(C) Daily Kos
This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered.
. . . . . . . . . .
DON’T UNDRESS HER WITH YOUR EYES, UNDRESS HER WITH HER CONSENT [1]
['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.', 'Backgroundurl Avatar_Large', 'Nickname', 'Joined', 'Created_At', 'Story Count', 'N_Stories', 'Comment Count', 'N_Comments', 'Popular Tags']
Date: 2022-12-02
Annabella Sciorra at a "Sopranos" event. Every time I think of what she had to put up with at the hands of Harvey Weinstein, I get infuriated. He went into her bedroom and tried to rape her while she was wearing a nightdress that was a family heirloom. There are so many things about that incident that are so wrong, one hardly knows where to begin. But in this essay, I'm going to try. I am posting her here for a major reason:: to stand as a representative for every woman who has had to endure male misogyny.
Sometime while I was defending democracy in Japan as a US Navy broadcaster from the insidious menace of worldwide Communism, whose clutching claws and bloody hands were threatening our American way of life, the supreme rulers of the US Pacific Fleet ordered a Pacific-wide stand down to teach US Sailors proper behavior in dealing with members of the opposite sex.
The cause of this, if I remember correctly, was an openly gay Sailor on one of our ships being savagely beaten to death in a public men’s room just off-base, and the resulting court-martial for the two killers, who were among his shipmates on a large amphibious assault vessel based there. The poor victim’s head was pounded ruthlessly against a urinal porcelain. The next day, Japanese municipal authorities complained to our base CO about this behavior, and Japanese park authorities cleaned the men’s room perfectly.
The two killers were found pretty easily…they headed back to their ship, badly drunk and covered in blood, able to explain inebriation but unable to address the cause of the bloodstains.
The case drew reporters from across the United States to cover the court-martial. They were all critical of Navy justice, not having much experience at covering the military, a common failing with reporters assigned then and now to cover the Armed Forces, in peace or war.
They understand the budgeting, procurement, and spending processes, and environmental and social/racial issues, but don’t know the difference between a Ticonderoga-class cruiser and a Spruance-class destroyer. And if they’re Katie Couric, they think “Navy SEALS rock!”
Anyway, the brutal sadists were found guilty and sentenced to spend much of the rest of their lives turning big rocks into little ones at the US Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, which is next to the “Big Top,” Leavenworth Prison, where the Birdman of Alcatraz really did have his canaries.
Meanwhile, back in my base in Sasebo, the reporters and the admirals departed, and we were ordered to do the stand-down. We reported to the base movie theater in sections. I went with my pals from my TV-radio station, and we all sat together.
Further up front were the entire Marine Detachment, a few good men who spent their days guarding the ammunition dumps from potential terrorists and Japanese kids who ran their kites too close to the barbed wire. I wondered what they thought about signing up to kill enemies of all types, only to spend their days guarding shells and watching kites. In their spare time, the Leathernecks threw huge parties at their barracks’ patio with their Japanese girlfriends, blaring country and rap music, and barbecuing ribs.
Now we sat around the auditorium, while two civilian trainers went through the dangers and negatives of sexual harassment of any sort, and showed the usual scenario films to, at the very least, get our attention.
The first scenario showed a white, male, Chief Petty Officer in khakis, taking a report from a black, female, junior Sailor in dungaree blues. After a few moments, even this Aspergian could tell that the Chief had ceased to take interest in his junior’s report and was starting to undress her with his eyes.
Being a heterosexual, red-blooded, and single man at the time, at the same rank as the female junior Sailor, I also found her quite attractive, greatly impressed with her slightly curly hair, shining eyes, and “structurally sound” construction, as my father would say in 1949. However, I had to concentrate on the topic, not on her.
In the film, the female Sailor became steamed at becoming an object of cheap desire from a superior. After the film ended, the trainer asked us, “Is that sexual harassment?”
Yes, it was. Everyone agreed.
“Any other comments?” the trainer asked.
I raised my hand. The trainer pointed at me.
“Yeah. He’s an equal opportunity offender,” I said. It dawned on all present that the Chief was white and the Sailor was black. Interracial marriages are actually very common in the Armed Forces. It happens partially because of the society’s meritocratic nature, partially because people of various ethnic groups are thrown together in difficult (if not dangerous) situations for long lengths of time, partially because young men and women serving on ships or in the field get rapidly overheated by their hormones, and partially because they work in the same field and share the same political, social, and religious values.
After I was thanked, they rolled the second scenario. There were no racial issues in this one. A female officer came on to a male civilian subordinate, trying to convince the guy to go away with her (and only her) for a weekend, on the cover that it was supposed to be mutual attendance at a conference. In reality, between seminars, the aggressive officer made it clear that she wanted to go to bed with the guy. The female officer was smoking hot (of course), while the guy looked fairly routine.
He fought back angrily, pointing out that he was happily married, and wanted nothing to do with such suggestions, which she rapidly turned into threats against his evaluation.
The scenario ended, and the trainer said, “Was that sexual harassment?”
The Marines all yelled back, “NO, SIR!”
The Marines’ Gunnery Sergeant, an enormous, craggy, black man with an immense amount of ribbons clearly earned in combat, rose from the front row. He turned around and faced his 19- and 20-year-old Leathernecks, his face a fist.
“Was that sexual harassment?” he snarled, loud enough to be heard in Montana.
Dead silence of a long second. Then the Marines mumbled, spoke, or shouted, “Yes, Gunny,” in various ways. The Gunnery Sergeant sat back down. The Marines shut the heck up.
The training resumed, but that was all for my memory for that event. We were given the usual handouts, and my pals and I sauntered back to the TV-radio station to get back to the serious work of preparing that evening’s newscast, which, as usual, had nothing to report. Unless you liked closing footage of the base under sunny skies.
To this day, however, I remain struck by that little piece of film of the brown-haired white Chief staring at the black Sailor with the curly hair. I can still see his face, losing interest in the military subject, gaining interest in the ripe snub of her breasts against the dungarees (which are unflattering to anyone seeking sexual attention), and the increasingly irritated look on the young lady’s face. It was one I have seen many times, not aimed at me.
Granted the whole scene was scripted and acted, I also knew that this scene has happened to millions of women all through history, since Publius looked across the Forum at Hippolyta and started dreaming about what she’d look like without her toga.
Being human, I confess I’ve done that myself on more occasions than I can remember or care to admit. In the super-hot summers of New York, while I’m walking somewhere, I invariably see some extremely attractive woman who is “structurally sound,” be immediately drawn to her, wonder what’s under that highly-revealing outfit, and can I play with it.
That’s the problem, of course, that humanity has battled with for centuries. It has led to unbelievable personal pain across time: rapes, unwanted pregnancies resulting from said rapes, sexual harassment on towering scales, misogynistic behavior, domestic violence, serial killings, the appalling glorification of sexual violence, prostitution, child sexual trafficking…the list goes on and on.
One issue that stood out for me personally was the appalling treatment that befell two of my favorite actresses, Mira Sorvino and Annabella Sciorra. I have had crushes on them for years. They both have immense talent, great intelligence, extensive range, and can dominate a stage or screen. I also have major crushes on both.
Both of them were among the many victims of Harvey Weinstein’s extensive sexual harassment games, being demanded to perform services on him, in order to gain major roles in his films. Mira Sorvino, being an observant and married Roman Catholic, utterly refused. Weinstein tried to force himself upon Annabella Sciorra. In doing so, he damaged her nightdress, which was a family heirloom. She also refused his advances.
Denied sex, Weinstein turned to Hollywood’s media to exact his revenge on them and other female actresses by reaching out “on background” to top reporters, telling them that he and other producers were reluctant to use them in their big-budget projects, because they were “difficult to work with.”
He implied and the reporters inferred that “being difficult to work with,” meant that the actresses were demanding fresh-cut daffodils in their trailers and vegan cookies or they would not shoot their scenes in “Clifford the Big Red Dog Defeats Godzilla.” This had a whiplash impact impact on Annabella, Mira, and the others, in that other Hollywood producers were reluctant to hire them, cutting into their acting opportunities and chances to earn deserved Oscars and Emmys for other work.
Weinstein’s behavior was also libelous…media outlets were happily printing stories, based on the unnamed but authoritative source of one of Hollywood’s top movie producers, that top Hollywood actresses were really spoiled brats, eight-year-olds having tantrums on the set and other places. The stories were lies, but Weinstein was enjoying the spectacle, the publishers enjoying the profits from sales, and the reporters the plaudits from their bosses for getting such “shocking” copy into print.
As for me, I was just upset over the destruction of Annabella Sciorra’s heirloom nightdress. First, I had a historical interest in the nightdress. How old was it? Who wore it before Annabella? What was it made of? What did it look like? How was it cleaned and preserved, if it dated back more than a century or two? How did it come into her hands? How did it become an heirloom?
Weinstein is now facing trials and legal action over his appalling misdeeds, both civil and criminal, his empire has dissolved, and even his movie empire has been forced to change its name to protect the guilty.
Fat lot of good that does his victims: Mira Sorvino and Annabella Sciorra lost a lot of roles and respect for fighting his evil.
Which brings me to the second part of my discourse: my desire to see Annabella Sciorra in her nightdress. She’s 59. I’m 60. We’re both reasonably intelligent people. She’s an actress, writer, and director. I’m a writer. She never got married. If I was not married, and we met as semi-equals at an event or occasion, after the usual pleasantries, and me complimenting her on her career, talent, her approach to playing the crazy “Gloria Trillo” in “The Sopranos,” and overcoming her struggles, I would not ask her to join me for a drink.
I would ask her out to dinner.
There is a huge difference in asking the woman/man you are fascinated with out for a drink and out for dinner. Being a guy, I’m going to take it from a man’s point of view. Also because I think, from my limited intelligence, that men are the primary pursuers in our idiotic society.
A drink means that you want to make her lose control of her rationality (over a few drinks), and therefore lose her ability to oppose your suggestions, and either go to your apartment or take you back to her apartment for drunken adult recreation, with neither of you having a good time in the short or long run.
Dinner means that you want to sit down with the lady across a table at a restaurant and get to know each other over the salad course and a good grade of chicken parmigiana and a couple of glasses of seltzer. It means you seriously want to know the portions of her life she’s ready to tell…so shut up, listen, and show some empathy.
Listen to her irritations about and achievements at her job. Listen with respect at the struggles she has had to overcome. Listen with interest about her activities and hobbies…you may share them, which is a common bond.
It also means the flip side: when she asks you about your life, you don’t sit there bragging about how you batted .314 for the Yankees, won both the Indy 500 and the Nobel Prize for Biology for the cure for cancer, and earned the Medal of Honor for killing six Japanese soldiers with your own hands on Iwo Jima.
It means you tell her in a low-key way about your work and hobbies, and if you have any community activities. Make yourself a multi-dimensional person who doesn’t wear a superhero’s cape.
Remember, she has as many faults as you do, maybe more. Everyone’s looking for a perfect lover in this world. There aren’t any. Find one whose weaknesses you can put up with.
Don’t ask the lady “Where are you from?” That suggests she’s “not really an American.” I like “Where are your ancestors buried?” I saw that in “The Last Emperor.” Unless we’re Native Americans, we all have immigrant ancestors. Then you find out that she owes the Polish last name to her Polish-American father and the Korean looks to the woman he married when he was working in Seoul.
“Where are you from?” should apply to her hometown.
Don’t ask about her prior boyfriends, husbands, and lovers. She’ll tell you if and when they’re relevant. Hopefully, none of them are stalking her.
By the same token, don’t talk about your prior girlfriends, and do NOT trash them in anyway. Don’t even bring them up. Hopefully, none of them are stalking you.
Don’t talk about “geeky” subjects unless you are “geeks.” If you met at Comic.Con, then you can talk about “Star Trek” and impress her with your knowledge of Klingonese. Same thing with baseball trivia. Not many people know or care that Ted Lyons, Ferguson Jenkins, and Gaylord Perry all won 300 games but never pitched in a World Series…except very serious baseball fans. If she is one, I just gave you an interesting talking point. If she isn’t, then shut the hell up.
I read recently that the “first-date dinner” is becoming obsolete with young folks, who are giving up the fancy restaurant in favor of a decent-sized walk, often through a food fest, where they can eat decent food for decent prices. Sounds like a cheaper version of the same idea, with the advantages of not having to tip the waiter, reserve a table, being able to enjoy the scenery, and park yourselves on a handy bench.
Show good manners. Try not to belch or sneeze in her face. Hold the door, pull out her chair, all that stuff they should have taught you as a kid, but probably didn’t. Emily Post is on the Internet.
Most importantly: SHUT OFF THE DAMN iPHONE. Don’t go staring at it every few minutes or taking calls from buddies or sharing memes of cats that look like Hitler over the main course or after. She’s the subject.
Above all, don’t expect to “score” on the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, or even eighth date. It’ll happen when neither of you feel weird at the idea of going to bed with each other, but instead, feel ready for it.
A side note: virginity. Stay one until you feel weirded out by it. It’s nobody’s business whether or not you’re “scoring.” Just make sure that when you finally decide to do it, you have a full understanding of what it’s about, so it goes well for both of you. More on that further down.
Another point, if the lady says she’s a single mother through divorce or a disastrous boyfriend, don’t run. There are many single mothers in the world who have a lot to offer, and deserve good men. So ask them out. Just don’t say, “Okay, let’s ditch the kid next Saturday,” because then she knows the truth: you’re not into her, just her panties.
Change the direction. Say, “In that case, next Saturday, I’ll take out Junior to the Museum of Mathematics and you come along.” No kidding, there really is one in Manhattan. It’s great. It has bicycles with square wheels and kids can decipher secret messages on US Army World War II surplus coding machines. Perfect for kids, under the radar, and beats the repetitious trips to the zoo.
After that, try the New York Transit Museum, again on a Saturday morning, for their children’s activities. Kids can make DVDs about the museum, create jewelry, and draw little murals of New York.
That’s just in New York City alone. Every city has good stuff for kids.
Don’t forget…if the kids have their own activities that require adult support, you can join them at that, as well. Single mothers often look at their new boyfriends as potential new – and good – stepfathers. It’s not hard to do, in spite of the news stories about drunken or sober stepfathers abusing their stepchildren.
Anyway, a single mom should not be a reason to run away.
Another thing, quit trying to pursue Miss April or some fashion supermodel who can hide behind a pencil. In Playboy magazine, she is invariably quoted as saying that she wants to marry an ordinary guy and enjoy life. In reality, she will marry a professional athlete or rock star…and enjoy his money, while hosting a women’s talk show or entertainment show.
Furthermore, she owes her good looks to her orthodontist, breast implants, her make-up team, her hair stylist, and a physical trainer named Ramu who got her in perfect shape for the photo shoot, which carefully airbrushed her acne and freckles. The insincere smile came from the photographer, the quote from a hack writer, and in the photos, she usually poses in warm water, because warm water makes breasts look sexier.
Also, she has gained her perfect figure through the magic of anorexia and possibly substance abuse. A decade or so after she’s no longer flouncing down runways or playing volleyball on the Playboy Mansion lawn, she’ll confess on her afternoon talk show to her anorexia and addictions, ghost-write a book about how she overcame them – with help from her new amazing husband, kids, and Jesus – and tell young women to be “proud of their bodies.” This is even though she still relies on the personal trainer. And the book’s photos will all be shots of her, the new husband, and kids, joining famous people to smile on runways at movie openings.
The only time you will meet her, if ever; will be at some event. She will be surrounded by security guards, to ensure that all you can do is wave and yell, “Miss April! Over here!” She will insincerely smile and wave back, and return to that NHL forward she’s marrying next month.
Meanwhile, there are armies – and I mean armies – of women your age or close to in your city who lack the personal trainer, orthodontist, breast implants, hair stylist, and hack writer…but make up for that in having talent, abilities, and entertaining personalities.
They have something between their ears besides eye shadow and mascara. They can hold forth on more important subjects than how they got into modeling and want to use their role as a Playmate to bring world peace and adopt a kid from Zimbabwe as a fashion accessory. They might not be dating a New York Yankee, but they’d love to go a Yankee game with you, even if they’re cheap seats. Remember what I said about meeting a girl at Comic.con…she probably speaks Klingonese, too.
Set your standards more practically. Finding a lover is not about finding a willing blonde who wants to be swanked around in your Corvette so you can impress your buddies. Oh…and not only do you probably do NOT have a Corvette, if the outer limit of the girl’s goals in life is to be swanked around by a guy in one to impress her pals, then her life goals are pretty low.
Some of the world’s best actresses and funniest comedians around would not win a beauty pageant. Kathy Bates, Janeane Garofalo, and Aida Tuturro (who went to middle school with me, but I doubt she remembers) are outstanding at what they do, but none of the three have ever been asked to take it off for Playboy. However, I’d rather spend time with them than the last three Playmates of the month.
The same is even truer for women in science, engineering, law, and other professions. Great brains get them into those careers. Beneath the white coats, hard hats, and power suits, they’re smart, knowledgeable people.
Even if you’re not a scientist, engineer, or lawyer yourself, you may have common interests with women in those fields. Maybe that woman you met who is a research chemist by day likes to go to comedy clubs by night. The engineer probably loves John Coltrane. The lawyer loves baseball, especially umpires, because she knows about arguing in court. The ad agency executive is probably a “Trekker” after hours.
Above all, treat the women you meet and start dating decently. Be on time. Pay the checks. Hold the doors. Let them pick the food and music. Don’t tell them what to do. Don’t make them feel uncomfortable. Don’t be pushy. And do not make yourself appear dangerous, demanding, or frightening. If they want space, give them space. If they say, “Can’t do it, not now, Maybe later,” agree. If they say, “You’re a nice guy, but you’re not what I want,” agree, and LET THEM GO.
Eventually, one of two things will happen. Either she will want to do it with you or she will not. If she does not, there won’t be much of a romance, but you can still be friends.
If she does want to engage in “adult recreation,” you and her will let each other know through a variety of verbal and physical signals that it’s time to head back to one of your places for the night.
Make it NOT a one-night stand. Stop off to get changes of clothing and toiletries before heading to the home. You WILL spend the night.
Your other stop – if you haven’t addressed that issue already – will be to pick up birth control. Then use it.
And you’re going to make the big event as romantic as possible. Draw the curtains, turn out the lights, illuminate the candles, and find the romantic ways you both like to take off the clothes. Maybe she wants to go into the bathroom and emerge in the heirloom nightdress. Maybe she wants you to take off her clothes and reveal the black garter belt and stockings. Maybe she wears none of the above, and just takes off her clothes.
Then be gentle. It’s the first time for both of you. Make sure she wants a second, third, fourth, and fifth.
Very important: when you’re done, men like to fall asleep. Don’t. She may want to talk and reveal intimate secrets about her life, just tell you she loves you, or seek more stimulation. Do it. One of the many things about female anatomy is that they can have more orgasms. I think that is why men really invented misogyny: when men are done, they can’t do it again for increasingly longer periods of time as they age. Women can do it all night. So care. Help her do it all night. After a while, she’ll fall asleep, too.
Next morning, have breakfast together, take advantage of the change of clothes, and do something together. It will build “couplehood.”
Another thing: do not go out and brag to your pals about what happened that night. My father’s 1949 “Law of Social Inflation” still holds: everything that happens on a date is multiplied one level every time it is re-told to the fascinated male audience. The actual date: pizza and a movie, walked her home, peck on the beak. 10th re-telling: flew in her daddy’s corporate jet to The Bahamas, stayed three nights in the Presidential Suite, dined on caviar and vodka, gambled in the casino, did it in the hammock thoughtfully provided by management. Yeah, right.
Spouting that drivel objectifies your lady, turns it into conquest, while removing love. And don’t be so impressed by your pals telling you their incredible stories of sexual conquest. They are all talking hefty to impress each other. “The Law of Social Inflation” applies to them as well.
As days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months in this relationship, and you are spending increasing amounts of time together, you will reach those turning points. Meeting the parents. Sharing the apartment. Sharing the finances. Getting a pet. Marriage and kids.
All in an environment of love, friendship, and mutual respect. That’s what life should be about. Finding happiness amid the struggle and sadness.
It’s better that way. For both.
Another thing? Hiring a hooker is NOT “making love.” Heck, it’s not even “having sex.” It’s a commercial transaction. You are hiring her to release physical tension. She is taking money from you to provide that service. The sooner she is rid of you, the sooner she can move on to the next client, the one after that, and pay her pimp at the end of the night. She hates you, hates her job, hates being addicted to liquor and drugs, really hates her pimp, has zero self-esteem, has kids by one of her clients, suffers from assorted unpleasant diseases (without any health insurance plan), and sees no way out of her misery.
I know this because in my newspaper days, we brought in two street sex workers from Jersey City’s Tonnele Avenue to our newsroom to talk about the impact AIDS was having on their lives. One of our very best and most empathetic reporters did the interview, while I took notes for our editorials and added a few questions about the harsh realities of their lives. Their answers left me upset and sickened. Upset by their semi-slavery. Sickened by their working conditions and exposure to violent and dangerous men. I remember that one of them particularly loathed having sex with men. The only time she enjoyed sex was having it with her lesbian lover, with whom she shared an apartment.
When I was in basic training, a young man in my company bragged to everyone about the services he’d received from some hooker. He crowned his story by saying, “I paid $500 for that!” as if it was an accomplishment.
I shook my head and said, “For $500, you should have got that. You could have got the same services from a girl on Jersey City’s Tonnele Avenue for $30, and for $100 more, got the whole hour in a motel on that highway, to make it more comfortable than the back seat of your Chevy.”
He shut his mouth.
Sometime after that Sasebo murder and training, two Marines in Okinawa were unable to convince a Japanese girl or girls to leave the bar with them. Rather than take “no” for an answer, they rented a car, drove around, and yanked a passing teenage Japanese girl into the vehicle, and took turns raping her.
Then they killed her. They left the body by the side of the road.
The case was not too hard to solve. I do not know what happened to these examples of “The Few Good Men.”
The Marine chain of command on Okinawa was furious. The residents of Okinawa were enraged. The Japanese government in Tokyo was hopping mad.
The Commander-in-Chief of the entire Pacific Fleet, whose abbreviation for the title was CINCPAC, wore four stars, and a name badge that read “Macke,” faced the press and told the reporters verbally that for the price they had paid to rent the car, the two Marines could have hired a prostitute.
That didn’t go down too well in Okinawa, Japan, or the United States. Macke was told to take an early retirement. As in “immediately.” He issued an apology in writing, and then fled for some lucrative stateside job promised by the military-industrial complex, who doubtless hire “escort services” to entertain high-priced clientele and not “Loose Lips Gladys” from Tonnele Avenue.
I asked my Senior Chief – Erik Erickson, one of the great leaders I have ever met – how a four-star admiral could come to know the price of a prostitute in Okinawa. I could not imagine four-star admirals being acquainted with that concept. When they flew or sailed to some port, they just connected with a contractor – the one that supplied fuel or food to the fleet – to provide a girl from their escort service for that evening’s romp, as recent scandals tell us.
Senior Chief shrugged, and said, “He probably asked a junior ensign on his staff, who asked a chief on the same staff, who provided the answer. From his own personal experience.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
But I can argue with the idea of treating women you want to get involved with like objects. So here’s my epiphany.
Don’t undress the lady with your eyes. Undress her with her consent.
That’s after the nights out, the meetings and mergings of minds, and the sharings of emotions.
When you’re back at her place, the attraction is real, the romance is there, and the music is right, and maybe the room is lit by candles to enhance the mood, there’s a good chance that she’ll smile impishly or seductively, turn around, move her hair away from the zipper at the top of the dress, and say, “I thought you’d never ask. Go ahead,” or words to that effect.
[END]
---
[1] Url:
https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2022/12/2/2133928/-DON-T-UNDRESS-HER-WITH-YOUR-EYES-UNDRESS-HER-WITH-HER-CONSENT
Published and (C) by Daily Kos
Content appears here under this condition or license: Site content may be used for any purpose without permission unless otherwise specified.
via Magical.Fish Gopher News Feeds:
gopher://magical.fish/1/feeds/news/dailykos/
