My Dearest Darlings, as I continue to endorse the role glamour has to play in your wretched lives I am concerned about the lengths that some will go to wander through the echelons of GLAMOUR. Where as the starlets and sirens of the last century retained a sense of mystery and otherworldly unobtainable remoteness. The 21st century has created nubile debutants who feel the route to fame and glamour is to emblazon their various unmentionables across the covers of deplorable lad mags; ‘Loaded’ and ‘FHM’ style publications are dispensed to spotty male youths who proceed to squirt their juvenile sex juice over titillating images of scantily clad girls. What is promoted in these mags is the insidious notion that the fabulous and complex female is simply an object to be consumed.
As I continue to ponder and discuss this contentious area I should make it clear the objectification of womankind and the purveyance of this imagery to be ‘consumed’ by the male gaze is far more complex than I have room to explore here. I am painfully aware that your limited brain capacity is already contemplating what to stuff into your cavernous mouths next meal time, though I beg for your attention as I am helping to shed light into your mental gloom.
Unfortunately some deluded women collude in the mistaken conception described above by suggesting they are simply passive mindless sex objects that are forever available to be sexually consumed by the masturbating male masses. The poor sweet darlings cornered by centuries of patriarchal society feel forced into using the physical attributes they have to navigate their way out of the fetid hell they discover themselves in. This is hardly surprising when the rewards for this collusion can be so much greater than the earnings garnered from displaying mental agility.
The slightly less stupefyingly retarded amongst you may be thinking that I am teetering on the edge of hypocrisy, as I have frequently been seen wearing little more than a bathing suit on the occasional night out, and this irony is not lost on me. The difference my Darlings, is that I and the rare few like me revel in glittering splendour as complex versions of radiance. I and the selected glamorous pay homage to the vixens and icons of yesteryear, these ladies (despite similarly being creations of a patriarchal machine) communicated strength of character and did not suggest that they could be ravished by a beer-bellied simpleton for the price of a Cosmopolitan. Bette Davies, Marlene Dietrich, Elizabeth Taylor and Joan Crawford all had their foibles though they existed as powerful personifications of the wondrousness of woman-hood.
With Unconditional Love,