I don't know how they settled on the name "Victoria" to be the emblem of enigmatic sexiness and playful roll-around-on-the-bed-ness. I mean, when I think of "Victoria," I think of this:
Nevertheless, the brand has been wildly successful, not just with females-- their target audience-- but with burgeoning young males, semen practically leaking out their ears. I don't know if 14-year-old boys still get all kinds of jazzed up upon their first laying-on-of-eyes at a "Victoria's Secret" catalogue, now that the internet has made pornography as accessible as a wheelchair van, but there is no denying the utterly seductive power of those suggestive poses, those languidly draped legs, the come hither eyes, the mirage-like nipple protrusion from beneath a paper-thin camisole.
In Spring, 2011, the most recent Victoria's Secret catalogue (that arrives at our house with comforting regularity after I purchased a delicious summer-weight bathrobe for my wife) there isn't a single model with hair shorter than below shoulder-length. Which says a lot, I think.
By the way, it's awfully difficult to focus on what I'm trying to talk about with the catalogue opened to page 67. There are eight, count 'em, eight photographs of barely-dressed vixens all vying for my undivided attention, which is, of course, divided by eight, if not sixteen if we're counting all the breasts.
Okay. I turned the page. I'm okay now. Well, sort of.
So, right-- the hair. While there are no models with short hair at all, anywhere to be seen, I was happy to note the inclusion of an incredibly hot Indian model, who looks great in the upper right-hand photograph on page 69 (sorry, that's really the page number, I can't do anything about it). So, while short-haired pixie-ladies may very well be sorely under-represented, at least Victoria's Secret is getting a little bit more international in flavor.
You know, when I set out to write this post, there were actually some intelligent points I knew I wanted to make, and I knew I was going to have to use the photographs in the catalogue to support my contentions, but, now that I've been leafing through this thing again, I'm sorry to report that my brain has turned to chili. I'm just another manschlub, staring at countless photographs of seductive, inaccessible women, while my wife crafts at the table across from me, and I feel dirty, horny, stupid, uneducated, ill-equipped to engage in reality-based thoughts or pursuits, and maybe that's the point. Maybe the point is that these catalogues, at the very worst, sell unrealistic ideas of sexuality to men and encourage women to hate their bodies, and, at the very best, they sell poorly-constructed, mass-manufactured sexschlock.
I wonder what kind of bra Queen Victoria used to wear.