Acceptance

It is a hard enough job teaching the next generation what is considered acceptable, when we still don’t know what to accept in and of ourselves.

 Sex and sexuality.

Just by  banging two words like that down, you can garner a headline or two. Start questioning gender, gender roles, take a look at something kinky or a fetish or delve into fantasy and before too long, you find you might have fired a few people up. In more ways than one.

Dominatrix and Submissives  and all that, so de riguor for a moment there, what with the Fifty Shades fixation. As tame as those portrayals were, they were at least a vessel for opening a few minds and mouths, starting conversations around cafe and dinner tables, in our main stream media, which might not have happened so readily otherwise. I succumb to the hype around that story. The fact I found it a dull, forced, passionless, prescribed read unable to drag me passed a handful of chapters, doesn’t preclude the fact it grabbed the worlds attention. Question is, did it need to?

 

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Tame and lame. Fifty Shades titillated the press and in a country like New Zealand, so open and forthright and honest and earnest on the one hand, a book like that took many things out of the bedroom and placed them firmly in the limelight. Apparently, as we were told, our eyes were being opened, our minds expanded.

One the other hand, while some New Zealanders flirted with the idea of wild, crazed, mad passionate love making, testing boundaries and opening now pathways to pleasure, others were handed a gilt-edged opportunity to huff and puff for a whole bunch of different reasons.

To many folk, topics like sex and sexuality are controversial. For all the enlightenment a country like ours displays, there is no getting passed the fact we have an aging population and with that, an inherently conservative one by modern standards. That isn’t to say the old and elderly are not as willing and capable as the next person of changing and adapting. I like to think attitudes to all manner of things ‘new’ or at least more widely and openly viewed,  are fluid. That as a supposedly better informed populace we are more open to sensible, intelligent, questioning and debate.

LGBT and what ever other labeling letters are thrown in the mixing bowl, the cake mix of life. We are handed those labels. Fed them. Perhaps some are derived directly from the communities they are intended to be descriptive of. More likely they are catchy little phrases and terms heard and leaped upon by a scribe here, a journalist there, a blogger or opinion piece writer, an internationally best selling author.

The questions and so called issues around sexuality and sex, around gender and all the rest, are deemed controversial because we are told they are. Articles and opinion pieces roll hot off the press as if they are scheduled. “Time to wind the populace up again”. A cynic might have you believe it was a deliberate attempt to divert and obfuscate. A conspiracy theorist might make you want to consider the concept of an agenda. Driven and motivated by who or what I have no idea.

The thing for me, the ‘every-man’, is I would never give these things any thought at all. Not a moment of contemplation, not a time to pause and reflect. The sexuality and the sexual practices of others has absolutley no bearing on my life, the lives of my family. Until it is force fed on a regular basis by mainstream media outlets. Paraded as such, like a winged, hairy legged fairy on Auckland’s man drag once a year.

We are told we need to accept. Told we need to be more open and tolerant, less judgmental. Quite apart from the fact it is human nature to judge the actions of others, why am I having it dictated to me what it is and isn’t I should have opinions on?

I could care less if you fancy a hook up with another woman, another man, two men, two women a whole bunch of them all carrying whips and chains and wearing masks made out of natural fibers (read leather) or slick shiny synthetics. If you like to tie people down, be tied, strangle them, tickle them, be tickled, humiliated, exposed, damn near tortured before you cast your mind back for that agreed upon safety word, then woohoo for you.

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If I am into any or all of that, or none if it, isn’t relevant to you and nor is it going to feature in any part of my life if you are. Writing it down in newspapers and flashing it across our television screens robs people, the young in particular, of the opportunity to learn, explore and develop their own thing or things, in their own time. We moan about the porn culture, then offer a softer version we are told should be socially acceptable. We tell people they are prudish and close-minded, then tell them what they should be thinking and feeling. By trying to open up everyone’s minds to the realities of what goes on, or not, behind closed doors, we are removing the mystique, the fantasy, the taboo. We are taking away the titillation and normalising all the things which apparently what set us apart. In our rush for mass acceptance, we are categorising everyone and the things they do, forming a great big lump of mild-mannered numbness.

Go mow the lawns. Wash the dishes, scrub that ring off the bathtub. Mundane tasks which allow the mind to wonder. If you end up mentally counting keys in a bowl or musing over how many colours gimp masks are available in, cool. If you are worried about the price of petrol or Myrtle Rust, that’s cool too.

I don’t care.

Neither should you. Because I told you so.

 

 

 

 

 

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