WTF?
OK, so I already wrote about this over at Viv’s , but I had to just express some quick WTF-ery about this recent attempt by a Canadian strip joint to get dames to compete for tuition dollars . The premise is, the well-endowed yet cash-strapped ladies of University of Guelph shake their endowments at a weekly wet t-shirt contest, in anticipation for a $5000 cash prize to go towards tuition expenses.
Now, as a college chica entirely dependent on financial aid (thank you Uncle Sam!) I can totally understand why you’d need to pay for your education via the stripper pole. Most of us aren’t lucky enough to have parents ready and willing to put us through uni, and sometimes a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do to get that nice piece of paper for her career. Some ladies even (gasp!) enjoy their tenure at the titty bar. Who knew?
Yet I can’t help but get all Catherine Mackinnon (and Lord, I hate to invoke this brand of feminism) at the fact that this is basically yet another way in which women are pressured to get objectified in exchange for something which, IMHO, should be basic and accessible (tuition money). In the interest of egalitarianism (and my own libido), why isn’t there an opportunity for guys to show us the Full Monty in exchange for greenbacks?
Have we reached such a low that it’s considered OK for stripping to be an accepted form of pandering for tuition money?
I don’t know. Maybe I’m being a prude about this—but hey, I guess there’s a first time for everything.
What do we think, readers? Objectifying and oppressive, or just some good ol’ educational fun?
quickies
- The sexy and gracious Rachel Kramer Bussel granted me an interview about her latest book on voyeurism/exhibitionism, Caught Looking, her thoughts about the all-too-bandied about Carrie Bradshaw label, and what’s next on her plate after the end of her column Lusty Lady at The Village Voice. Check it out right here—Rachel’s one of my inspirations in the world of sex writing, and her passion for the craft shows in all of her answers.
- The sex blog I write for (besides the occasional sexy entry on this one), Viviane’s Sex Carnival , is one of the nominees for the Dirty Spoke Sex Blog of the Year awards! Check it:
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Click to vote here ! Also up is my favorite Ms Lena Chen over at Sex and the Ivy in multiple categories—Sex and the Ivy is one of the most frank, honest, and well-written sex n’ college blogs out there. So vote for Viviane’s Sex Carnival and vote for Lena!
- Speaking of Sex and the Ivy, Lena will be in Philadelphia for a week to chillax with me and discover everything sexy in Philly. Want to go out with us to Woody’s? Want to hobnob with Lena and Passional owner Kali Morgan on the inevitable South Street run? Let me know! I want to show Ms. Chen the best—and the hottest—this city has to offer.
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didja hear that? that's the theme song of sodom and gomorrah
HELLO EVERYONE. MY NAME IS JESSICA HARALSON, AND I HAVE A DEEP, DARK, HORRIFYING SECRET:
I ATTEND NAKED PARTIES.
Actually, I attended a grand total of one of these dens of debauchery. (Not plural, CBS. And for the record, I didn’t get naked, just showed off my purchases from the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale). And I’m not only an attendee, I’m a sex blogger/sex editor/self-styled cultural critic of sorts on college rumpy-pumpy. And that sound bite of me talking about a sex room? I wasn’t at that party—I was recounting an urban legend I’d heard about some other Penn soiree. Not that there’s anything wrong with orgies—it’s just Caligula style swinging romps ain’t my bag.
But hey, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. And if there’s anything I learned from the experience (besides the fact that Insider reporter Lara Spencer’s wardrobe is to die for) it’s that there ain’t nothin better than practicing the art of the sound bite.
JESSICA HARALSON: ATTENDS NAKED PARTIES.
I think that should be on my epitaph.
Your editrix apologizes
I know, I know. I totally suck. Haven’t updated this since the Pleistocene. I’ve been all antsy and nervous about writing about prurient subjects. But I promise, that’s about to change.
A conversation with SexandtheIvy—aka the Divine Miss Chen—who, dear readers, will be visiting yours truly for a week of possible debauchery near the end of the month—caused me to throw in the towel and get serious about this blogging business.
An approximation of our convo. because I am totally not tech savvy enough to keep AIM logs:
1. Writing about sex isn’t bad. Writing badly about sex, though, is bad. As is having bad sex, but that isn’t here or there.
2. What’s bad is using our bodies as a stand-in for talent, doing things like posing for nudie mags or posting questionable photos on MySpace. Tara Reid-ing it does not a career make!
3. Haters betta recognize, because fortune favors the brave. Who got famous about writing about Parcheesi? Seriously?
So what’s the point of this post? I’m back. You get to read more. You get to be privy to my hustling for an NYC internship. My hustling for a date. My hustling to get clips in Hustler. But not real hustling. Actually, I’m not even sure what “hustling” actually means.
You know, just the usual 20-something college freelance columnist stuff.
Yup.
Totally normal.
You know, that hysterical laughter hurts my feelings!
Comment [1] - posted Jan 9, 00:34 in personal jessica8217s-self-promotionthoughts from a college student's christmas holiday
South Texas has become so different.
When I was a little girl running around in my backyard, the only thing visible was the vast western expanse of the King Ranch, flat plains and faraway low marshes sweeping over the horizon as far as the naked eye could see. I’ve always dreamed of the big city but now that I remember being able to just run with my friends and the unadulterated joy of building forts and playing in the outdoors until the sun went down, I realize that there’s something to be said about a childhood in the sticks. There’s something about climbing a tree that’s just good for the soul. (If you’ve never done it, try it sometime.)
Now Lauren, my little sister, has a girlhood in which the landscape is studded with more familiar American landmarks—Chili’s, Pizza Hut, the Super Wal-Mart. It’s endless. South Padre Island is lined with beach mansions skinny as stilettos selling for over half a million dollars; new condo complexes marketing to the Mexican internationals. The Rio Grande Valley, my home, now has a Starbucks chain. Starbucks! This would have been unheard of five years ago. Now it’s just another place to drive your SUV.
She doesn’t remember when cattle would break through the barbed wire that separates our backyard from the King Ranch and run around our land, until we called the cops who called the ranchers and got them the hell out of there. She doesn’t remember spotting ocelots roaming in the mesquite; the occasional armadillo. Nor does she remember what it’s like for the only “real mall” to be over an hour and a half away, for anything resembling culture to necessitate an airport. Or even what it’s like to have nothing better to do than sit on the roof and look at stars, and then realize that is the best thing you can do sometimes. I guess one thing I took for granted as a kid is wide open spaces. In the Northeast there isn’t much of that at all. Things aren’t so vast, so endless. So… looming.
But this is OK, because she still climbs trees and runs and plays soccer with her friends. She still has beaches and her backyard and her puppy and birds which nest in the tree and sing syrup sweet outside. Still has. And she’s happy. It’s just different.
Yesterday Lauren asked me if she could have my bedroom. I said yes.
Today Mother asked me to begin managing my college fund, and suggested that I take a small low interest loan so I will graduate with a bit of a nest egg, rather than a bundle of credit card debt or zero money in the bank. This money will now be truly my own to myself, to manage, to waste, to spend—or to invest wisely. I said yes.
No more childhood bedroom? No more idyllic pastoral Texan town? Paying my own bills? Managing and investing my own money?
Growing up is fun, but it’s also really confusing sometimes. Yet I do think everything is happening the way it should, and even though things are changing they are changing for the best eventually.
my new years resolution
Besides updating this woefully neglected blog (you’ll hear more sexy commentary from me after finals! Promise!)
I vow to like myself more in 2007. Yes, even though I have a shamelessly self-promoting vanity blog. Even though my outward persona’s ego is larger than Kansas. Even though my clothes could be sharper, my waist trimmer, my teeth brighter, my dress size smaller, my GPA higher, my career prospects more promising-er, my legs more toned-er, my grammar less laissez-faire…
I want to like myself more.
This doesn’t mean I want to bask in the heady glow of pat self-congratulation, no. (And I’m no stranger to that, matriculating at Penn and all, but…) It does mean I want to be more confident, more assured. That doesn’t mean I also don’t have the usual laundry list of Pottruck-going and note-taking and Crest White Strips-abusing, but it does mean that I need to put less freaking value in all that, and more value in being here, being alive, and being present for my friends and family.
Lest you think this is Gratuitous and Unnecessary (and a little too Our Bodies, Ourselves, natch), I’m always shocked and surprised when people describe me as confident or poised. I’ll never forget volunteering at an Human Rights Campaign banquet my freshman year, smiling nervously in my hand-me-down Jessica McClintock and Dillard’s kitten heels, and gasping when a twink and his sugar daddy approached to tell me they found me “poised”. Poised? As the To Wong Foo era Wesley Snipes would say, “Not on your young queer life!”
I mean, shucks, I’m glad that it appears that way. But it’s an appearance. Hell, if irrational neuroses could be traded on the NYSE, I’d be Warren Freaking Buffett. I could out-angst the love child of Woody Allen and Bridget Jones. And maybe this is a blogger thing. (Right, Miss Chen? But it’s time to end.
I know I’m late to the party and can’t claim grief as I never got to know the amazing-ness that is her, but as I write this I’m thinking about the late Star C. Foster, the promising young Philly blogger whom unexpectedly passed away last week. Look around you—we’re all living a pretty sweet gig. In the wake of the tragedies that happen every day—in my personal life and in the world at large—I guess my vow is to appreciate all of this more. As LiLo would say, “Be adequite.” Except without the diva rep and heiress hangers-on.
We are all unspeakably fragile. Savor everything, before you break.
Comment [2] - posted Dec 19, 01:18 in personalbaby i'll show you my one track mind
Finals are kicking my ass.
That said, I will keep my Holidailies commitment by recommending this rather wonderful vidblog to you: 1trackmind, narrated by the winsome and wonderful Danielle and Lou. Watch as the twosome disuss sex in the news (Global Orgasm Day, anyone?), re-create that famous faux-orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally (well, Danielle does, anyway) and recommend the best sex toys for your lov-ah this Navidad. Check it out!
Many thanks to that handsome devil
Khyros for the link! The show itself is a part of Network2, a website that includes… other cool shows/content for those with more tracks in their minds. :-P
yo, sex in the news: really weird edition
Holy random-ness, Batman! We’ve got hijabs, prophylactics, and Lone Star lovin’ on the sex news menu this weekend:
- The Lone Star Pornutopia, an “adult entertainment” convention for sexy Southerners, kicked off this weekend in Houston. Guess the saying “everything’s bigger in Texas” just got a whole new meaning…
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- Just call her the Muslim Dr. Ruth. Heba Kotb, a conservative Muslim, has debuted her own sex talk show in her Egyptian homeland, shocking Arab viewers with her explicit frankness about the beast with two backs. Only caveat? Following the Qu’ran, she calls homosexuality a “disease.” But hey, progress is progress – and I can’t knock a woman advocating for a healthier vision of sexuality. And finally…
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- Spray on condoms? It’s a possibility, according to plastics researcher Jan Krause. He envisions a latex canister that could create a “custom fit” condom. No more practicing on bananas, ladies!
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update -- holidailies style
To my eight or so readers: I know, I know, I’ve been far too long on hiatus. Thanksgiving in Florida + History of Sexuality papers do that to ya, kay?
Anywayz, I am officially bringing
sexythis website back, with some forced participation: the ever so cheery peeps over at Holidailies, the Christmas-themed website where one vows to update “every day, from December 1st to January 1st.” So procrastination aside, you can expect to hear from me all month.
Now, on to today’s totally cliched Holidailies prompt:
“Sunny or snowy: Which makes for the better holiday season, and why?”
Snowy. But—just by a little bit.
My reasoning: why else do you think there are so many August/September babies? Subtract nine months and…
OK, that (potentially heinous) mental picture of Mom and Dad aside, there is something about a white Christmas that just can’t be replicated in my Southern home state. For starters, it’s romantic—fireplaces, virgin snowfalls at nighttime on pretty fir trees, hot cocoa, sledding in Clark Park, cuddling on bearskin rugs. (OK, maybe not the bearskin rugs part.) There’s the rainbow-gasm of twinkling lights in Rittenhouse Square, the lazy afternoons spent watching A Christmas Story as the bleary world goes by, the forced touchy-feeliness of bundling together for warmth that just can’t be replicated in a sunnier clime. There’s gotta be a reason for all of the lights and color come winter solstice—how else could such dreary weather be rendered romantic otherwise?
But then, there is romance on the other side, too. My Brazilian grandmother tells me of New Years Eve on Ipanema Beach, where everyone dresses in diaphanous white sheaths and frolicks on the bossa-nova-inspired shores, lighting candles for carioca luck as midnight approaches. And there’s something to be said for twinkling lights on the palm tree, as it is in my Texan home.
After all, I seriously doubt Bethlehem was snowed in on December 25th. Just a hunch.
yo, sex in the news: spermatazoa edition
Happy Accion de Gracias, everyone! May you have stuffed your maw with pavo and slept delightful, tryptophan-enhanced slumbers during the Cowboys game. I’m still getting back on my feet from a lovely va-cay in sunny Florida: expect longer posts this week as I get back into college/editor/blogger mode.
Two quick items:
- A male birth control device? It’s possible, say those inventive Brits. Can Kevin Federline be a test subject? Please?!?
- A good 20something friend of mine and Penn alum, flying under the radar as the notorious El Hideoso, has launched a nouveau sex blog, written from the “average chump’s” perspective. Take a gander at his posts about the ubiquitous Napoleon complex and how purdy is too purdy. Now you can get the straight dope, not those horrid Glamour “Jake” columns!
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