Why Shouldn't | Pose For Playboy?

Claire Crighton, The McGill Daily (McGill University)

could pocket two grand for doing nothing more than
standing in front of a camera. Sure, I’d be demeaning
and degrading myself, perpetuating the patriarchal male
gaze by contributing to a system in which women are
the passive objects on which the scopophilic masculine
fantasy is enacted, et cetera, et cetera.

I know all the arguments. Hell, it’s usually me mak-
ing the arguments. But being able to practically write off
a semestet’s tuition just because some lonely 42-year-old
businessman in South Dakota wants to ogle my breasts
seems like a deviously exhilarating power-a power
maybe even worth the risk that my little brothers or
honours thesis supervisor could come across my photo.

So when my Monday morning time-slot rolls
around, I curl my hair, practice my bedroom eyes, and
make my way to the designated Sherbrooke Street hotel
in Montreal.

In the suite, 1 am met by a bubbly female producer
sporting five-inch leather pumps and legs so freshly
waxed they glisten. After filling out the requisite release
forms and chatting with her about cell phone ring
tones, she introduces me to David, the young, pony-
tailed photographer. I notice him checking out my feet
and posture.

 

“Are you a dancer?” he asks. I grin with feigned
bashfulness, maintaining the slightly ditzy persona I’ve

MONTREAL (CUP)-“Okay, now arch your back a bit.
Put your hands on your hips. Give me that hot little
smile-thaaaat’s it. Perfect. Oh, you’re so cute.”

These are the words that tumble out of the Playboy
photographer’s mouth as I kneel on a hotel bed in noth-

felt compelled to assume. “I used to be,” I reply with a
breathy giggle.

As David leads me into the suite’s bedroom, he
explains that I can wear panties for this shoot if it

i oe: makes me feel more comfortable, but that he’ll pick
ing but my skimpiest black underwear.

When I heard that Playboy had named McGill one of
North America’s top ten “party schools” and wanted to

girls that are willing to go nude in the magazine. “This
is Playboy, after all,” he says.

Stripping down, I feel strangely devoid of embar-
rassment or nervousness—I’m pretty comfortable with
my body, and I know he’s seen thousands of girls
naked. It feels more like a doctor’s appointment than
pornography.

While Musiqueplus blares in the background, David
shoots a handful of poloraids, asking me to pose in var-
ious positions: from the front, full-length, from the side,

recruit some local girls for its blow-out issue, I was
intrigued. Under the self-validating pretext of journalis-
tic investigation, I booked myself an appointment.
Maybe I wanted to conduct research for an exposé fea-
ture, maybe I just wanted to experience it.

Rither way, there is a lurking post-feminist in me
that finds something subtly potent in the fact that I

kneeling on the bed, from behind. It’s all remarkably
casual-snapping away, he asks me how I heard about the
shoot and what I want to do with my degree. When he’s
taken enough shots, he gives me the mandatory “you
did a great job,” and we continue talking as I put my
clothes back on.

As of press time two days later, I haven’t heard if
I’ve made the cut—though I’ve already decided I won’t
go through with it. It isn’t, however, Laura Mulvey’s
Lacanian argument, Catherine MacKinnon’s anti-porn
critiques, or anything else in the Women’s Studies 200
course pack that will prevent me from claiming a spot
on Playboy’s McGill page.

To tell you the truth, it’s the fact that every guy I’d
date would have already had the opportunity to see me
naked. And that, that moment of thrilling awkwardness
when you first take your clothes off in front of some-
one you care about—and not my supposed womanly
self-respect or feminist righteousness—is something I’m

just not willing to give up.

 

 

 

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Editorial Cartoon by JJ MC Cullough