(and a few other semi-random notes from the
kinda surreal world of a Vegas Elvis)
The Lingerie Bowl and me...a match made in..um...somewhere. Well, maybe I'll be part of it and maybe not. Basically, the producers of the Lingerie Bowl, whatever exactly that is, filmed me with some of their models tonight. :D
Again, I say: :D
And, one more time -- smile with me, everyone: :D
I can't remember if I was with four or five of the young ladies -- understandably, perhaps, I was pushed into sensory overload even by Vegas standards (and there were TV staffers and probable bodyguards all around, as well) -- but they popped their shirts and jackets off (it was cold) and posed with me wearing bras, or items of similar construction, and...um...actually, I'm not sure what else they were wearing. Hey -- I am what I am, and what I was was unable to get my eyes below midriff level (and trying not to look too much at the bits between midriff level and collarbone level...not so easy to do, I'll tell you, ladies and gentlemen).
I liked them. :-)
One of the lingerie models gave me a pink garter that I wore around my jumpsuit sleeve the rest of the night.
I love my job. Most of the time.
The Lingerie Bowl is on Pay-Per-View on February 5, so I guess it's an alternative to the Super Bowl...I'm not planning to watch SuperBowl but I don't have access to pay-per-view where I am right now, and probably wouldn't want to blow the money required for Lingerie Bowl, anyway. It sounds a worthy alternative to the SuperBowl, though. Anyone (I mean, other than matcom....that's gotta be a given) going to watch the Lingerie Bowl? I don't know if I'll be on it, or in a teaser ad, but you never know.
Funny thing was that a trio of military dudes who were among the considerable crowd of onlookers and on-oglers were on me in a flash once the lingerie ladies left and were just blown away by the obvious sex-godliness that I exuded and the power of being in the presence of someone who could so patently 'get some' with a different chick each night (no sarcasm emoticon needed for those of you who know me and for those of you who don't...shoot, I'd just as soon you believe that of me, as those rather impressively built young men seemed to). No sooner had they voiced said admiration and each engaged in their variant of the secret handshake with me that spoke to the degree of our male bondage than a 21-year-old Texan goddess -- I knew she was 21 'cos she told me it was her 21st birthday today -- unbuttoned her long, maroon jacket (I admit that I was a tad nervous at the thought of what she might be about to reveal there, in public...I've known some Tejanas who might very well have realized my worst fear right then and there) and ditched it to reveal this clingy purple thing that was totally form-fitting and about as slinky as her body. I'm not trying to channel film noir stuff here...she really was
slinky, and she did the whole Marilyn Monroe hip-wiggle-walk 'cos she
knew it and I'm sure she
knew the effect it has on men -- my Army buddies were pretty much stunned into silence at this point). It was cold, too, and I don't think she was wearing a bra. Nudgenudge winkwink, saynomore...
definitely say no more... :D
Did I say I love my job just
most of the time? Shoot...more like almost
all of the time. :headbang:
I think those three Army dudes were expecting me to walk on water or make wine from water next, after that...they were touching the hem of my jumpsuit for all it was worth, for sure. Their heads actually exploded when, soon after, a group of eight or ten tiny Japanese girls all took turns posing with me in group shots and single shots. Blood and brains everywhere, man...what a mess.
I'm not an egomaniac, or one to wolf whistle with the boys (to their credit, my three new friends and disciples weren't overly demonstrative in expressing their appreciation of female form to said females, which is not always the case here even when the liquor is not an excuse -- they were, basically, gentlemen about it all), but it was admittedly at least a little cool to be considered a sex god of almost Tom Jonesian proportions by my gendermates. I tried to tell 'em that I was terrified of half of the women I meet in this get-up and that there is no
way I'd 'follow through' with any of them even if I was into the idea of one-night or one-weekend stands, but I don't think they believed me -- might have had something to do with the way I was dressed and all the rings and the big gold ankh pendant that decorated my partially-exposed chest. :D
I was in character more than they knew, though, because the real Elvis was more shy and introverted -- and anything but arrogant -- than the over-the-top fashion sense and onstage persona would suggest. That's me, all right. He swaggered, he didn't just walk, but he was not arrogant or cocky...more humble, reserved (not always, especially when horsing around with the boys and, of course, on stage), and remarkably down-to-earth and mindful of his poverty-stricken origins (remarkable considering where he got to, so quickly, and how he forged new frontiers not just in music but in fame and in commercial success). I've met some Elvises here, and heard of others, who were truly arrogant -- in my experience, thus far, it's mainly been amateurs who are 'wannabe' ersatz Elvises (who think they sound just like Elvis but sound like the worst caricature you could imagine, the patented Elvis-imitator sound that is so common and that is
nothing like Elvis' real voice) and who were truly arrogant SOBs. They got it all wrong: Elvis often
projected an air of arrogance or even insolence (the latter most obviously in the '50s) but he was
not actually arrogant...some of these mofos who think they imitate him (and, from what I've heard, at least a couple who do actually capture his voice and style successfully and get paid well for it) are just outright arrogant and thus completely at odds with the dude they purport to emulate. Some of them think they
are Elvis, but the arrogance that manifests through that bizarre self-delusion sure blows that notion away. I have met a lot of people who knew Elvis well or, at least, met him once or several times, and -- to a person -- they all concur that he was a thoroughly good, kind, genuine, humble, generous man who honestly cared about other people. Not a saint, not even close, but far closer to it than his posthumous smearings (the worst being Albert Goldslime's....being an Elvis fan in the '80s was a miserable existence, in general) would have people believe. 'Arrogant' is not a word that such people would ever use in connection to Elvis.
Anyway, the way women very often react to me when I'm channeling my Inner Elvis undeniably gives me a much-needed self-esteem boost, appreciated greatly by the tattered remnants of my male ego and undoubtedly a beneficial part of the healing process that's allowing me to again reach for a full life, and it's (usually) all in fun -- that's the main thing: it's fun. Everyone has a good time. It's a lot like the Lounge, on a good day. My bottom could well be bruised from the pinches, grabs, and pats it gets on an average night, and I love it. I sure don't feel exploited and I'm not exploiting anyone...I'm filling in for a sex symbol in one of the sexier towns in North America, so what do I expect? And am I gonna complain if some woman fondles parts of my anatomy? Sure, sometimes it goes too far and some of the more serious direct invitations I've received (not just "I want to
whatever you" but sometimes with explicit details on how and with how many onlookers or participants) freak me
all the way out, basically scaring the crap out of me, but that's not an everyday thing. Thank goodness. It's usually all pretend...flirting, albeit over-the-top and more hands-on, but still as real, at heart, as I am the real Elvis.
I didn't care that the Texas girl was 20 years younger than me because -- although I appreciated the aesthetics of her face and body, both as a man and as a person who appreciates beauty in many, many forms (and in the formless) -- nothing beyond our public clinch and played up touchy-feely stuff was ever going to happen. The ubiquitous male fantasy aside, I wouldn't even have wanted anything more if she was so disposed. Not at all. Not
even. But it
is fun. I like it. And I also love it with women who do not so closely fit current societal standards of what is physical perfection including those light years away from it, physically); shoot, I like posing with a lot of men, too (and often having long conversations with men or women, or couples, or hanging out with the little kids who sometimes seem drawn to me like I was a child magnet), and have had a ton of fun with a few over-the-top (stereotypically so) gay men (funny, actually, but I just realized that the only times provocative poses with men bother me, or even anger me, is when they're pulled on me by some f***wit of a straight man who thinks he's being funny).
Kinda got off on a tangent, because there's something about the lingerie models that really bothered me and that -- prurient "I was just the filling in a lingerie model sandwich: ask me anything" interest aside -- is what I really wanted to talk about in the first place. This thing's been preying on my consciousness more since I finished up for the night and dragged my much-abused and well-touristed bootie back to my place.
When I was posing with these young women I was kinda lacking in conversation not only because my hands and arms were filled with bits o' model and there was a camera jammed in my face, but because of the noisy distraction caused by people around us. One, in particular, and her confederates: she was maybe in her '50s and had large breasts -- I saw that much in my peripheral vision even with the Betacam's lights on me -- and she was heckling the models. She was a few feet off to the left of the two (or three?) models squished together on my left arm (good thing I've got long arms) and was yelling out stuff that I assume was directed solely or primarily to the model who was in my right hand...this blonde woman was the tallest of the models and had the largest chest, with very round breasts that I am sure were augmented and not shaped that way 'cos of some weird push-up effect from her bra (or whatever it was). She had a pretty face. And I was really getting peeved at this stupid heckler, who was yelling out stuff like "you got fake t*ts! Big fake t*tties!" and when I glanced over I saw her hefting her own boobage up and down and around in circles while yelling "These are real, baby...these are real ones, right here!" And more crap like that. Some of the people around her were cheering her on and whistling -- she may even have flashed, for all I know. I was just huddling with the models and wondering exactly how long we were supposed to smile and look into the camera like that (not that I was really upset about my situation, of course -- dude, I
am a man, even if I was almost castrated, metaphorically, not so long ago).
I felt bad for the model, who was smiling but hearing it all and seemed to kind of be wavering a little under this relentless outpouring of vitriole and supposedly funny put-downs of her pectoral assets. So I told her that she was beautiful (actually, I have the dreadful feeling now that I may have actually said "
they are beautiful") and she quietly thanked me in a tone that said she really did appreciate the kind word. I was mad. Sure, she may be a model and very attractive, with or without fake bits, but she's also a person. She may well let words like that roll right off her back and laugh all the way to the bank -- she may even be a superficial airhead (she didn't seem it and the two of them that I spoke to briefly afterward also seemed sharp, well-spoken, and very together) -- but the fact is that this twisted bitch (oooooo...that DU-forbidden word, but it fits her so well) in the background was making personal attacks on the state of someone else's body. No matter that this particular body may have fit within current American media society's vision of an ideal type. To my mind, at heart it's no different to someone criticizing a person who is decidedly
outside that shifting sense of what is 'ideal.' Like I said, I don't know how the model took it -- maybe this kind of thing happens all the time to her (jealousy plays a part, I'm sure, given said ideal body-image and the fact that few 'real' people naturally match it) and she just ignores it or shrugs it off -- but I didn't like it at all. If I were her male equivalent -- I guess I am to an extent, in a slightly different, non-Fabio way -- I think it would impact my consciousness and bring me down at least a little.
To tell the truth, it all reminded me too much of how people here in the Lounge so often throw out the "get her a sandwich" line, or similar, when a slender person is under discussion -- and it's interesting, to say the least, how many significantly overweight people tend to chime in with that very line, or similar, under such circumstances when perhaps they should know all too well the hurtful power of words when directed at something so personal and so superficial (and, often, uncontrollable in the short term, if not the long term, for one reason or another) as the shape of one's body. I'm not saying that we should pity the poor models with their 'perfect' bodies, surgically enhanced or otherwise, but attitudes like that of the breast-rotating harpy tonight really, really,
really stink. Sure, boycott or protest against such things as the Lingerie Bowl if you think it demeans women or fosters the objectification of women (this being a topic to which are so many shades of gray and about which people could argue endlessly, of course, and -- indeed -- do so right here on DU on a regular basis), but a personal attack is a personal attack no matter
what you look like...and if the person being attacked really doesn't care, that does not in any way diminish the transgression of the person delivering the attack. That silly, loudmouthed, big-breasted cow tonight earned herself some heavy karma, I hope.
Oh, yeah....almost forgot -- I was just the filling in a lingerie-model sandwich: ask me anything. :-)
P.S.: just looked up the lingeriebowl.com Web site and, yeah, it definitely is looking like the kind of thing that's mostly going to appeal to the proverbial
Maxim-subscribing American f***wit demographic. Frankly, it looks downright weird, and a little disturbing...I never caught the whole Rollerball craze, but that's kinda what it reminds me of. I can appreciate the subversive nature of the desecration of the sacred NFL bowl concept by having lingerie-clad models go at it, but I suspect the success of the franchise is primarily based on slightly more base urges. Still, I can't begrudge these models making a living as they can and, besides, the obnoxious woman tonight was
not making a cogent statement on gender politics...she was just being a blowhard a**hole and deriding someone's physique. To hell with her and anyone like her.
What the hell?...(and I thought Vegas was weird)
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