Monday morning I announced that I was an angry feminist. An
off-hand remark that might have even been meant as a compliment bubbled up and
brought with it an indignant anger and frustration I was not expecting.
During discussion group on Saturday we were discussing the
previous meetings and how gender imbalanced the ones we hosted were. I said
that at one meeting it was only me and The Sub and at another I was the only
female there. An older man we’ve met in passing asked if the guys were all… and
then he lowered his gaze to my breasts and dropped his jaw. I blew it off with,
“No more so than usual.” But Monday morning while I was getting ready for work
the words that escaped me in the moment came up along with a torrent of
unexpected venom.
Had I been prepared for such a remark my response would have
been something like, “Yes… and then I opened my mouth and they realized I had a
fucking brain so they then began to look me in the eye.”
It happened with the Arabic Steam Punk at last month’s
discussion group. He came in late looking like a protégé of the Pick up Artist
that once had a bad reality TV show on cable. His pompadour, boots and skinny-legged
pants perfectly complimented the sideburns that grew down towards a well
manicured a horizontal line at each cheek. He introduced himself and talked
about wanting to “corrupt” as many ladies to this lifestyle as possible and
said he was looking for advice how to accomplish that. I tossed out my cheeky
line that around here we are already corrupted. Eventually he stopped acting
like a pompous ass and realized that the women in the group are more than just
‘corrupted’ we are witty, intelligent, articulate people that happen to have
boobs. When he engaged me in conversation at the Halloween party he discussed
personal issues, without being a Drama Llama while asking me for insight on all
kinds of topics. It was great conversation that felt like human connection and
not a pick up attempt.
The weekend before last we went to a wine tasting with the
Big Poly MeetUp. Back at the organizer’s house after dinner I immediately found
myself engaged in conversation with one of the Organizers. When we last
attended an event with them, it seemed he was set on getting one girl in
particular drunk after she made a remark about how often she ends up naked when
she gets tipsy. We initially got into a discussion about the term “Ethical
Non-Monogamy” and he went on a rant of sorts as to why he doesn’t like to use
that term. “The only thing you identify by what it’s not is non-dairy creamer.”
A very fair and fitting statement. From there it spun into his preferred term
of “Self Determination” and how the emphasis on sex in our culture needs to be
removed. I’ve referred to the ‘attachments’ we as a culture place on sex, while
he calls it a ‘charge’ and said that it needs to be diffused. While I agree
that the shame and guilt our culture places on sex while simultaneously linking
it to love, attention and intimacy are not healthy, he was comparing sex to
shopping, or going to a movie with somebody. He said that we can talk about a
new recipe with a co-worker and offer to bring them a dish to try, but you
could not tell that same co-worker about a new sexual position you discovered
and offer to show them. Again, he made very valid points in an articulate
manner through several hours and several bottles of wine. But ultimately he was
feeding the same chick shots and asking who wanted to get into the hot tub.
*Sigh*
That conversation really pushed a button in me. I found
myself belching up an excuse for poetry in my journal and a rant that really
spelled out my sense that I still crave the attachment of sex and intimacy. To
take away all of the “charge” from the act would leave us with little more than
naked aerobics in a world where there is no magic left. I feel like there is a
line between “Sex Positive” and casual sex that I have no desire to cross. I
don’t want to be open enough with someone to get naked and risk STI infections,
ect without a sense of trust, of connection, and of a little bit of meaning to
it all. In some circles this is a very unpopular opinion and one that I know
does not suit everybody.
From there I caught myself in some nasty self-talk that
brought tears to my eyes. I acknowledged how being loveable and being fuckable
are on opposing ends of a spectrum for me. I wrote that I’ve accomplished
“fuckable” and need to feel more loveable. The part I was hesitant to share
with My Mr. was that my sense of being loveable shrinks every time he fucks me.
And these are the things I need to unravel in myself. I
*know* better to have love on the same plane as sexiness, fuckability and all
the other things that feel objectifying to me. I *know* that I am more than, as
I wrote in my journal, a wet hole that happens to cook and clean well. I *know*
that sex and intimacy are two separate things and that there is nothing wrong
with non-intimate sex because there is certainly nothing wrong with non-sexual
intimacy. I know that seeing My Mr. and the Sub cuddled up on the couch was
fine, but the minute he kissed her in a sexual manner all of my trust and all
of the work we’ve done in establishing boundaries was shattered. I know that
too much of my life has been spent perpetuating the notion that my only worth
is how sexy and fuckable I am and I am equally to blame for accepting that as
my own self image. I know that is part of why I gained this extra weight and am
content in my far-from media standard of sexiness because it forces those
around me to look past my thick thighs and flabby tummy in a way that nobody
ever did when I was a size 6 with D cups and long blond hair.
Knowing all of this doesn’t solve how it FEELS, but I’ve
found a couple ends of the knot and that’s how you start unraveling a jumbled
mess like this, right?
