Smutware: A Sexually Transmitted Unease?

As the father of eight, grandfather of nineteen and soon-to-be great g-papa of the fourth begat of those earlier begatted, I'm sometimes cited as an authority on sex.

While I admit no displeasure in this judgment, I claim only a reasonable measure of expertise in its products and, if what is both shown and hinted in the world around me, relatively little skill in its execution.

We'll go no further in that direction, for reasons which will be obvious to anyone who has avoided both divorce and violent death, as have I, through more than a half-century of marriage.

However, as an op-ed writer, I'm more or less obliged to have a ready opinion when asked for one and even when - as in this case - not.

The question du jour (well, technically, du semaine, since this is a weekly rant) is whether we as a nation and/or species are excessively preoccupied with hanky-panky or simply doing what comes naturally - or, in some instances, unnaturally (cf. several reality shows, depicting behavior no more normal than truth-telling fishermen.)

If advertising is a valid criterion, the answer is somewhere between yes and hell-yes, hurtling toward the latter.

Recent cases in point include the plunge of Abercrombie & Fitch from a pinnacle of propriety to the nadir of nudity, with a holiday catalog featuring undraped models and an article - rather remote from the company's usual product line - on oral you-know-what.

After a wave of protest from customers and moralists, it was yanked from circulation by A&F, only to acquire, reportedly, a second life among voyeuristic activists on eBay.

In a similar attack of discretion, the Dodge folks shelved a proposed Lingerie Bowl, to have featured pigskin-cum-bareskin competition among vivacious Victora's Secret types. Just how that tied in with wheeling and dealing may never be known.

Elsewhere in the sporting ad world, there are those Miller Beerbabes who, after a serious debate about whether their favorite suds taste great or are less filling, disrobe each other and grapple in a public fountain. In the process, they do less violence to each other than to the lofty and gentlepersonly art of professional wrestling. (LOL)

PETA (People For The Ethical Treatment Of Animals) contributes a layout of renowned vegetarian and layout specialist Pamela Anderson, clad only in strategically placed cabbage leaves. In it, such readers as are not thinking underleaf are exhorted to give up fur garments and fleishig fare.

A measure of subtlety is attempted (but not achieved) by a TV commercial touting one of those male arousal meds which depict a guy unable to get his football through a tire (wink-wink-chuckle-chuckle) until his doctor decides what's right for him and a visibly gratified spouse. (The leading product in this gender-regenerative genre is, presumably, just as "inviagrating," but considerably less discreet.)

The boob tube, in fact, is lurching toward a double-entendre of its nickname, with more mammaries visible, especially on cable, than in most doctors' examining rooms. On the broadcast channels, notably on such video sewage as the Jerry Springer Show, electronic cabbage leaves dance over the private parts of participants, behind which the audience howls in unrestrained pleasure and with unobstructed view.

Soap operas, while displaying less epidermis, dish out a sumptuous menu of smut to satisfy the appetites of stay-at-home moms, shut-in seniors, pre-school kiddies and fugitives from computer chat rooms.

This must be said in defense of porn and near-porn purveyors in the media biz: They would be out of biz unless they were satisfying a public appetite for their wares. Surveys consistently reveal that audiences (read consumers) are drawn to sexually-oriented material.

This is a phenomenon no more recent than the dawn of animal life; within limits, it is not inherently a bad thing.

Admittedly, elimination of the divine urge would remove many human scourges, including overpopulation, pollution, disease, violent crime, jock itch, yeast infections, rush-hour traffic jams and future Jackos.

Concomitantly, it would, within a scant few decades, strip the planet of all but its vegetable and mineral matter - a partial, albeit costly, victory for Pamela and the PETA people.

So, sex is - as it always was - here to stay, whether we like it or not - and, happily, almost all of us do.

Sadly, though, among the casualties in the so-called sexual revolution have been good taste, discretion, restraint and accountability - not to mention the erstwhile innocence of children, as prurient pleasures approach the status of normal extracurricular activities at the junior high level, and pre-teens surf through the sewage of cyberland.

Oh, thus be it ever in this land of the libidinous free? Yes, alas, so long as prostitution of the Constitution continues under the guise of First Amendment rights and, more importantly, so long as it makes the cash register ring!