Society, or at least those who like to endow their own opinions with its authority, takes a pretty schizophrenic view of nudity. When it's a tribe of third-world pagans waggling droopy breasts and saggy scrotums in the annual "kului-noknok caught a rodent now we'll all have stew" festival, it's science. When it's fat white people with their genitals concealed, it's high art. When the subject is even remotely attractive, it's pornography, tawdry and obscene.

But if you don't find this distasteful
what makes you think your opinion matters?

Granted, it's supposed to have something to do with sexuality, but can anyone honestly claim that, in their pubescent boyhood, they never popped a boner over the pages of National Geographic or in the Reuben gallery of the local art museum? It isn't so much maturity that subdues that reaction so much as comparison with the later experience of seeing less unappealing nudes. Once you've had spring chicken, you've no further interest in the other white meat, or primitive beef jerky, for that matter.

... well, at least most people don't.

Funny thing is, it's the same people who mooch for tax-dollar support of art and science because the average citizen doesn't think they're worth supporting. If they'd chuck that hideous Rauschenberg goat-in-a-tire thing out of the Museum of Modern Art and replace it with a life-size statue of Topsy-Curvy and offer a fold-out map to the g-spot with every subscription to the Smithsonian ... problem solved.