In answer to this, several of us have decided to make it Female Desire Week here on our blogs. So here’s round one.
“Good lovers don’t leave marks”
I like my lovers to leave marks. I like for everything to leave its mark on me. It’s probably why I tattoo things onto my skin.
I am trouble. I am a little too much for most people and I like that–when I think someone is shy I ratchet up the ammo–attitude, sass, flirt machine, talking about sex and my tits. And alternately, when someone is aggressive with me it either turns me off or makes me relish the competition.
I like the tension of a spark between equally wicked, strong, shameless people–the honesty of desire and the intimacy that comes not from shy declarations of feelings but from teeth and nails and push and pull and no need no make excuses, no not at all.
I think most of the men I know I would eat alive, just because I am who I am. Only one ever really disarmed me, laid me open and then he left anyway. Over and over. All the rest, really, fled or never got started or bored me.
Met one recently who might have been able to keep up, knocked me off my game a little but not so much, kept me walking that line instead of gleefully destroying it. Would’ve liked to try but things get in the way.
That line “good lovers don’t leave marks” came from an article in NYLON magazine about nerd chic, of all things, which may be oddly appropriate here but that’s a story you don’t get to hear. Gotta keep some things for myself.
I wrote before about unruly desires, and that’s true–it took me a while to come to terms with those desires but I think that because I did what I did on my schedule, even if it was late, it’s been worth it to have a better understanding of me.
I surrounded myself with people who weren’t heterosexual, but I stayed with men because that’s what I wanted.
I didn’t bother with “husband material” like some of my friends who were planning that shit in high school, because I didn’t want husband material. I wanted what I wanted–someone who turned me on by the way he moved, talked to me, touched me. Sometimes they got to my heart, other times just lust, but always what I wanted.
Allowing yourself to want things is a great freedom. Allowing ourselves to want things, as women, as people who’ve been not only not allowed to want things but treated as things ourselves…yeah. And allowing ourselves to want that connection, whether it’s a night of hotandsweaty sex on the kitchen counter and then goodbye, goodbye, goodbye or whether it’s a life that sometimes just comes down to snuggling on the couch watching 80s movies, it’s what we want.
Ms. Superstar Queen of All Things Awesome Angela Davis said in a talk at Penn this year that we have to understand why we want things–but we’re still going to want them. She was talking about capitalism, but lady had a point that resonated.
It’s easy to get caught up in rules and forget about what we want. Rules of the normative, patriarchal society. And conversely, rules of feminism, rules of progressivism, radicalism, etc. And of course our own fears and hang-ups. And yes, we have to think about things. When I get into a relationship with someone and he says to me “Well, I can’t be serious right now,” instead of accepting that shit because it’s the best thing offered to me, I have to ask–what the hell do I want?
Saw a preview yesterday (yeah, I went to see Sex and the City, and I’ll post about that later) for He’s Just Not That Into You, the movie. Seriously. Made a movie about that crappy book.
It pissed me off when it first hit shelves because it embodied what I think we do way too much of: wonder what “he” (or she, this isn’t contained to hetero relationships) wants rather than sitting down and figuring out just what the hell we really want. (course, someone responded with Be Honest-You’re Not That Into Him Either, which made me much happier if we’re going to be stuck with crap pop psychology relationship advice books.)
Everyone wants rules. Don’t have sex on the first date. Don’t give blowjobs. Don’t have sex, just give head. Sex with men is a tool of the patriarchy. All sex is power relations. Penetration=power. (Well, we’ll go tackle that one later.)
You can’t sanitize your desires to fit your political philosophy, let alone someone else’s. But instead of going rounds about whether we should be allowed to be turned on by things that occur between consenting adults (or between them and inanimate objects) the important question really is what do YOU want?
I want a man who makes me feel good in the way he looks at me. One who doesn’t want to protect me from things. One who sasses me back. I love muscled arms, big hands, knowing eyes. I like the way men move (some men). I like ‘em taller and bigger than me, though I’ve been known to give ‘em a shot if they aren’t but something they say piques my interest. I like talent–whether it’s art, writing, athletic, almost anything someone is really, really good at and puts their soul into is sexy.
And it doesn’t hurt if they look like this: 
In honor of Game 6 (and hopefully Game 7).
Our lady over at the F word don’t know what she started, giving me an excuse to post gratuitous hot men on my blog in the name of feminism. 
Wasn’t like I didn’t already do it, but now….yeah.
