But no women have been publicly manipulated more than the contestants on Fox's latest attempt to out-sleaze the sleaziest shows, "Joe Millionaire," which features a lovely array of Bettys competing for a sexy bachelor they're told is enormously wealthy, but who is, in fact, a construction worker.

Fox reality programming chief Mike Darnell told Daily Variety, "In a way, we're ripping the mask off the people [who sign up for shows like "The Bachelor"] ... We find out whether they're really doing this for love." Exposing the ulterior motives of contestants drawn from a pool of wannabe actresses, models and beauty pageant amateurs hardly constitutes groundbreaking television, but who could pass up a chance to point and jeer at the shallow motives of hot girls? Just don't hold your breath for the reality show where men compete for the right to date a Playboy centerfold, only to find she's gained 20 pounds. Imagine the shock when the masks come off: "My god, those guys weren't really in love! They only liked her because they thought she was hot!"

Which presents the question of what our relationship is, ultimately, to these vixens who offer themselves up to be picked apart on-screen. They turn us on, and for their trouble we reward them with our disdain. Once they've pivoted, giggled, bent over and crawled on all fours, we -- both men and women -- enjoy ripping their motives to shreds. What about our motives? There we are, squishy and ruthless on the couch, greasy snacks in hand, thirsty for a chance to trample on the self-esteem of the genetically blessed. Do we enjoy humiliating them in spite of, or because of, their sexual power over us, because they make us feel relatively powerless?

Of course, when it comes to demeaning hot women, Howard Stern is king, and there's no end to his reign in sight. If Susan Faludi was right about the movement to dehumanize women, Stern exists on the radical edge of such a movement, dreaming up new ways to make his female guests look unintelligent and pathetic each week, from urging them to answer pushy questions about their sex lives and insulting them ruthlessly if they refuse, to pressuring them on-air to crawl on all fours or "bark like a dog."

Naturally, Stern is unapologetic. "I'm here to humiliate women," he says, simply. "That's my job." Stern may be an extreme example, but his popularity points to a widening gap between the person men present to their girlfriends and wives, and the person who's being catered to on a show whose host pauses between jokes about having sex with underage girls to smack a female guest on the ass with a raw fish.

But in the oversexed Romper Room of American culture, all women are enthusiastic exhibitionists, and all men long to consume an endless supply of hot girls as idly as jujubes. And we're used to it. Whether it's a Britney Spears video, an MTV Beach Party special, the Miss Universe pageant, an episode of "Friends," a Victoria's Secret special, or a behind-the-scenes look at the making of the Raiderettes, American eyes gaze at a herd of nubile young female bodies almost every day. It's the Baywatch school of ratings baiting: If the TV is turned on, we should be, too. So why not loosen up and join the fun?

Plus, this is liberation, isn't it? We can dress as dirty as we want, act as dirty as we want, and still be respected for who we are. At some point, though, while you're pulling on those skintight leather pants preparing for a night at the strip clubs, content to stand by while your boyfriend gets his third lap dance of the night, you've got to wonder if the "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em" path is all that it's cracked up to be.

Anyone can get a thrill or a cheap laugh out of everything from Tony Pierce's photo essays to bad porn dialogue. But once you start blurring the boundaries between freedom of sexual self-expression and the freedom to crawl on all fours and bark like a dog, you might wonder if you didn't trade your self-respect for the right to be a member of the boys club. If getting spanked by a dead fish is a sign of our liberation, then I don't want to be liberated.

We may never stop scarfing this sleazy cheese, even when it leaves us with a stomachache. It appeals to our basest desires; these are our lions and gladiators, our witches burning at the stake. Still, it's a mistake to assume that the distorted, fun-house mirror of pop culture is an accurate reflection of what's natural for us as human beings.

Boys will indeed be boys, but when tits and ass flood every channel, every page and every url, you have to wonder where biological determinism ends and commercially driven fantasy begins. It's not a question of right or wrong, it's a question of how we choose to relate to each other, and whether or not a fast, glossy fix of commercial sexuality alienates us, or even pits us against the real, imperfect human beings in our lives.

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