Ms. October 2013

After watching "The Girls Next Door" earlier tonight, I was inspired. Why can't I be a slutty ho with fake boobs and a fetish for old men? Certainly, if the blond brains at the Playboy Mansion can do it, so can I. Maybe I can add a bit of ethnic spice to the predominantly blond crew. I want to be able to go to castings and flash my silicone-pumped naughties at random camera men who then establish all rights to my nude photos. It really is a dream. To live at the posh Playboy Mansion, to be able to shop till I drop on Heffner's tab, and of course, the b(r)est perk of all, to be at all hours on call for a good romp with the grandpa himself.

Okay yeah. No.

I'm all for women embracing their sexuality. I'm all for women proudly displaying what they've got, being sultry and even showing off a little. Nothing wrong with that. But when you've devalued yourself enough to be part of Playboy's sick harem, that is demoralizing. I was seriously staring at my screen with a dumbstruck expression because I just could not look away. I mean, there has GOT to be some sort of illness to explain this. How could so many girls want in on something like that? And these girls... they primarily come from wealthy families. It's not like their wanting for money (not that I'm advocating prostitution). The only way you could ever get me to join that cast is if my son was dying and I had NO other option in the world to save him. And even then I would hate every minute of it. But to see the lines of hundreds of women who all hope to be the next Playmate is disheartening. And what is it for? The prestige? Please. This is Playboy, not Yale. Sick. Gross. Objectifying. I'm all for classy, tasteful sexy images. I'm not for whoring yourself out to be in a magazine.