Sometimes I Want to Be Held By A Man, Naked, Without Having Sex – IS THAT OKAY?

 

Apparently not.

If you are a human, then you’ve heard about the Aziz Ansari debacle. You know, the incident in which “woke bae” Ansari pushed and pushed and pushed his date to have sex even though she was clearly not into it.

Many women are uniting in solidarity over their own similar experiences. However, just as many are condemning “Grace,” Ansari’s date. She went to his apartment, she got undressed, what did she expect? Why didn’t she just leave??

Even the New York Times published an opinion piece by Bari Weiss in which she says, “I am a proud feminist, and this is what I thought while reading the article: If you are hanging out naked with a man, it’s safe to assume he is going to try to have sex with you.”

For most of my life, I bought into that same line of reasoning. If I get naked with a man, then of course he’s going to try to have sex with me. Furthermore, I’m obligated, or else things can get ugly.

I believed this so resolutely, that for 20 years, I didn’t recognize that I had been raped in college. I remembered it as “the night this guy had sex with me when I didn’t want him to.”

For the record, I said no. I was at a party at his fraternity, and I went upstairs to his room with him to get high. I liked him; I wanted to kiss him. But that was all. I said “no.” I tried to fight him off; I did everything but scream “HELP! RAPE!” because  I was 18 and afraid and embarrassed. I didn’t want to create a scene with hundreds of people downstairs to overhear it.

Later, I shared the experience with only one person, who responded with, “well what did you expect?” and then I buried it.
Only in the last decade have I been able to understand that I was raped.

 

 

I’m extremely single. By that I mean, I’m a self-sustaining ecosystem. I’m fiercely independent. I’ve created a life the way I want it, and I dread the idea of having to make constant compromises. Relationships are hard, and if introducing a partner into my life is going to create drama and pain, I’d rather be alone.

The upside to marriage and relationships is the intimacy.

I miss intimacy.

I miss being held when things are not going right in my life. I like a man to wrap his arms around me and hold me, and stroke my back. I like the feeling of skin on skin.

I’m a highly sexual person, and I like kinky sex as much as the next wanton woman. Sometimes, though, I just want to lie next to someone who will hold me.

This never happens.

 

You see, if I lie next to a man, naked, he will (most likely) become aroused. And he will assume we’re having sex, because what did I expect?

This is the clarion call reverberating all over the Internet regarding Grace. She got naked, so of course he tried to have sex with her. Over and over, even though she asked him to chill out, even though she was not responding physically to him, even though she was visibly uncomfortable and said many things to indicate she wasn’t into it. She didn’t scream “NO” and storm out of there, so she deserved what she got, right?

Wrong.

Maybe she wanted to connect with him on an intimate level; kiss, hold him, touch – but not be treated like a blow-up sex doll. Maybe she found him funny and adorable, and was hoping to have some intimate contact that didn’t involve him sticking his claw fingers down her throat like they were reenacting some seedy Pornhub video.

I know that sex is a biological need, and that men are programmed to be hunters and conquerors. I wrote that story.

Eating is also a biological need. Does that mean I get to act like a savage, and grab food off of your plate when you are clearly not into sharing?

Women are socialized from an early age that we are responsible for men’s sexual excitement, and if they get aroused, we’d better do something about it. Men are culturally programmed to believe that the endgame is sex – even if a woman seems lukewarm about it. To keep pushing until she gives in.

When my mother died/kid was in the hospital/furnace blew up/ I wanted to be held. In each of those instances, I knew men I could have visited. But there is no way they would have been open to just holding me without sex.

And until I have a boyfriend or a husband, I will not be entitled to lay next to a man, skin on skin, and simply be held. If we should kiss, or stroke one another’s bodies, he is going to expect sex. And if he’s an inept lover who watches a lot of porn, he’s going to do crude things that women don’t really enjoy. Picture this scenario:

Me: *lies in his bed, wanting comfort because my mother just died*

Him: *fishhooks my mouth*

 

There are so many social situations that require careful monitoring of the other person’s reaction. We teach our kids to follow social cues, so they know if they’ve crossed a line or invaded someone’s personal space.

Why is this not the case in sex? Of all personal interactions, this is one in which careful monitoring of the other person’s reaction should be imperative.

The Ansari incident is unfortunate, because he was simply doing what he thinks is normal dating behavior. But it started a necessary conversation, and hopefully we can eventually dismantle this ridiculous cultural programming of expected sex.

By the way, I work two jobs to support my family. If you take me out for a nice dinner and pay, you’d better be prepared to pay my mortgage and utility bill. I’m a struggling single mom. Don’t be a tease.

 

Are there any women who HAVEN’T had sex when they didn’t want to? 
What is with the “claw fingers in the mouth” move? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, so I can have friends without leaving the house. And it gets pretty interesting over there…

One For Sex, One For Money, and One For Love

 

Vanessa, the Reigning Queen of the strip club I worked at in the 90’s, had figured out the secret to the male/female dynamic.

She insisted that women can simply not get all their needs met from one man.

It takes three. We need one man for sex, one for money and one for love.

 

In my 20’s, I didn’t *look* for specific qualities in a partner.  I once fell in love with a man because of how he looked hailing a cab in the rain.

 

Now, in middle age, women have a roster of specifications. We want someone tall/smart/kind/successful/funny/sexy/fit/rich/woke.

We’re pushing ourselves right into the”die alone with cats eating our faces” sphere with these provisos.

 

And yet – why delegitimize my needs? Maybe it’s not about the size of his biceps or the car he drives, but it’s about making my soul sing.

 

Music Biz Guy is smart and kind and not only knows who Patti Smith is, he LOVES her. We share an appreciation for kitschy films and great books. He talks me down from the ledge when I travel to receive writing awards and can’t leave my hotel room.

He’s for Love. Platonic Love. I’m not attracted to him at all. I’ve tried. Even copious amounts of tequila, which is always a reliable kick starter for my libido, has failed me. No spark, no ignition.

 

Muscle Man – well, I’m not sure what he’s into. Like most men without body fat, he pursues very little outside of the gym. But he makes me feel safe.

He’s for Sex. Also possibly for High Contrast Photos. His skin is the most sublime dark chocolate. But not for Love – I could not love someone whose brain I didn’t want to lick.

 

Top Cop is smart and successful and fit. Perfect age for me – mid 50s. He has a summer house on the beach and can order a bottle of wine like nobody’s business. He is for Money. Possibly for Sex. Definitely not for Love.

He doesn’t know Iggy Pop from Iggy Azalea. My sordid past would worry him. He’s always been a Responsible Adult, even in his 20’s. He was having kids and passing out cigars while I was raising hell and passing out in clubs.

 

Rocker Dude is smokin’ hot. We have amazing physical chemistry. He’s super smart and very creative and basically perfect – except he’s crazy.

When I don’t respond to his texts he sends me 40 more. He’s intense and verbose and the male version of me, only I’m the male version of me, but either way he’s out of his mind and we can’t BOTH be like that.

He’s blowing my phone up right now. Remind me to never stick my dick in crazy, okay?

He’s for Sex. Maybe for Love? Definitely not for Money and most certainly not for Ever.

 

 

 

So many women place the majority of their identity into being the partner to one person. Twist their ankles stuffing their foot into that glass slipper.

I’m not looking to start a family with someone. Why shouldn’t I live at the apex of possibility?

 

If I could find everything in one man – one person – I would be with that person.

I want a man who will brew me coffee while I write. Let me sit on his lap and act like a little girl, even though my therapist claims that’s unhealthy. A man who will figure out why my kitchen cabinets don’t close and who will rotate my tires and that’s not a metaphor for ANYTHING except automobile maintenance.

I want a man to Pretty Woman the shit out of me. BUY ME THINGS.

Yes, I’m THAT woman.

Take me shopping on Madison Avenue, take me to Hawaii, get me a goddamn maid.

I’m the woman who wants to ride on the back of your motorcycle to a dive bar in Asbury Park. The woman who will tell you to get that neck tattoo, the woman who doesn’t give a shit what you earn or what you drive or where you live as long as you can carry me up a flight of stairs and fling me on the bed.

Yes. I’m THAT woman.

I’m the woman who wants NO responsibilities, to be in charge, to wear The Pants, to never wear pants, to do it all, to sit on the couch and just listen to the house settle and breathe.

I’m the woman who will steal your soul, heal your heart, serve you breakfast in bed, refuse to cook, kneel at your feet, smash plates when I’m angry and give you makeup sex so good you’ll always be looking for a fight.

I want a man who will love my roadmap of scars, my slaughtered dreams, my relentless need, my clenched fist, my hollow disregarded heart.

I want a man who loves me, not DESPITE the fact that I’m insane, uncivilized, emotional, unreasonable and unrealistic, but BECAUSE I am.

I want a man who knows that bliss is hidden at the center of our raw, aching parts.

I want a man who will love even the tarnished clichés of the paragraphs I just wrote.

 

I will build a collection of men to fill my needs, knowing that they can never be met.

Until then, I’ll slay dragons and kiss princes and dream of the day I can tell the difference between the two.

 

Have you found your soul mate? Does that exist?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Come hang out with me on Facebook and Instagram so I can have friends without leaving the house.

Porn, Power, Pain and Feminism

I woke up with my ass covered in a sunset of bruises, ranging from angry red to purpley-blue. My neck was sore and my scalp tender from having fistfuls of my hair pulled. My lips felt swollen and torn and my throat was streaked with finger marks.

It had been a fantastic night.

 

I like rough sex. I’ve been a pain slut for as long as I can remember, all the way back to college when my then-boyfriend used to tie me up and whack me with a hairbrush.

I need a partner who is dominant to my submissive sexual nature. I’m not into it as a lifestyle; it’s just a kink I like in bed. I’m not even sure how kinky it is, given some of the shit I’ve stumbled on while searching tumblr for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the night.

I also love porn. In the pre-Internet 1990’s, the Ex and I had to drive into the Bronx like degenerates to buy our porn from sketchy porn purveyors. We had a sizable collection. My personal favorite was a 19-tape cheesy fake-lesbian series called “Where the Boys Aren’t.”

I have never publicly expressed my predilection for being sexually submissive, and I have only touched on my fondness for porn, because I often questioned my own desires. I was afraid that I was colluding with misogynists to objectify and dehumanize women.

Is my love for porn enabling an industry that is incompatible with feminism? An industry that profits from debasing women, forcing them to do things they would never otherwise do? I have read some chilling accounts of former porn stars who claim just that.

Even now, with this article – am I writing from a place of privilege about how I can ‘choose’ to be oppressed, when so many women face that in real-world scenarios, sexual and otherwise?

Does BDSM and porn contribute to the inequity of women?

I think not.

Women everywhere get off on the power play that sexual dominance and submission represents. Many may feel guilty about admitting it, but it’s pervasive. Long before ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ (which isn’t even a true BDSM story, but seems to have been mistaken for one), BDSM culture has been eagerly consumed in film, literature and music. Sexual power-play tropes were packaged in Harlequin romance novels your mom bought at the supermarket decades ago. #YourMom #ThatsRightYourMom #DealWithIt

And why do you think the “smokey eye” look is considered to be so sexy? It looks messy, smudgy; reminiscent of having been up to naughty things, like having a dick smeared all over your face.

 

Sweet tender lovemaking doesn’t do it for me, never has.

I dated a man I referred to as ‘The Cop’ on social media. He was a great guy; in fact, he was a favorite among my Facebook friends to the point where a gaggle of them were planning our wedding (???). When the relationship ended, I attributed it to our vastly different schedules, but in truth, we were sexually incompatible. He was passionate, but always tender and gentle, and when I wanted him to spank me, he said he was too much of a pussy protector to ‘hurt’ me. He didn’t care for my filthy language in bed, either.

Every time we were together, I left with my stomach knotted in sexual tension. I was craving creamy chocolate mousse cake and being fed a dry Triscuit. I would leave him and end up sexting with an online friend I know affectionately as “Hot Buttered Sock Puppet.”

To be clear: the degradation and debasement of women is not a turn on for me. I’m picky about what sites I go to. I look for sex positive behavior where two (or more) people are together as equals. I object to women being used as demeaned receptacles; I prefer porn where her pleasure is every bit as important as his. Some people refer to this as “feminist” porn. I only know that if I am watching rough sex on-screen, I have to know that it’s consensual.

 

In light of the recent election, I am not being extremist when I say I fear a bleak future for women, one in which we have been stripped of all of our most basic rights. I believe there has never been a time when it is more important for women, for people, to stand together. I have become almost paralyzed, to the point of not wanting to write.

I’ve finally come out the other side of this. My declaration of feminism is more important that it’s ever been. To that end, I refuse to hide my brand of sexuality. I am who I am, and I like what I like. And I am a feminist.

I am wholly self sufficient. I have not now, nor have I ever been, financially dependent on a man. I have been supporting my child since he was born. I raise him without gender stereotypes. I’m his mom, and I’M the one who taught him to ride a bike, play basketball, throw a punch. I believe in the power of women to create world change. I champion women emotionally and artistically and in every way I can. I do not view other women as competition, but as comrades.

I know that there will be anti-porn feminists who disagree, who purport to speak for women, but I don’t fall within their victim narrative. The fact that I love porn, and that I enjoy being sexually submissive, is not a backtrack from equality. As a rape survivor I can state unequivocally that consensual sexual fantasies are not rape. They are FANTASIES, which by definition, makes them NOT REAL.

My sexuality is not a brochure for my political views: it’s how I fuck. It doesn’t model my values; it just gets me off, and it gets me off no where other than the bedroom.

 

Are you kinky? Fess up!
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

(I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people wondering how I am. I’m GREAT! I will try not to disappear again! I’m working on several writing projects, some music projects, and busy with several life changes but I don’t want to stop blogging. I love you guys!)

The Phone Call

 

“So, basically you just said anything so you could fuck me, is that it?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Yes. Of course!”

His blunt honesty dumbfounded me momentarily, the way an oncoming headlight blinds you. Disoriented by his unabashed admission, I blurted out a rhetorical, “But why?”

“Why do you think?” he said. “Because that’s what men DO. We tell you what we want to hear so we can have sex with you.”

I wanted this to not be true, despite the fact that I believed it was. I should have hung up on him right then. But now I felt like I had stumbled upon a tunnel into a secret room where All The Questions would finally be answered truthfully. And I am a truth seeker.

“All men, all the time? Or just you, because seriously, you were relentless!”

“Oh, you were definitely work,” he said, “but I knew if I kept feeding you what you wanted to hear, I’d get you eventually. But yeah, all men, all the time. Married, single, whatever. We say what we have to say so we can get laid. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work.”

I needed air.

I cracked my car window open and the cry of cicadas suddenly filled my car in surround-sound. They were louder than usual, and harsher, as if their haunting vibrato was the audio manifestation of my inner despair.

I was in my car driving home from open school night when I had called him to tell him that no, we weren’t going to be seeing each other anymore and that I didn’t like the way his behavior had changed. That he had gone from months of constant dogged attention to a more disinterested and sporadic communication.

After we had sex, that is.

Now I was pulled over on an unknown street, my car idling in the dark. Up ahead, I could see the lights of the stores still open on Route 9, and I fought the intense urge to drive to a nearby 7-Eleven and buy cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in years, but suddenly I really, really needed one.

“So that whole first conversation we had, when we were on the phone for hours – was everything you said designed to get in my pants? I wasn’t even going to meet you, but you convinced me to have dinner with you that first night with all the shit you laid on me, about how women are emotional and sensitive and men need to be strong and supportive for them.”

“Yep. I knew that’s what you wanted to hear, so I said it. We had a great dinner didn’t we? We must have, because look where it led. I thought of it as an investment.”

“Dude, that is fucking cold! I mean, I’m jaded as fuck, but really?”

“Really.”

Fuck cigarettes. I needed tequila and opiates.

I said to him, “I don’t even want a relationship! Not a romantic relationship, but just friendship. So when I told you that I couldn’t commit to a relationship, but that I did want a man who would be there for me as a friend, you said you wanted to be that man just to fuck me?”

“Yep!” He laughed. “Why does this surprise you?’

I hated the way he sounded. Cold. Detached. The cruelty tingeing his voice gave him a hardness that didn’t even sound like the man I had spent time with.

“It doesn’t surprise me, ” I answered. “It’s just disappointing. Despite the fact that I think most people suck, I still want to believe that there might be a few decent human beings left. But this is exactly why I don’t get involved. This.”

“I thought you said you wanted to have this discussion in person,” he said. “Why don’t you come over?”

“Come over??!” I was aghast at his inane suggestion. “Because my kid is waiting for me at home, and also, I’d punch you in your face now if I came over!”

He chuckled. “I doubt that. How tall are you? I’m 6’4.”

“Are you drunk? You’re just shy of six feet! What, did you suddenly grow four-”

I stopped.
“Who is this??” I demanded.

“This is Michael. Who is this?”

I looked down at my phone.

I had dialed the wrong number.

 

Did you ever dial a wrong number and have a wake-up call?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. For real, I am NOT leaving my house!

Dear Women: Please Stop Faking It!

 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing?”

I was trying to manuever us into the Cat position, and he was mystified.

Apparently, all the *other* women he’d been with had stupendous, earth-shaking orgasms just from the insertion of his Mighty Mighty Penis. And while this is certainly possible for me, why wouldn’t I want to have a different kind of orgasm, or three or seven?

 

Women don’t have sex to have orgasms. Unlike men, we don’t need that climax to feel complete. We have sex for all the other amazing feelings it elicits, but achieving orgasm is not always the be-all and end-all.

 

EXCEPT ME.

HELL YES, I WANT TO HAVE AN ORGASM AND IF I DON’T,  I GET PISSED OFF!

All these other spine tingling feelings are, well, spine tingling, but if I don’t climax, my vagina turns into a wildebeest and howls at the moon.

 

The reason why so many men are inept when it comes to making a woman climax is that too many women just fake it.

I have no idea why. That’s like going into a restaurant, ordering a fabulous meal, and then walking out, rubbing your stomach and saying,  “Wow, that sure was delicious,” and you didn’t eat anything.

Many women don’t want to explain to their partners what they need to have an orgasm. Maybe they feel like they need to present their orgasm to a man as proof of his prowess, to finesse his dainty ego. That’s ridiculous. Women are all so different, a good lover understands there will be a learning curve involved.

If a man can’t handle being told what gets you off, he’s not the right person to be having sex with. Period, end of story. Buh bye.

Some women start to feel bad if it’s taking too long. Don’t. Are you double parked? There is no “too long.” This isn’t a task that needs to be rushed through, like turning all the hangers in your closet in the same direction.

(Okay, if you have little kids, all bets are off. Then it’s every man/woman for himself until someone walks in. In this situation, I found that wedging a Hitachi Magic Wand in between the Ex and me sped up the whole orgasm process. It was magic, aside from my kid wondering why we were using a chainsaw in the house.)

 

We are all so different, not just in terms of sexual preference, but anatomically. Some women really have difficulty reaching climaxes through intercourse alone, which may be because their G-spots are small or more difficult to locate. Some women just prefer clitoral orgasms, whether they know where their G-spot is or not.

Tomato, To-mah-to. Whatever kind of orgasm it is, it’s irrelevant as long as it makes your whole body shake and your toes curl.

Also, the female hormones released in middle age (40 plus) increase a woman’s sex drive. No, this is not an urban myth. Yes, we get more sexual and orgasmic as we get older. It’s a beautiful thing. Vaginal orgasms only became an item on my sexual menu after I hit 40.

 

Men. Please know how to kiss. If you attempt to unhinge your jaw while flopping your tongue down my esophagus like a fish out of water, it’s not a good sign that you are responsive to my needs. I love the sounds of sex, but not the wet “flpflpflpflpflpflp” sound of your tongue slapping against the roof of my mouth.

If you like music to set a mood, then find something that’s going to play awhile without interruption. Never leave an iPod on shuffle. Woman don’t get quite as excited about the Pokemon theme song as you might imagine.

And we would prefer you not have a heart attack because you’re trying to keep up to “Trapped Under Ice” by Metallica. It’s hella awkward if you die on top of us.

Women’s lady parts are nature’s Rubik Cube. You’re going to have to invest a little time into figuring out what works for each woman. This is where the whole “faking it” thing is the Destroyer of Climaxes.

Men, be willing to try anything. There’s a whole world of sexual positions. Change it up. Be adventurous. Try the Flaming Amazon (set her pubes on fire), the Blanche Devereaux, (sex while watching a Golden Girls Marathon), the Texas Rodeo (mount her from behind like a wrestling hold, whisper in her ear, “this is how your sister likes it,” then try to stay on for 8 seconds.)

If you’re telling a man what you like, and he says, “It’s not sexy when women talk in bed,” find a way to get out of their, fast. Fake your own death if you have to. This is the same man who will squeeze your tits like a pair of bike horns. He doesn’t want you to explain anything. He thinks he can “read your signals” because you yelped and jerked out of his vicelike grip while he gave your breasts one-handed Indian burns.

 

Women of Earth, please stop faking it. If you fake your orgasms, he’s never going to learn anything. You are ruining him for all the women who come (or don’t) after you.

And men –  if your woman tells you, “The only way I can climax is for you to drive me to New York, escort me to the top of the Empire State Building and hum the Star Wars theme while you play with my butt,” your immediate response should be, “Let me get my keys.”

Wasn’t that a movie? “Sleepless In an Imperial Starship,” starring Tom Hanks?

 

Have you ever faked it, or been with someone who did? WHY??? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house.