I once met an older, balding, overweight gent who was convinced he'd done something wrong in the eyes of his maker that he hadn't turned out to be a perpetually twenty-two year-old pole dancer in Vegas getting paid to sit on Daddy's Lap.
So enamored was he of this type of woman that he was convinced the smartest, bravest and savviest of all humans was the girl/woman in her sexual prime moving up the ladder of life through her good looks, getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to shake it like her momma didn't know she could, saving up and getting filthy rich off of her natural gifts by the time she was thirty, retiring and laughing all the way to Aspen where she could have cosmetic surgery, a couple of Bijon Frisees and Pinot Noir on the way to the ski lift.
How he longed to be this girl/woman. How desperately he wanted that objectification, that drooling male attention which he perceived as part worship, part idiocy and part selfish and animalistic entitlement.
I shook my head in wonderment at his idealism and then had to think. And think some more.
Growing up in the seventies, the objectification of woman was considered to be V-E-R-Y B-A-D. We were supposed to be doing things like breaking corporate ceilings and having it all and trying out loads of different types of birth control until finding the perfect one. We were supposed to shave under our arms if we SO CHOSE but never, ever, be forced unto this by some prying eye or superficial male preference, sold to him, of course, by the media.
But deep into my heterosexual life now, I find myself divided, as it were, into several thousand pieces of puzzlement. For the heat, by its very nature, melts me when it is turned up high, and with this melting comes a deep dissolution of all notions of glass ceilings, having it all, hairy armpits and going on marches with my sisters for things I genuinely believe to be important.
In the heat of the melting, I want him to want me in that way that strips me of my personality and watches things roll, bounce, shake, undulate, mesmerizing him, hypnotizing him with their femininity. In short, I want to be objectified, to be wanted for what the vision and the feeling of me does to him, to be tossed about a bit, to be handled.
And perhaps it's just me, but it is safe for me to have that now since, when the oven of our lovemaking is cooling, we talk and cuddle and I am treated most definitely like a woman and a human being and one to be respected, at that.
I feel women are so confoundedly divided among themselves, between and inside of themselves. They dress to impress, wanting to stimulate the oh-so-very-visual male view with nice fitting clothes and high heeled shoes, with glittery eye makeup and shiny hair and lips. Yet so often they also rebuff any and all advances, considering them to be less than suitable, less than appropriate, less than respectful.
Women want, as men do, to have their cake and eat it, too. They want to be considered highly desirable by men, but not to be treated as if they would go to bed with them. They want to be wanted, but not stared at; to be discussed, but not trash-talked; to be the center of attention, but not to be considered an attention seeker or to be considered easy. Make up your minds! Oops, I mean, I can't make up my mind!!! I've learned, over the years, that attention really does feel good; objectification, in certain circumstances can feel awesome, and that I can pick and choose how to deal with it.
Any time a woman is disrespected it opens an entire history of the disrespect and abuse of women. This is why men need to learn how to tread carefully on the beautiful potential of objectification and to never, ever lose sight of the reactions and feelings of the woman he is with. Discussions are important and intuition and sensitivity are important, too. Ask her how it feels, all the time. Her answers may surprise you.
Aimee Boyle is a freelance writer, mother and teacher in CT.