A lot of people thought it was kind of tacky for Barack Obama to honor Memorial Day on his Twitter feed by posting a picture of himself eating ice cream while surrounded by fawning reporters. Lena Dunham, however, has gone Obama one better. To honor Memorial Day, she posted a picture of herself in lingerie:
Me? I would have preferred a picture of Dunham eating ice cream, but that’s not where I want to take this discussion.
A friend and I were discussing whether the picture was attractive and we concluded that it’s not. We both agreed that part of why it’s not attractive is because we don’t like Dunham. Seeing endless acres of flesh on someone you think has a corrosive influence on your society is not an appealing sight. So we had to ask ourselves the next question: If we liked Dunham more, would we find her more pleasant to look upon as she flaunts her flesh?
My answer — no.
This answer doesn’t have anything to do with my being opposed to people who would be rejected by Cosmo Magazine or a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. There are big women who manage to look radiantly attractive in lingerie photographs. They look happy in their own skins and their attractive sensuality communicates itself to the viewer. Even if a comfortably filled-out woman isn’t your idea of objective “beauty,” a woman who feels sexy still manages to look sexy. Dunham doesn’t.
What Dunham does is look defiantly depressed. Her face says, “You better like me, you sons and daughters of bitches, or you’re clearly guilty of a hate crime against women and, worse, against big women.” Dunham may be about sex (God knows, she certainly never stops talking about it or taking pictures of it), but she’s not about sexy.
Nothing illustrated that more to me than a sad “just use me” quotation Dunham made about the endless nude scenes on her critically-acclaimed (although not audience acclaimed) show Girls:
While Ellie Kemper said she had yet to film a sex scene, Dunham told the other comedians she’s not shy when it comes to being naked on set.
“I stopped wearing the nude patch after the first season of Girls,” Dunham said. “There’s not one guy who works on that show who hasn’t seen the inside of my vagina. This patch – you glue it over your vagina. It gets sweaty and always falls off. My male co-stars, at the end of the day, don’t care.”
I’m sure Dunham is right that her male co-stars don’t care about her vagina. But I’m equally sure that they don’t look at Dunham and see anything more than a woman begging to be used sexually — and by that I mean more than just being used for sex. She’s reduced her essence — the part of her that deserves love and respect — to a vagina.
For an older generation of feminist, the one swept away by the tide of hard Left harridans, feminism meant believing that men and women should get equal pay for equal work, and that job standards should be tied to the needs of the job, not to pandering to one sex’s abilities or trying to shut out the other sex’s opportunities. For the Dunham generation, feminism means “love me, love my vagina — and really, there’s nothing more of me that’s worth loving.”
Dunham, in other words, isn’t a feminist, she’s a sexual nihilist. Worse — and this is where I get into politics, as the nihilistic voice of her generation, she’s joined by countless other women who have reduced the corrupt, ineffective, potentially dangerous Hillary to nothing more than a vagina and who, having reduced Hillary to this biological absurdity, insist that, on this basis alone, Hillary is worthy of becoming President of the United States.
My suggestion is that Hillary’s next campaign poster should look like this. (Sorry about the abysmal quality of the “poster.” I don’t have anything like Photoshop on my computer and this is the best I can do.):
It ought to win Hillary at least a few votes from the Dunham generation.