So, I'm about a million miles behind the bleeding-edge of popular culture; I'm at the suppurating flank, if you will. Anyway, please forgive my tardiness on this topic, but I have to get it off my chest. The oh-so-catchy tune from the pop moppet Katy Perry, “I Kissed a Girl”, it’s doing my head in.
The plot of the song is she got a bit drunk and went for a bit of sexual tourism by snogging a pretty lassie and - shock, horror - liked it. She’s not a lezzie though, hell to the no: her main concern is that her boyfriend doesn’t mind. Where to start? Objectification is still objectification when women do it to each other; girl-on-girl is not for the gratification of the lads (though, yes, I know girls do snog each other to get lads’ attention)... I wonder what the other woman (sorry, girl) thought of being kissed as a bit of experimentation - it’s silly fiction, but the narrative has obviously rubbed a raw spot in my imagination and now it’s itchy and sore and I keep thinking about it, mentally scratching before it has a chance to heal over.
Oh god, it makes me want to come over all radical dyke - shave my head, get some tatts, bulk up and run out of my soccer mom life just to support the sisters. That can’t be a healthy reaction to a pop song I can’t help humming along to. And, really, what am I going to teach my son? What am I going to tell him? The whole “if someone gives you a present you don’t complain about the wrapping paper” line is all well and good, but there would be a certain amount of dishonesty if I didn’t put some context in there, wouldn’t there? And I’m actually not very fond of men - TA is something of a huge exception - I never really thought I’d get here. So having a son - who I adore to the point of unreason - makes me scared...I fear that I will raise a misogynist tyrant, a mummy’s boy, a womaniser. And I very happy with the stability and love and support, I fear there’s something bubbling under the skin though. Not sure what it could be - perhaps regret that I wasn’t more edgy when I was going through the years where edgy was acceptable or at least there was a space for it. Now, I feel that my life choices have defined me in such a way that rebellion is no longer an option. But this glosses over the fact that edginess made me unhappy and insecure.
All this questioning angst from a slice of plastic pop? Oh dear, perhaps it’s time to go back to therapy.