Pornography Is The Propaganda Of Procreation
In a response to a recent conversation, I will attempt an essay on the indefensible. I will defend the people who go to strip clubs. My defence is to throw them before the mercy of the court.
Hagel’s master slave dialectic is always a good place to start. The master controls the slave by owning the ‘means of production’, but the master needs the slave to run the machines so is likewise dependant. The stripper is the ‘slave’ and the pervert is the ‘master’, and supposedly this produces male virility. I’ve been to a few strip clubs (five) over the past twenty years, and one can be relieved to consider they’re not the harems such a degrading relationship could be. They’re more like legion halls.
The old war story of male privilege hangs like a Confederate flag. The bravest of them had died, the mediocre remained to sing old songs like that one by Aerosmith while their daughters stripped for them for god knows what reason till god takes them away blind. This is no harem. Blue collar sheikh stuffing a ten spot down the secretary’s skirt gets his termination papers processed faster. Not just like a restaurant where they only show you the food, but they present the food so badly. Propaganda the size of an English pantomime apparently reinforces the symbols of male superiority, but fail to bury the pathetic nature of the ritual. The only one dancing is the naked woman. The men play pocket pool, don’t meet the other men’s gaze or make a sound while it goes on. If there’s a group they’ll stop talking, look at their beer and at the stage. I would never know the washroom, but it must be next to hell. All must go through a strip club washroom on their way to hell. The ghosts of unborn chromosomes form a perpetual mist.
The shows, are dull, and I’m embarrassed for the girls and myself. I once witnessed the ‘moustache dance’: fat guys with a toonie in their mouth sat on the edge of the stage and a girl straddled and buffed him like an automatic car wash. It may sound like it would only be degrading for the woman, till you noticed the twisted yearning on the face of these decrepit ‘masters’. So devoid of the means of realizing human contact, this was all they knew. It’s a sad and quiet church where they pray to a false idol of woman. The man looks down at the mess he just made, the loneliness he’s just exacerbated, and the vile exploitation he’s just supported, washes himself and wonders if he’ll ever be a mensch, a human being.
Marriage was once institutionalized prostitution, a woman could marry or starve. Strip clubs are a church which sanctify these values. True interaction of men and women is what good people strive for. The old men in the strip club lift their weak arms to the sky and hope that god is not woman. You may publicly execute these infirm tyrants, but their actions already punish them. They are alone.