Posts Tagged With: Bimbo

The higher the heels, the smaller the brain?

Barbie with the pink lipstick

Barbie with the pink lipstick

When are women going to stop dressing up like dolls? Don’t they want to be more than just playthings for men’s fantasies? I recently attended an end-of-year ceremony at my son’s school here in Porto Alegre. Two hundred youngsters aged 14 were parading on stage in front of their proud parents and teachers. The boys were dressed in white shirts, dark trousers and jackets. And the girls? They all looked like Barbie dolls. Glittering pink dresses, so short they had to keep pulling the hems down with their hands as they climbed up and down from the stage. Caked in make-up and blushing self-consciously, they looked as if they were training to be Japanese Geisha girls. It’s more than 40 years since the sexual revolution and more women (and girls) look like bimbos than ever before.

One of the 'Stepford Wives' (Nicole Kidman in the film of the same name)

One of the ‘Stepford Wives’ (Nicole Kidman in the film of the same name)

I wonder if it would have been the same in Rio or São Paulo. I suddenly thought to myself that perhaps I had come to the most conservative city in Brazil; a place locked in the 1950s where all the girls grow up to be ‘Stepford Wives’ – robotic servants for their bread-winning husbands. So what do mum and dad think about their daughter dressed up like a dog’s dinner? I can hear the answer already: “They’re still very young and so there’s a lot of peer pressure. They don’t want to look different as they might get teased or even bullied.” When I was at school all the people I admired were original. They had their own way of dressing, their own tastes in music and were proud to be unique. They were also vocally critical of convention. I couldn’t keep up with them, but it made me want to find my own way.

I’ve heard the arguments from educated women about dressing in sexy outfits. Intelligent women have told me that flaunting or sexualizing their bodies is empowering. In some way it gives them the edge over men who leer at them. But I don’t buy that argument. To me, women who glamourize their bodies by shaving, smoothing, painting and preening are perpetuating the image of women as some kind of sanitised ideal. Why is a “natural” woman – with hair, warts and all – too much for men to take? Because they are accustomed to having their women dolled up like Christmas fairies; to tiptoe alongside them like some pomaded appurtenance.

Waiting for her man: proud to be blonde and pink

Waiting for her man: proud to be blonde and pink

And that word feminism. Wow! What a downgrading that’s been given.  It’s associated now with frumpish hairy guerillas who shouted and argued just like angry men and were all probably lesbians anyway. And as for the men who supported feminism, well, we all know they were just doing it to get more women into the sack. But cynicism aside, the saddest thing about gender difference is that women have yet to find their sexual identity. Women’s ideas of sexual fulfilment are derived from men’s ideas about a woman’s sexual fulfilment. How could they not be in a world where women assume their role is to please their man and always look desirable? Sadly, men still have no idea about erogenous zones and sensuality when it comes to women’s bodies. But then again, I suspect, neither do most women.

Barbie surfing (somewhere in Brazil?)

Barbie surfing (somewhere in Brazil?)

I’m sure some of those girls I saw at my son’s school will grow up to be successful career women: doctors, lawyers and politicians who garner respect from their male and female colleagues. But I hope they have the wherewithal to cast off those gaudy bimbo outfits, climb down from their high-heels and plant their feet firmly on the ground (removing those silly ankle chains while they’re at it). Women are naturally beautiful; they just haven’t realised it yet.

Categories: Brazil, Musings | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

I was seduced by somebody’s mother!

Benjamin is seduced by Mrs Robinson in the film ‘The Graduate’

This is the true story of a single-mother, a bimbo and a mouse – so if you are easily offended please look away now. It all started when I was a shy, 12 year-old schoolboy. One of my schoolmates was a daring, dangerous character called Richard who had the nickname Mouse (he used to rub his eyes a lot). Mouse’s family were miles ahead of mine. They lived in a mansion and were solidly middle-class. The father spoke like a BBC news reader and the mother looked like Virginia Woolf. Needless to say, I was daunted out of my mind every time I went round to Mouse’s place.

A big house like Mouse’s house

The pair of us used to hang out in the garage (even that had two floors) where he kept his air guns and pigeons. But one day we sneaked into the big house and were creeping up the majestic staircase. Suddenly a door opened and there appeared a gorgeous young woman. “Richard!” she exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear, “aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, then?” “Oh, yes,” said Mouse, obviously embarrassed, “this is Martin.” When I dared to look into her eyes I must have been the colour of beetroot and could hardly speak. “Richard always keeps his friends hidden away, for some reason,” she said. I tried to laugh but Mouse had already signalled for me to follow him up the stairs. I had just met Sarah, Mouse’s 18 year-old sister. She had white-chocolate skin, short sassy red hair and was wearing a man’s white shirt with at least three buttons undone. I was smitten. Thank god Mouse didn’t reveal my nickname to her. Another boy at school had christened me Bimbo after a weedy kid on the cover of a Jim Reeves LP.

Jim Reeves and “Bimbo”

After leaving school, Mouse moved to Northumberland but we kept in touch and I saw him occasionally. By this time I was 17 and working in a factory. Sarah had her own flat in Bradford and sometimes Mouse came to stay with her for the weekend. After one such occasion the telephone rang in my mother’s house and a quiet, nervous-sounding voice on the other end said it was Sarah, and that Richard had left an important message that she had to deliver in person. I timidly agreed to go to her flat that evening but dreaded the thought of being alone with her. When I arrived Sarah was bright and breezy and swept me onto the sofa, handing me a tin of warm beer. She was giggling most of the time and the message turned out to be nothing at all – just that Mouse would ring me to tell me when he was coming to Bradford again.

A flying mouse

By now Sarah was 23 and had two young children asleep in one of the bedrooms. She was grown up, a real woman, a mother. And she spoke posh. I was a virgin who fitted tractor tyres for a living. It cost me a lorry-load of nervous energy just to look at her and make conversation. After beer, cups of tea, cigarettes and quite a few pregnant pauses it was time for me to escape. I stood on the doorstep to say goodbye when Sarah said casually, “you can stay if you like.” My natural reaction was to bow my head and stare at the floor, which I did for an eternity (probably about 15 seconds). Then I looked up and out squeaked my tiny response: “OK.”

So I shuffled back to the couch, only this time Sarah sat up close to me, giggling again. She admitted the message story was just a ruse to get me to her flat. We drank more tea, smoked another roll-up and then the kissing started, though I can’t remember who initiated it. Probably her. When we reached the bedroom I was so nervous that I started shaking like a basket case. Luckily it was cold in the bedroom so when I clambered into bed with the now naked Sarah I claimed it was the cold that was making the mattress shudder. I will spare you the details of the amorous sport which followed, but I will say one thing. There was a moment when I knew that I was the luckiest 17 year-old virgin in Bradford. That was when Sarah did something only an experienced, confident woman would do: she climbed on top of me and looked down into my eyes with that same wicked grin I had seen on the staircase all those years before.

The majestic staircase…

The following morning two strange things happened. When I woke up there was nobody next to me and I felt damp all over. Oh no, I thought, after all that tea, beer and nerves I have gone and wet the bed! How embarrassing. So I really am a Bimbo. Then two little boys appeared. They looked at me curiously. “Where’s Sarah?”, one of them asked. At that moment Sarah appeared with a cup of tea. Then the other boy touched the bed and said: “Yuk, it’s all wet – what happened?” Quick as a flash Sarah said “I spilt a drink”. She saved me.

When lovers part and the years roll by, does the passing of time erase all the love shared in those precious moments? I don’t think so. Sarah – this one’s for you.

Categories: Musings | Tags: , , , , , , | 2 Comments

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