Entry #4 - The Distortion of Sexuality via Commodification - 1.24.07

Today the range is buzzing for mail call. Every mail call is the event of the day. I’ve even subscribed to 15 publications just to make it more likely that I will receive something as often as possible. What makes today so exciting, however, is that several inmates received this month’s new issue of “Smooth,” a black men’s magazine that showcases hourglass/apple bottom type women. Being half-white and half Mexican, I find myself as excited as the next man—especially by the Latina women. Yet, I find myself concerned at the same time, not by the shape of these women, but rather the depiction of females as a whole.

Living in an artificially single-sexed world can be a perverting experience. While pornography became contraband a few years ago, it is still readily available, as is just about anything else you could want. However, even mainstream magazines like Maxim and GQ contribute to my developing concern.

Our only views of women in here are through television and magazines. These media tend to commodify sexuality and when they are exclusive creators of sexual perception, create an unreachable standard. Air-brushing, plastic surgery, and excessive dieting become the norm. Also, youth is worshipped in these images and they are creating unreachable expectations in me.

I feel as though I’m living an extreme version of the Marathon song, “Photosynthesis.” More than anything, I fear that this will make it very difficult to accept any future mates as they are. I wish I could simply exorcize it all, but it is my only sexual outlet.

The funny thing is that I’ve heard these sentiments expressed by other inmates with no interest in gender equality or social issues. Even without this barrier, having a relationship post-incarceration is hard enough. Perhaps such anxiety is inevitable.

I am single, and my mother lives quite a distance away, thus I’ve only received a handful of visits, yet the transition is already becoming evident. I have surpassed the early stages where I find myself turned on by anything lacking a y-chromosome. I now find that, while in the visiting room, I focus most of my attention to the drug dealers’ girlfriends with excessive make-up and breast augmentation. The overall damage probably won’t be evident ‘til I hit the streets and attempt dating normal women.

For now, I’ve little choice but to return to the world of FiFi’s (pocket pussies made of rubber gloves, vaseline, hot water, and feathers – they usually sell for 2 tunas), and to shower in stalls with photocopied porno plastered to the walls, and attempt to maintain perspective via the abstract.