The Development Of Voyeuristic-Scopophilic Pleasure In The Female
Monday 18 March 2002

Get them off me. They're everywhere: looking at me. I'm pushing past them at the bar. I'm observing them inside Coffee Republic as I stand outside my office smoking a cigarette. They're serving me drinks at gigs. They're window-shopping on Neal St as I sit on a bench, stroking the crinkly wrapping of my new Adult. CD. As Vtini and I swallow wine at the theatre bar there's one on my right, square black glasses, and one in front of me, in a red tracksuit top zipped high. Tracksuit top is looking right at me though I can't for the fuck of me imagine why, for he is far more beautiful than I deserve, and all I can think is---

---what the frig happened? Who gave all the boys permission to become visually appealing? I feel rather indignant, frankly. I've lived enough years of my life searching desperately for the good ones, the pearl in the haystack; scouring High Streets and lowlives for a hint of style or a decent pair of cheekbones: nothing. Now, all of a sudden, there's an abundance of adorable haircuts, and square black glasses (hey, ugly boys, got low self-esteem? Feeling a bit ming-ey? Get a pair of square black specs, and you'll be fair drownin' in pussy, bwah!) and loose jeans half-way down their skinny business, and strong jawlines, and pale boyish skin, and - I could go on, but you get the picture. When the fuck did that happen?

Hey, I ain't complainin'. You see me complainin'? Bring it on! But it's bemusing me, this boycraziness. So I started to wonder. Is it my yearage? Hell, I ain't teen snatch. My twenties are receding behind me like runway seen from a plane. You hear all these stories about womenz and their sexual peaks, and lookin' at Peaches you know it's no word of a lie.

According to the fabulous pound shop trash-science book 'Why We Love and Lust' by Dr Theresa L. Crenshaw, younger ladies are full of oestrogen, which makes them 'soft, acquiesent, and sexually receptive'. In other words, oestrogen makes young ladies lie around like big, passive hams, eyes downcast, awaiting penetration and a nice little cuddle at the end. BoRING!

Then you get older, and - boof! - dullsville old oestrogen drops away, unmasking that tricksy little bugger, testosterone. Suddenly you're a go-gettin' slut, proactive, no longer reticent, and sex becomes hella better - orgasm-driven, fast-paced, trashy. Oh yes. Momma gonna git some. I am so ready for my sexual peak. Bring it on!

So maybe, what it is, I'm peakin' early. Lust hormones steamin' up my eyes. Maybe the boys aren't so friggin cute. Maybe they're the same hideous unstylish Kings of Ming as they've always been.

In the interests of investigative journalism, I need to seek further. I need a control. I need to find out for sure and certain whether I'm crazily boycrazy or just a healthy human being with a reasoned response to beauty. Ms. Vodkatini, step onto the stage!


Miss AMP: Hi Vtini! I'd like to ask you about boys. Cute boys. Is it just me, or is London drowning in a sea of tight-assed hotties?

Vtini: Miss AMP, I can confirm that London is indeed packed with horny non-homos. Look at that one over there in the tracksuit top, slender fingers arching around his pint. Observe that blonde-angel skateboy with his pants halfway down his business over by the bar. Check out--

Miss AMP: But, Vtini - perhaps we're just in a particularly stylish and boytastic bar?

Vtini: That could be the case. However, walking down the street every single day my looking is tugged by honey after honey after honey. Is it something in the water? Do I give a fuck? Look at that hummana-husband by the door. Yummy!

Miss AMP: Vtini, can you confirm that failing terrible hormonal atrocities, you are in little danger of being anywhere near your 'official' sexual peak?

Vtini: Yup. Though you betta believe I'm getting two sexual peaks right here in my top just from looking at that boychild with the red scarf and delicate bone structure. Come to momma.

Miss AMP: Um, yes. So it's not just me, then?

Vtini: It's the objective truth. I'm looking at the dial on my lushometer, and these days, it's going right off the scale.



So. There was this boy, the other night. Drunk, my eyes were pirates across his face, ravaging, raping, blameless gory wanderers. Usual rules of day-to-day life include: Never look at someone's mouth. Looking at mouth= bad. Looking at mouth= rude. Looking at mouth= might as well just pull off all your clothes and get your red Poppy King lipstick from your Karen Savage make-up bag and draw big letters saying 'FUCK HERE' and arrows pointing to all your orifices all over your naked flesh. I mean, really. Eye should never, ever, ever, ever be allowed to drop the four or so inches from pupil to labia unless there's some serious sex-ass intent.

Sometimes, though, you're just so drunk that all the rules of normal day-to-day contact get trampled beneath the cheeky little toes of your Jack Purcells. Make me give a fuck, says drunk you, about decorum, and propriety, and morality, and ethics. And drunk you lets your drunk eyes wander the forbidden inches and next thing you know you're focusing on a mouth.

And what this mouth was doing - I only realised today, lighting up a cigarette opposite Coffee Republic again, my usual get-me-the-fuck-out-of-this-office stance - was being Christian Slater's mouth in Heathers and Pump Up The Volume. Just watch those films again - you've got them, right? - and you'll see what I mean.

Put filter in mouth, grip filter between teeth, look down to strike match, look up before striking, smile at girl, fag still gripped between teeth, eyes twinking, mouth a dirty gut-twisting knicker-tugging grin. He did it all night. He was posing. I don't think he fancied me. But he liked me fancying him.

They've realised, you see. They've finally twigged that they're pretty. Men's Health magazine, vociferous women, gaylords - all have finally turned 'the gaze', as good old Ways Of Seeing geezer would have it - onto the boys. Youth is the overriding determinant of sexual attractiveness, not femininity any more. We're all objects these days, all open to superficial hungers, all tilting our faces like lilies to the sky, feeding on the warm rain (fnarr) of sexual desire; basking in the pleasure of being admired.

Boys will soon learn to prize style over substance; being seen over seeing, admiration over pleasure. Boys will soon be just as fucked and pretty and stupid as girls have learnt to be. The future is here, and we're all doomed.

And I love it.

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