An academic from Texas, by the name of Dr Mia Moody, is claiming that female rappers often write lyrics boasting about their sexual prowess. Before giving credence to this shocking allegation, it would be prudent to review the evidence thoroughly. Such a precaution would be particularly apt in this case, as “Dr Mia Moody” sounds suspiciously like the pseudonym of a mischievous hoaxer. However, given that I can’t be bothered to carry out the necessary investigations, I will assume, for the sake of argument, that there are sufficient particles of truth in Dr Moody’s findings to make them worthy of comment.
What can one say about women who tell people they are fantastic in bed? As well as being extremely unladylike, I would consider their bragging to be devoid of substance. Men are simply too varied in their coital preferences to give such boasts any clear meaning: some of them want a dominatrix who will tie them to the bed-posts before straddling them; others desire a dainty wood nymph who will whimper submissively during copulation. Admittedly, a high-class harlot might be versatile enough to satisfy the diverse and peculiar whims of her clientele, but this is clearly not what the conceited rappess has in mind when she tells her listeners she’s the hottest snake-handler on the planet.
My ape intuition tells me that what these lyrics mean is that the performer has an insatiable sexual appetite, capable of draining the virile energy of the baddest mofo in town, leaving him lying on her rug with his paws in the air like a desiccated lizard. In other words, that she is good at enjoying herself in bed, rather than good at pleasing her partner. While it’s true that most men would prefer a woman who derives pleasure from their virile exertions, not many would wish to tangle with a voracious meat-grinder capable of turning the mightiest sausage into mince. A wise rooster avoids the hen who needs to get laid more frequently than her eggs do.
Rap, it must be said, is a lowbrow art form. Aggressive chanting is what one expects to hear from a mob of garrulous football supporters rather than a performing artist. Women who aspire to excel in such a macho and misogynistic pastime must be suffering from some kind of hormonal imbalance, which might explain why they boast about their sexual abilities. The queen bee has to buzz loudly if she wants to be serviced by an unending procession of drones.
The only rap song I ever enjoyed was an ironic sporting ditty called Come on, Aussie, come on!, sung by a man who was obviously an outlandish humbug. I defy you to listen to it three times without joining in at the chorus. It now has an exalted place in my pantheon of favourite Australian hits, a coterie which includes Tie me kangaroo down! and Bite me arse, yer drongo! You can always trust the Australians to turn something vulgar and inane into a humorous classic.
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