| A few months back, I found myself dragged along with a few friends to a particular event which I will never forget. 'So what is this thing', I asked, 'The what contest?' 'The Miss Kitty contest, or something', my friend said, playing it down, assuring me of the potential for humor involved. Unfortunately, I wasn't driving, and, well, it did sound kind of intriguing, so off we went to the local bar that was hosting the competition. It was apparently a rather auspicious occasion, as the place was jam packed, the sound of bass was deafening, and the drinks flowed among throngs of guys in leather ties and heavy after shave. Finally, the female MC began her banter, consisting mostly of door prizes, how much money the 'girls' in the contest would win, how awful it would be if she herself came out in a bikini, etc. All the time, the undercurrent of excitement was palpable among the crowd: When do we see the swimsuits? How long until the swimsuits?! So, to clarify, this contest consisted of young women not saying anything, not really doing much, but walking, rather prancing onto a catwalk in various stages of undress. They were completely focused; their gyrating carefully aimed and executed. Criteria for winning was unclear to me - was it the best prancer? The skimpiest outfit? The best-looking contestant? After some inquiry, I determined that victory was achieved by a combination of looks and the best personality. First impressions are obviously paramount here. | There was some pretense of talent- there were 3 phases of prancing; the casual, costume, and the swimsuit phases. Costumes, I thought, that sounds promising. My hopes were dashed when the more creative, more imaginative costumes were only weakly applauded (and in some cases booed) in favour of the barely clad dominatrix, the 'nurse', and some kind of string and tin foil outfit which brought the house down in waves of howls and catcalls. Besides the prancing, I should mention the dancing, writhing, grinding, and variations of the pelvic thrust, which gets a little tiresome once the ninth contestant hits the stage. Likely all the guys in the front were considered the luckiest, as they had all the 'in your face' action denied everyone else watching from a distance. A few of the women in the audience were quite enthusiastic, but the majority glared, smoked wordlessly, or yawned irritably (myself included). The guys we were with were bolted to their seats, so I tried to make sense of the whole spectacle. 'Oh yeah!... I'd do her!' and 'Check out that bitch!' were all audible among the audience. Then ultimately, I heard the dreaded, 'Gross... Fat thighs... No boobs'. By the end, my laughter at the absurdity of it all had turned to boredom, then to anger. I was incensed, but also curious as to the drives for both men and women to watch and participate. When asked whether or not they found the whole thing a little demeaning and/or objectifying, people I asked | said things like, 'Well, no.. It's their fault if it is... They choose to enter'. When I asked one guy whether or not he would like to see his girlfriend strutting up there, his answer was swift, 'What?! Hell, no!' The double standard was painfully obvious but incomprehensible in the minds of most spectators. I felt saddened and drained looking at the faces of the contestants who weren't 'good enough' to take even a runner up position. In the hierarchy of the bar culture, they simply didn't cut it. So what is left for them now? Can they go home and practice? I felt like I and everyone else there had been catapulted straight out of the 1990's, back to a time where beauty contests were the ultimate goals of girls and hard working secretaries were rewarded with a wink and a slap on the ass. Are the 1990's really so enlightened? The objectification and belittling of these women were intense and unapologetic, and society compels us to dive right in. My aim here is not to condemn either the contestants or the spectators. The women's confidence was admirable, and perhaps I was the only one concerned with any sinister overtones. I mean, different strokes for - well, you know. But, who sets these narrow standards of attractiveness? Denying people their personalities, their right to look different than perfect replicas of Barbie, and objectifying them for the sake of a couple thousand bucks and some door prizes did not sit well with me. Maybe I'm still angry.. |