India Uncut

Reuters reports that a court in Finland has determined that "[a] fee of 25,500 euros ($32,000) is way too much for a woman to charge a man for fondling her bosom."

Apparently, a couple charged "a 74-year-old who suffers from dementia a total of 25,500 euros to enjoy the woman's breasts on 10 occasions."

Now, if they're schmucking a gent who is not competent to make his own decisions, that's a different matter. But I'm intrigued by the judge's ruling:

Based on general life experience alone, it is indisputably clear that a 25,500 euro charge is disproportionate to the compensation in question.

I am tempted to ask here what would have been a proportionate charge? 5000 euros? 2000 euros? 80 euros? 2 fricking euros?

My point is that there is no such thing as a fixed "correct price" for anything. The right price for any object is determined by supply and demand, and by what the buyer and the seller agree on. The lady in question has a right to demand whatever price she wants for the fondling of her breasts, and the fondler in question has a right to reject or accept that price. If he wants to fondle only those breasts, or if no other owner of breasts is willing to put them at his disposal, then those breasts, and the consent of their owner, acquire a scarcity value. It would then be surprising if the price set wasn't high.

People make a similar mistake when they complain about the prices of commodities shooting up after a natural crisis. (I myself have been guilty of this mistake in the past.) But natural market prices are the best possible way to efficiently allocate resources at any time.

Consider, for example, what happens when an earthquake runs through a village and flattens most of it. Just one store with foodgrains in it is still standing. The prices immediately shoot up there. "Greed," we all scream. "The shopkeeper's making a profit out of other people's misery." We might even support a government regulation that fixes the prices of all his foodgrains.

What happens if such a regulation is indeed passed? Why, the first few people who come there buy up much more than they immediately need, to hoard up in case the crisis continues. And most of the people who come after that find no foodgrains at all. This is inevitable: price controls invariably cause shortages. Had the prices been allowed to rise naturally to reflect demand, though, the first few customers would have bought more prudently, and later customers wouldn't have gone hungry.

In a similar way, to take a Mumbai example from last year, hotels are bound to raise their prices if the city gets flooded and people in the vicinity are stranded and have nowhere else to go. Is this greed? That's irrelevant. Consider what the raised prices do: two friends who would have taken a double room for the night for Rs 3000 suddenly find that the room is now Rs 10,000. So they get together with two other chappies, and the four of them take the room. So, instead of two people inside and two people outside in the rain or the lobby, you have four people in the room. Efficient allocation of resources? Yes. Profit for the hotellier? Yes, and so what? Without the profit motive, the hotel wouldn't be there in the first place.

Another classic example is the price controls imposed on gasoline in the US in the 1970s, which led to shortages that finally disappeared when Ronald Reagan lifted the controls. To read about that, in an excellent short piece in price controls, do read Thomas Sowell's "An Ancient Fallacy: Price Controls." (Also read "Price controls" by Sowell, "Four Thousand Years of Price Control" by Thomas Dilorenzo, "What price controls really mean" by Lawrence Reed, and "Price Control Fallacy" by Don Boudreaux. And I'd also recommend Sowell's excellent primer, "Basic Economics," for more on the subject.

Cross-posted on The Indian Economy Blog.

Her own breasts, that is. The Onion writes:

Amid growing personal concern that the subjects are not receiving enough national attention, singer–actress Jessica Simpson announced the launch Monday of an ambitious, multimillion-dollar campaign promoting awareness of her breasts.

[...]

According to Simpson, breasts are the leading cause of film careers among women ages 18 to 35. However, if agents and producers fail to screen them early and often, the resulting lack of public awareness could lead to a rapid deterioration of sexy roles and, eventually, a premature end to one's career.

Tee. And hee.

And you know what? It's funny enough to be true.

(Link via email from Manish Vij.)

Reuters reports from Cameroon:

Worried that her daughters' budding breasts would expose them to the risk of sexual harassment and even rape, their mother Philomene Moungang started 'ironing' the girls' bosoms with a heated stone.

"I did it to my two girls when they were eight years old. I would take the grinding stone, heat it in the fire and press it hard on the breasts," Moungang said.

"They cried and said it was painful. But I explained that it was for their own good."

The report informs us that this is "a traditional practice in West Africa."

We all have two selves, don't we: the animal self and the rational self? I know, I know, simplistic dichotomy and so on, but you know what I'm getting at. At one level, I'm horrified by this report (as I was by this one, which I'd linked to here); at another, I'm the man the mother in the story is worried about, checking out the chicas that pass by as I type this on my laptop. The rational me and the animal me are always in conflict, and of course, the rational me is always in charge. At least I like to think so.

(And here's a previous post on mutilation and moral relativism.)

Naomi Wolf comes up with an interesting insight in a piece in New York:

[P]ornography works in the most basic of ways on the brain: It is Pavlovian. An orgasm is one of the biggest reinforcers imaginable. If you associate orgasm with your wife, a kiss, a scent, a body, that is what, over time, will turn you on; if you open your focus to an endless stream of ever-more-transgressive images of cybersex slaves, that is what it will take to turn you on. The ubiquity of sexual images does not free eros but dilutes it.

The bit about orgasms and Pavlov might explain how fetishes originate: get off on a pretty shoe when you're a child, and boom, before you know it, shoes turn you on. For people who do develop fetishes, it might just be a matter of luck whether they land up with one they can harmlessly indulge, or whether it gets more complex than that.

Anyway, Wolf's larger point is that "[t]he onslaught of porn is responsible for deadening male libido in relation to real women, and leading men to see fewer and fewer women as 'porn-worthy.'" She writes:

Here is what young women tell me on college campuses when the subject comes up: They can’t compete, and they know it. For how can a real woman—with pores and her own breasts and even sexual needs of her own (let alone with speech that goes beyond “More, more, you big stud!”)—possibly compete with a cybervision of perfection, downloadable and extinguishable at will, who comes, so to speak, utterly submissive and tailored to the consumer’s least specification? [...] Today, real naked women are just bad porn.

I think Wolf overstates the case: most men keep porn in a separate domain from their love lives, and one does not impinge on the other. But I get the point she makes about sexual insecurity. Indeed, the handful of times that I have watched porn movies (no pun intended), I've shuddered everytime the guy has bared his organ, because he's always had an eight- or nine-inch you-know-what. (A veritable anaconda, as it were.) This is true of erotic literature as well, where the man is generally immensely well-endowed, enough to hang a week's worth of laundry when he's, um, excited.

If women consumed porn as much as men do, I dare say I'd be worried, and would insist on the lights going off before the pants went down. (And I'd have my dialogues ready -- "It's so cold, darling." Or "Trust me, I'm actually half an inch larger than average, you mustn't believe the pondy." And "What do you mean, 'Is it inside yet?'") So I can quite sympathise with the young women Wolf speaks of, who have to compete with the J Los and Jessica Simpsons and innumerable porn goddesses with their perfect, big, firm glandacious things. (I'm not good with euphemisms, but I will not write 'breasts' on my blog.)

It would be so much better if the only kind of nakedness that turned people on was not of an exaggerated ideal, but of normal people, like these (NSFW): these aren't models, and both the men and women here are, well, modestly gifted. A large part of our spam mail would also be reduced, as insecure men who have nothing to be worried about wouldn't then contemplate enlargement.

Anyway, having said that, I disagree with Wolf's overall thesis. Porn isn't killing sex and will, sadly, not solve our population problems anytime soon. More's the pity.

(Wolf link via email from Gautam John.)

Woman starts breast-feeding kid in a plane. Flight attendant tries to give her a blanket so that she can cover up. She declines. Flight attendant calls ticket agent. The lady and her family are removed from the plane.

What comment can one make about such nonsense? The whole idea that showing a breast (a female one, that is) in a public place is wrong in some way is twisted, a perversion itself. (It is a different matter that in this case, the lady says that "she was seated by the window in the next-to-last row, her husband was seated between her and the aisle and no part of her breast was showing.") The people who think like this should just wear T-shirts that say, "Breasts are evil. Slobber slobber."

Pah, and suchlike.

(Link via email from Salil Benegal.)

I want to be the Deputy Inspector General of Police in charge of the Fake Boobies Investigation department (DIG, FBI). Specifically, I want to be the policeman on this case.

A German plastic surgeon who was cheated out of payment by several women has given pictures of their enlarged breasts to police, in the hope the photos will help trace them.

I will take my job very seriously. I will stand at a street corner, and I will closely examine, just visually for now, the chest of every non-male passing by. Whenever I see a suspect, or rather a pair of suspects, I will stop the lady in question, and show her my ID card.

"I need to examine certain glands of yours," I will say, "to ascertain that they do not have enhancements that have not been paid for by you."

They will think about it for a moment, their chin turned cutely to one side. Then they will look at my T-Shirt, on which they will read, "I write India Uncut."

"Oh, you're the famous blogger," they will gush. "Wow!"

"Tee hee," I will say, "Yes, I used to just be a blogger. But I took up this job because I had a larger duty to society. Now, if you will come with me please..."

I will take them into my police van, parked discreetly in the middle of the road. (I'll be a cop, I'll do what I want.) I will shut the door. Then I will look at them clinically, as if I have a gun in my pocket, and am non-happy to see them.

They will blush coyly, but, reassured by my clinical look, will remove their kurti. "Ah," I will remark. "Lovables. My favourite brand. I'm afraid you'll have to remove that as well, this really is not enough to go on."

They will smile, their hands will go behind them to the strap of the brassiere, in the process thrusting their chest out towards me. (I mention this only because I am a particularly meticulous policeman, and note every action of my suspects rather carefully.) They will unclasp the undergarment in question, and its straps will delicately slip off their shoulders. They will leave the brassiere on the portable bed besides them, silk on silk. (Cotton bedsheets are only good for strangling, I will have learnt in my years as a policeman.) They will look at me expectantly.

"Interesting," I will remark, my knees trembling. (I must have more calcium in my diet, I'll remind myself.) "Visually they look similar to some of the pictures of the suspects that I have with me. I must, ahem, make a tactile examination. Please lift your arms above your head."

They shall lift their arms, and I will move closer to them, and begin my examination. Yes, yes, the job is no fun, but someone's got to do it, and I shall carefully examine the organs in question for tell-tale scars. (Much as Dr Vishal Kapoor does here; NSFW.) The lady will make soft moans of pleasure to distract me, but I shall only redouble my efforts, determined not to be distracted, and suspicious that such efforts are being made.

After a close examination, I will conclude that the lady is innocent. "You are not the culprit I was looking for," I will tell her. "You may go now."

"Go?" she will say. "Did you say Go? Are you crazy? Finish what you started. Should I remove the rest of my clothes."

"No ma'am," I will say. "That is not at all necessary. I have concluded my examination, and am delighted to inform you that charges will not be brought against you. That being the case, you are no longer required to remain in this state of undress. Please do wear the garments you had earlier discarded."

As I say this, I shall pick up her brassiere from the bed and hand it over to her. And as I do so, she will grab my hand with her left hand, whip out a pair of handcuffs with her right hand, and within fractions of a moment, I shall find myself attached to the bedstead.

"What are you doing?" I will yell, before I note that the handcuff has an inscription on it that every policeman of that age will be familiar with: "Vixen Trolls: The Blog Murderers Association." I shall shiver at the name, for I will know what is coming up next.

"Ha ha ha ha," she will laugh, as her hands go below her belly and reach sensuously into her Patiala salwar. Then she will whip out a cotton bedsheet.

Previous India Uncut Ambitions: Hooch Inspector, Pothole Inspector, Female-Earlobe Piercer.

I don't recall fondling anybody, but if the victim says I did it, I must have done it. I'm terribly sorry.

Taku Yamazaki, a police inspector in Tokyo, who "approached a woman in her 40s waiting at a crossing in the Oyama Higashi district of Itabashi-ku and squeezed her breasts. When the woman demanded he stop, Yamazaki punched her in the face."

This guys was 57 years old, for fug's sake. How did he get here?

(Link via email from Uday Kiran.)

This post is my contribution to the Blank Noise Project, which I support and applaud.

It feels strange to write this post, part of the Blank Noise Project Blogathon to protest eve-teasing and harrassment, for one simple reason: I'm a man. Till recently, I didn't quite understand the extent to which women are violated every day in India, in so many different ways, and that there are no exceptions to this -- you step outside the house, you're a body. I'm not sure I can understand what it must be to be treated like meat. Never happened to me.

When I walk with female companions in crowded places in Mumbai, like railway stations, I often walk directly in front of them, to clear the way, or behind them, to make sure they don't get felt up. So many of my female friends, when I ask, tell me stuff they've gone through that seems shocking to me, but is everyday to them. A touch here, a grope there, push, squeeze, hold, pinch, being reduced to tits and ass. Bloody hell, I'm lucky to be a man; and a part of me says I should be ashamed to feel that way.

When a woman is violated, of course, it is not just in a physical sense: looking does it too. You live in an Indian city? Notice the men when a pretty woman walks by in a public place sometime, see where their eyes are. Nice breasts, no? Such an ass. See how she walks, thumak thumak ke. Ah, how you'd like to...

I suppose women are used to the male gaze, and I can't imagine how. But everytime a man talks disparagingly about letches, he's being hypocritical, to some extent or the other. After all, we all 'check out' women fairly often. If we're male, we have the gaze. Maybe we've just learnt to make it less obvious. One man's checking out is another man's letching. Where do you cross the line?

Well, where you certainly do cross the line is when the look becomes the touch. Why are Indian men in Indian cities so free with their hands? Well, because by a lack of adequate condemnation and punishment, there is a sort of social sanction for it. Now, while men probably can't imagine what women go through in crowded buses and trains, they can put a stop to it. Instead of turning a blind eye to what is happening around us -- minding our own business, avoiding trouble -- we can raise our voice, and even our hands, if we spot someone violating a woman's space. Every time one of us does this, shames a molester in a public space, we change that public space just a little bit, and make it harder for the next guy to go overboard. And even if we don't know the woman we're helping out, we're making things a little bit easier for the women we do know and care about.

So that's my own resolution, and my plea to the men out there. What can I say to the women that so many other women haven't blogged about eloquently already? There's nothing new to say, but I'll just say this: it's not your fault and you shouldn't have to put up with it, so don't. Be like Hemangini famously was in the train to Chennai. Be strong.

Not like us male schmucks.

Vivek Agnihotri, who's directed the film Chocolate, tells the Times of India:

I don’t believe in showing steamy scenes to sensationalize a film. Even if I use a kissing scene I’ll not do it conventionally, because my sensibilities are different. There’s a scene in the film where Sushma Reddy is adjusting her breasts to accentuate her cleavage before entering a party. Then there’s a scene where she takes off her shirt in front of Anil Kapoor. That to me is more sensational than showing a lip-to-lip kiss on-screen.

Hmm. Well, here're some recent reviews and news pieces aboiut the film: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7. That last link is especially funny, as it reports how the censor board got upset because the word "tequila" featured in one of the songs. Heh.