Guys like glittery strippery looking ladies.
That’s because it’s a sexy visual association with that biological urge to spread their seed. And chicks like a GQ looking dudes – ’cause sharply dressed signifies they’ll either bring home the bread-loaf – or at least won’t be a loafer.
Put either of these humans in their outta context Sunday night sweats, and shiz changes.
(Exceptions. They exist.)
I get that I’m making some generalizations here, but a wise man once said:
“Broad strokes get the fence painted faster.”
That said, somewhere, along the way, culture confused bio-desires for most of us to something else that we crave at the expense of our well being and distilling out the sex ingredients so they won’t bake it into a life-long responsibility with wants and needs and tantrums. A Christian Grey still looks alluring to us chicks even though he’s a rapey weirdo probably capable of killing us. And gyrating pirate hookers look like a fantastic option – even though you’ll slap on plastic to prevent more than just the clap from happening.
That’s not news, Ashley.
Yes. I know. And neither are delivery hussies. But you know what is?
ManServants.
This thing’s been trending all over my screen this week about gigolos who aren’t really gigolos – the sorta-male version of strippers for ladies who want their bachelorette parties or lazy weekends to comprise more than a sedentary nasal teabagging from the local talent at Chip & Dales. These dudes also won’t eff you, but they arrive to please in the way we ladies like it best: by doing our shit for us.
Carry my overstuffed purse and shade me with a parasol.
Fan me with palms, feed me grapes, and refill my chalice.
Scrub my dog’s diarrhea stains off the carpet.
(Oh, what? Did I just take this fantasy outta it’s manslave tuxedo? #sorryboutit)
But from strippers to manslaves, you know what’s fun in both of these cases?
That neither one of them talks.
Whether your crotch is tap dancing on mine or hidden under a 3 piece as you refill my virgin cocktail, the idea is the same – pure fantastical objectification. And to make this concept more endearing, in their commercial they cast the token homo duo for the task of conveying this message as one “shooshes” the man doing pushups on the floor for the visual delight of he and his lover, gently snuggling up on the couch to watch him work like he’s a romantic crackling campfire. This is smart – latching the rainbow connection onto this commercial – because your brain’s so confused at the concept to start with (and delighted by funny gay guys – be they your IRL homies, Grace’s Will, or True Blood’s flamboyant Lafayette), that it doesn’t even know it’s being tricked into thinking, “And if you disagree with what we’re selling, then you’re homophobic.”
If I was wrong, they would have casted a less-funny lezzie couple instead.
Since, ya know, the ad started out being directed at women.
You know, I think this gender degradation and objectification of the sexes is just terrible – either way you look at it. And to make money off it is simply disgustin-
Wait.
Is that guy in the beanie for sale?
’cause I’d invite him over to make a mess – not clean it up.
