You know my gynecologist felt compelled to console me over the fact that my clit is always gonna be as, ahem, easy to find as it is now? Somehow, being a little better-hung than the other ladies isn’t quite as uncomplicated a physical asset as, say, having large breasts. In fact, having a hazelnut instead of a pine nut is potentially repulsive. I’ll need to very carefully prepare my partners for the sight of my gargantuan hot button. (“It’s not a toomah!”) But no. No traditional conflict over the vag in this society, no sir!
Easy — it just required a thoroughly fantastical re-write of basic human impulses:
Men do not in fact embrace the pooter. All they see women as are baby-making machines, reproductive robots, and in fact the act of sex itself is physically repulsive to men. (Hence Marcotte’s strange fantasy about a male dream of impregnating a female without going through the sweaty hassle of “befouling” oneself by touching her — whereas, of course, everyone in their right mind knows that it’s the befouling that’s the fun part.)
We men wanted (per Feminism 2.0) women for nothing but sexual release. But now feminism 3.0 also (claims to) be big into sexual release, and yet men must still be portrayed as the Oppressors. So Feminism 3.0 postulates that men really aren’t all that into sex after all — in fact, we’re vaguely repulsed by the vagina — and, ergo, forcing men to have non-procreative, purely-pleasure-oriented vaginal sex is the new form of Feminist defiance.
I will have sex with you until you’re shaking from exhastion, but damnit, I will not bear your child! Eat it, Men! Nailed ya! Hah-hah, suck on that one! (And, when you’re done, the other one too!)
God, I’m so craving an abortion right now.
I should probably just go for a D&E and cosmos with the girls, and not even bother with this, but Sweet Mary Mother of God. Whose pleasure, dipshit? Do you think a Brazilian wax–like the one Carrie got in Season Three, Episode Fourteen–is tantric? Women have been getting fucked for yonks, but this is not quite the same as having pleasurable sex. Women’s bodies have been wanted for just as long, but this is not the same as giving women license to love their bodies. Even the Sex and the City team have figured that out.
It is possible for a group of people to be the object of hatred and desire at the same time. And it is possible for their bodies to become subject to all sorts of conflicting messages of fascination and revulsion. It is also possible–more like inevitable–for them to become linked to a series of standards for desirability. This becomes a way to simultaneously render them and their bodies accessible and controlled. This is why there are lots of women who have lots of sex but few orgasms. It’s why women are taught to be ashamed of the way they smell. It’s also why there are so many men who don’t like eating pussy.
Anyway. I’m gonna go make myself something cloying and boozy before I curl up with my favoritest television show ever, but first: I was talking yesterday with my dear friend in Chicago:
“I have this problem that I can’t talk about on a cell phone in the park.”
“You joined al Qaeda?”
“Yes. I got really drunk last night and now I’m a terrorist. It’s like waking up in the Marines these days. It’s part of their new anti-profiling strategy. Dunno what they’re doing here, though. One in three San Franciscans is already on the no-fly list.”
“Do you have a yeast infection?”
“Maybe it’s because I’m a gay man, but I had no problem saying ‘yeast infection’ on my cell phone.”
“Well, you’re not the one with the microbrewery.”
But I was wondering. How much sharing and oversharing do all of you do about your vaginas? And assorted issues therewith? Would you use the terms “cottage cheese-like discharge” and “it feels like I masturbated with Ben-Gay” in a busy public place? What if you were on the phone with your HMO and the appointment service was telling you that they couldn’t fit you in for three goddamn days?