Pin Up Parts

Just a piece of a woman, just the edible parts. Just the part you can touch; half of what makes your blood pump. Clipped, posed, arched.

“Where is my mind? Where is my mind?”

That’s a beautiful pose: sex-ready supine, not prone. And a beautiful body, no doubt – ass, tits, knees and elbows pointing out.

I will use it as a photo reference for something I really want to draw.

I’m a reptile, a cannibal; rabidly consuming these pieces, building collections.

Using them to torture the part of myself held hostage; the part that knows better, that knows weight is not a measure of worth, physical attractiveness to men is not the deciding factor but the reptile dangles the women’s severed bodies in front of me and sings: “Don’tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?”

“Reduced,” the feminists say. Reduced to only the fuckable parts, I get it. But why is this so compelling?

Weak.

She’s so much more than meat, isn’t she?

Aren’t we?