evening. (Can you hear me now, 'I swear Babe, I didn't know this was going to be part of the gig... I swear! I had no idea!' ... which was true, by the way). It left me with some distinct relaizatons about the nature of eroticization and sexuality: the sense of extremely large breasts being viewed by the majourity of hetero-males as objects that are fit for worship and adoration. I kid you not, though there was something freakish, not to mention objectifying about the proceedings, there was also a sense of spirituality and religiousity present. That many of those guys would not only kill and die for their God and their Country... but would do much the same for a hellacious pair of Tits!