Unfortunately it's the price of celebrity: if you are famous, everyone will want to watch you fuck.
I don't have the video, but the evil people who do, Gawker, have it available HERE. I haven't seen it. It's apparently over thirty minutes long. But I included the above link so that everyone may read the description of the tape. The description is probably better than viewing the tape itself. The author appreciates the absurdity and stark humanity of the act. That Hulk Hogan having sex isn't simply a man having sex: he can't be divorced from his wrestling character and be simply a man getting his dick wet.
When I heard about the tape, I went searching gleefully through Ecosia (browse with them and plant a tree!) to find it. Lord Ristretto and myself are wrestling fans, he much more than me. When I asked if he wanted to see it, his response was something like, "Fuck no." I laughed and said I wanted to see it because "I like watching car wrecks."
I can't help but feel guilty. It is spying, an invasion of privacy, and, apparently in this case, filmed without Hogan's consent. He isn't a sexy young superstar who had taken naked pics on her phone and then had them splashed over the internet by hackers. Both are violations, yes, but he wasn't at all complicit in the film's creation. This doesn't make him more of a victim than, say, Jennifer Lawrence or Kate Upton. It makes it that much sadder.
This is truly a car wreck, just as with Lawrence and Upton. And we truly enjoy it. It's not out of malice, I believe (and I want to believe). It's because we love them. I have no opinion about Pamela Anderson and have never had an interest in watching her leaked sex tape. When I learned that Jennifer Lawrence's photos were leaked, I immediately searched for them while I was standing in the middle of Best Buy. And we love Hogan. Because he's the Hulkster, the inventor of Hulkamania, a wrestler who reveled in his absurdity and whose absurdity made him brilliant. We can refuse to watch the video out of respect for his privacy, but we shouldn't be entirely condemned for watching it. After all, we will always want the things we love, and as naked and raw and completely as possible.
It's refreshing to be shocked. But then I have to deal with the aftermath, the stuttered questions, the haunting feeling of being lost in the thunderstorm of bafflement...
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
Again, what the fuck.
This was sent to me by a good friend of mine, with his own expressions of disbelief and confusion. I don't have the context for this work, and I hesitate to find one. It might be more interesting to approach this from a raw, ignorant point of view.
To begin with, this is extreme vagina dentata. This doll forms the epitome of the threatening metaphor of a vagina: it becomes a monstrous beast that will consume not only a man's penis, but his entire body. Why would a man submit to such a creature? The simple (and silly sounding) answer is that she's cute. Her face and smile are innocent, and she has the hint of a school girl about her. She invokes other mythological creatures such as a gorgon, siren, or Scylla and Charybdis: monstrous female creatures who are extreme dangers to men.
Why would men want to see such a creature manifested thus? Is it the allure of danger coupled with desire? Is it a statement that no matter what the logical, practical danger is, men will always be dominated by their penis?
Perhaps there's another statement about women: not that women are monsters or are to blame for causing harm to men. This is, after all, only a metaphor, not a medical diagram. Perhaps this is an expression of the power of women. That women have most of the power in a sexual exchange. That this is more about control: that women are to be feared, not because of what they can withhold, but by what they can express: hunger, anger, and desire in terrible degrees.
Most frighteningly, perhaps women don't need men at all.
Lord Ristretto and I are in Las Vegas for a couple months, so he may participate/witness/attend the World Series of Poker, as well as play some games on the side. I'm here because I practically grew up here, and Las Vegas is a second home. "Sin" and all, garish neon and dirty streets, loud drunk people and slutty dressed women, I love it all. I accept it all, and Las Vegas is a magical, brilliant, and the most theatrical place on earth.
Last night we went to the fabulously colored Rio to check out the beginnings of the WSOP. Entering from the parking garage, we were greeted with extremely sexy signs of the Rio's lush buffet and I oooed it, despite that we had just eaten. Lord Ristretto laughed and pointed at the Chippendales' sign right next to it and made a comment that I was, of course, oooing that.
I glanced it at and then brushed it off with my hand and said, "Whatever."
I can accept that I'm a little bit of a lesbian; having dated women and having had girlfriends, I think, definitely qualify me for this label.
But do I have a thing for sexy food? Maybe. But back to Chippendales.
I looked up the show on the Rio website and found an fascinating list of "EXPERT TIPS":
I wonder how this would sound if the sex was different: want to get on stage? Make sure the girls know it! Sounds a little rapey.
Get up close and personal with the girls in the Flirt Lounge after the show: that sounds like prostitution, orgy, possibly drug use and, again, sounds a little rapey. And the "Flirt Lounge" sounds like a condescending euphemism for bordello.
What makes this so different? The sexist idea that men can handle themselves with women? That men can't be raped? That women can't possibly be out of control, that they can't overstep personal boundaries and degrade men if given the opportunity?
That essentially, women are harmless to men, that if a man gets raped it's because he allows it to happen.
Fuck that shit. Take me to the buffet.
I've been extraordinarily open minded about sex ever since my first year in college, when I learned women could have orgasms. (I was a late bloomer in high school.) Nothing shocks me. All of it interests me. I can never get enough of it.
All of the pics in my blog are stolen/borrowed from other websites. I consider myself not really a thief, but a pirate. Arrrrrrr!!!
Would you like Lady Ristretto to write you a personalized, dirty Story?
Check out this
crazy, dirty bastard.
And I thought I was fucked up.