The jungle is abuzz after a screening of Holy Smoke at the safari camp. The movie has a scene in which naked Kate Winslet embraces nonplussed Harvey Keitel in the parched Australian scrub. He initially rebuffs her, but when she pees on the ground he is overwhelmed with lust and mates with her in a nearby hut. My simian brethren are chattering excitedly about whether this was the first recorded case of a man being aroused by the scent of a woman’s urine.
Unfortunately it wasn’t. After contacting Jane Campion, I learnt that the behaviour depicted was a common-or-garden wee-wee fetish from Dr Freud’s casebook, most probably rooted in a formative childhood experience. You know the sort of thing: boy spies on girl taking a leak at school picnic and files it away in kinky part of brain. Nothing to do with smelling sex hormones and not the biological advance for homo sapiens we were hoping for. How disappointing.
One might ask, nevertheless, why the sight of Ms Winslet in the nude wasn’t enough to make Mr Keitel rise to the occasion. She’s certainly got the body that any male gorilla would admire – broad, curvaceous hips; succulent thighs; breasts heavy with milk. It all adds up to one word, which ought to be the sexiest word you could apply to a woman: fertile. A voluptuous screen goddess like Kate shouldn’t have to powder her nose when she wants a man to oblige her. I bet Gwyneth Paltrow wouldn’t have been asked to piss her co-star into bed.
This brings us to one of the great mysteries of human sexual attraction: the puzzling preference of the human male for waif-like women. A lot of feminist types complain that ubiquitous images of pencil-thin models have created a false ideal of feminine beauty. Yet the plain fact is that most men prefer slim chicks. You can’t blame a fellow for what he finds attractive – the point is to get to the source of the pathology. As usual, these feminists are very good at carping about problems and much less good at devising practical solutions.
Man’s desire for thin totty, as Dr Freud would have explained, must originate from the time of his sexual awakening. Let us start by considering the question of the family au pair. She is an important figure for the pre-pubescent boy – the first unrelated female with whom he cohabits. Is it not true that many of these girls are slender young chits from Scandinavia? Why not hire a buxom filly from Bulgaria instead? Get her to bounce little Johnny on her luxurious lap and clasp his head to her bountiful bosom, so he grows up knowing what a real woman feels like. A boy who’s been cuddled by a queen bee won’t be interested in stick insects.
The message could be reinforced when the boy attains puberty and starts making love to fantasy females in the privacy of his bedroom. Why not encourage the lad’s appreciation of art by giving him a suitable print for his thirteenth birthday? Perhaps one of those masterpieces of fulsome female flesh by the great Titian, which he could put up on his wall and ogle while he’s wrestling with the bald-headed champ. If he’s leering at a luscious lady when he’s firing off his first one, he’ll probably be inclined that way for the rest of his life.
Of course, it’s not my place to lecture human mothers on how to bring up their sons. They’ve got a hard enough job dealing with the surliness and the scent-marking and the soiled bed-sheets. I humbly advance these apish suggestions on the off chance they might help a woman guide her boys around the potholes and foot snares that bedevil the path to manhood.
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