Whenever the subject of America’s morals comes up — and it comes up often these days — I recall a promotional stunt pulled off by Playboy magazine, which pretends that it isn’t pornographic, as if anybody believes that. At any rate, the magazine’s major domo, Hugh Hefner, king of the pornographers, once staged a promotion in which several gorgeous co-eds were engaged to display their undraped bodies in the magazine.
Now, one would have expected back then about 20 years ago that church organizations and other groups watching the nation’s moral behavior would have exploded immediately and called Hefner a purveyor of filth, which he always has been. Instead, if you will recall, it was the feminists and their organizations, of all people, who shouted “Foul!”
This may surprise you, but I said at the time, and I still feel this way, “A pox on both their houses.” I was referring, of course, to the Hefner perverts on one side and the feminists on the other. I don’t like Playboy’s sleazy approach to morals and nudity, but I think even less of the starchy, sexploitation line of the feminists.
I’m afraid that both camps are going to give sex and the feminine figure a bad name. Adam and Eve didn’t know a good thing when they had it, so they donned fig leaves and invented pornography, so to speak. Then the moralists forced the great Michelangelo to cover up vital parts in his masterpieces.
The glorious feminine body, ennobled by the world’s legitimate, earnest artists through the ages, has actually been rendered pornographic by the puritans, who insist on hiding it with leaves, loin cloths, and stuff like that. I suppose one might say that “intent” is the key word in this discussion.
Mention sex or the glory of the undraped human figure in life or in art, and somebody is bound to break out in a giggle or start shaking his or her head as if saying “No, No.” Why do we get giddy or look affronted when the subject of sex or naked figures comes up?
Playboy has always been giddy, and it handles sex and nudity like a giggling teen-ager, for all its pretensions of sophistication. But the feminists, on the other hand, would have us believe that sex and nudity are dirty or sexist and that we are offending all women in the world by talking about their bodies or what should be the most beautiful occasion in the world, sex between two people who love each other.
Now that I think about it, I have to say that I’m deeply grateful that feminists, Hefner’s Playboy, or the do-gooders in our midst don’t run America’s museums or art galleries — or, in fact, the nation’s publishing houses. Imagine what a great setback the visual arts would sustain if they did.
As for all those beautiful co-eds who made the mistake of posing for Hefner and his perverted staffers, I wish they had decided to pose for something more significant than Playboy. However, I have to admit that even a foul display in Playboy would be somewhat better than accepting the professional feminists’ view that men and women are the same.
As the French would say on the subject about men and women, “Vive le difference!”