Celebs and sex

At the first sign of a dick pic, mistress or prostitute, we are quick to demand apologies, prostration and resignation from our elected officials.

Not so with celebrities.

R. Kelly’s newest album, “Black Panties,” started streaming last week.

The album is an ode to all kinds of sex, featuring track titles like “Marry the Pussy,” “Crazy Sex,” “Show Ya Pussy” and “Every Position.”

The track listing and song descriptions make me nauseous not because I’m diametrically opposed to songs about pussy (perhaps my next column will extol the virtues of tracks like Iggy Azalea’s “Pu$$y,” Danny Brown’s “I Will,” and the like), but because I can’t help but assume the pussy he’s talking about is decidedly underage.

There is strong evidence that R. Kelly is a pedophile.

In 1994, 24-year-old R. Kelly married 15-year-old Aaliyah.

In 2000, Kelly’s manager resigned and stated that he believed the artist needed serious psychiatric help to deal with his attraction to young girls.

In 2002, Kelly was charged with 21 counts of child pornography for filming what looks like R. Kelly having sex with what looks like a 14-year-old girl.

Since the 1990s, there has been a steady stream of women who have come forward claiming R. Kelly raped them when they were teenagers.

Artists like R. Kelly baffle me with their ability to obscure their dubious morality and probable criminality with art. I wonder if it is a tradeoff: songs like “Bump N’ Grind,” “I Believe I Can Fly,” and the omnipresent “Ignition (Remix),” for the horror and heartbreak of young girls.

Of course, it isn’t that simple.

Many consumers insist on separating artists from the art they create. The actions, character flaws, even the intention of the artist is irrelevant to our personal consumption. Art’s meaning is created through interaction between the song and the listener, the painting and the viewer.

I appreciate and respect this view of art, but not when the meaning we glean leads to the praise and privilege of modern stardom.

Though I am a proponent of allowing perpetrators of crime to reintegrate back into society to be known for more than just their rap sheet, we are too hasty to accept celebrities back into our good graces. Often we welcome them with open arms before they have made any meaningful attempt to answer for what they have done.

Oscar-winning filmmaker Roman Polanski is one of the oldest examples. In 1977 he drugged and raped a 13-year-old girl and then fled to Europe to escape prosecution for the crime.

When he was finally apprehended, more than 100 people in film signed a petition demanding his release, including Woody Allen (who has dubious sexual mores himself), Wes Anderson, Harmony Korine, David Lynch and Tilda Swinton. Other celebrities have been given a relatively free pass as well.

Charlie Sheen has perpetrated violence or threatened violence against at least three women with whom he was romantically involved.

Sean Connery was accused of verbally and physically abusing one of his wives.

Sean Penn attacked Madonna with a baseball bat.

All of these men are still working, still famous and in some cases, still incredibly revered.

If we cannot help but consume their art, we at least have a responsibility to remind these men of the harm they have caused. Their albums and movies can be critically acclaimed or popularly enjoyed, but they themselves should be publicly reviled until they are held accountable for their actions.

But then there are those who ingrain their art with violence against women. Those like Eminem, who describes in great detail how he physically abuses women and confesses he will likely never stop. To me, rapping along to those lyrics is unconscionable.

Which leaves R. Kelly.

He has never been convicted, has never admitted to any wrongdoing. But if his marriage to Aaliyah is any indication, we can’t be sure that the pussy he wants to marry is at least 18.

That ambiguity means I won’t be listening to “Black Panties” anytime soon.