Category Archives: Sex
Come one, come all, ladies, and join in this festive sharing of furry overgrowth and joy!! No Shave November (sometimes referred to as “Movember” or “Noshember”) has come once again! Take pictures and fend off the itchies as we take the plunge together in a fight against clean-shavenry. (Ok, you caught me; I’m totally making up some of these words.)
When I first heard of it, I was on Twitter. #NoShaveNovember was trending, so I got curious. I thought, “Oh, ‘No Shave November,’ huh? I might try to do that. Could be fun. Wonder what it’s about.” I then noticed a tweet in my feed from the lovely ladies of Ms. Magazine; they claimed that Twitter was going absolute batshit with misogynistic crap on the topic. I thought, ‘Nah, really? It doesn’t seem like something an entire internet community would get up in arms about. Sometimes these gals are sensitive. Maybe there were three or four things they didn’t like and now they’re pissed off. Best to check for myself.’ I clicked on the trend, and this is what I found:
Aaaand so. The message was clear. Women who do not shave their leg/armpit/pubic hair are seriously disturbing the order of the universe and should be punished thusly.
Interesting, I thought. While men can choose whether or not to sport a face-full of wool (meanwhile cultivating lengthy leg/pubic/arm hair all year round with no complaints from outsiders), women are relegated to the “undesirable” discard pile of life if they do not conform to the social demands of the mandatory depilatory duties.
Even on Noshember.com’s website, they encourage men and women alike to “unite in the height of laziness,” but still refer to body hair as something horrid that one wouldn’t want to reveal to the general public:
“Plus, it is cold enough to wear scarves or jeans (respectively) to cover that unsightly hair.”
Why is body hair so scary? We were born with it; it is a natural, normal part of our bodies, like our eyelashes or our earlobes. And yet… it horrifies so many people. I’ve never heard anyone protest that if a guy walked in the room with a beard they’d literally run the other way, but I have heard that said about female body hair. Female leg hair, facial hair, pubic hair and armpit hair is apparently inappropriate in all situations at all times.
Yeahh, ummm… I don’t think so. I say fuck em. You can’t simply decide for me whether or not I will grow hair on my body.
Yes, but no one will EVER want to have sex with you in your entire life if you never shave!
Well… #1. That’s bullshit and #2. We’ll never get anywhere with that attitude. If everyone simply complies with the status quo and shaves their body hair all the time (or becomes embarrassed when they are caught unshaven, or brands the women who don’t shave as “unkempt” or unattractive), why would anyone else bother to reconsider their narrow viewpoint of beauty? If, once in a while, people bumped into beautiful women with body hair, they might reconsider their “hairless-only” policy. So let’s fight this where it lives! No Shave November for all!! One of our biggest obstacles as a gender is that we allow ourselves to be shamed into submission. There are few who dare cross the line, since the social ramifications are swift and harsh.
In fact, I recently saw a scathing article about Mo’Nique, who was on the red carpet, showing off her unshaven stems. The article began like this:
She may have won a Golden Globe to Best Supporting Actress this week, but larger-than-life actress Mo’Nique won’t be winning any awards for her personal grooming.
Fortunately, fans flooded the comment section, rushing to her defense. If there were more celebrities like her who refused to be shamed into compliance, maybe more people would open their eyes to the ridiculous nature of these social demands.
Now, don’t misquote me or twist my words. If you don’t want to shave, don’t shave. (Don’t worry; you will still get laid!) But if you do enjoy shaving, please do. Just know that, regardless of your level of hair growth, someone will screw you and someone will love you. And you are not, in fact, disturbing the balance of the universe.
On a more personal note: I’m a pretty hot, fun, sexy chick and I guaran-fucking-tee that I’d be able to get 50 guys to fuck me despite my body hair within 20 minutes. And… Gimme a break, ladies. You’re really going the extra mile when you’re chiming in with the misogynistic bullshit these guys are piling on. Feel superior for five seconds, enslave your gender for another century. Whatever floats your boat, I guess… but I’d really appreciate it if you stopped helping. Thanks.
It’s iPhone madness here in the virtual world of gay-bashing. [Edit: This week, news broke that Apple was getting a little heat from receiving commission from links to anti-gay organizations. But that’s really no surprise.] The one and only rainbow-clad-fruit company has found ways to approve several hurtful, stereotypical and derogatory apps aimed squarely at the GLBT community. Their Manhattan Declaration app was intended to encourage a community cult comprised of people who are anti-women’s rights, anti-gay-couple-adoption rights, anti-extramarital sex and anti-gay marriage to sign an inner-circle petition which expresses these tenets. In this “declaration,” they also voice their disregard for man’s law in favor of “God’s law.”
They respect laws, they say, as long as they go along with their personal Christian dogmas:
“Through the centuries, Christianity has taught that civil disobedience is not only permitted, but sometimes required… Unjust laws degrade human beings. Inasmuch as they can claim no authority beyond sheer human will, they lack any power to bind in conscience.”
As an example of “inspiring” civil disobedience, they cite the abandonment of orphaned children by a Catholic Charity… as a good thing:
“After the judicial imposition of “same-sex marriage” in Massachusetts, for example, Catholic Charities chose with great reluctance to end its century-long work of helping to place orphaned children in good homes rather than comply with a legal mandate that it place children in same-sex households in violation of Catholic moral teaching.”
In regards to proponents of gay marriage, they state, “They [couples who fall outside of the heteronormative categorical] fail to understand, however, that marriage is made possible by the sexual complementarity of man and woman, and that the comprehensive, multi-level sharing of life that marriage is includes bodily unity of the sort that unites husband and wife biologically as a reproductive unit… If [marriage were redefined], it would lock into place the false and destructive belief that marriage is all about romance and other adult satisfactions, and not, in any intrinsic way, about procreation…”
I mean, if this ain’t a forward-thinking, positive, socially-mobilizing app, I just don’t know what is!
But that’s not all! If you liked the Manhattan Declaration, you’ll LOVE Exodus’ “Gay Cure” app. This app is for unsatisfied cocksuckers and rug-munchers who wish they could pray away the gay! The Exodus project is described as “a therapeutic, clinical process that operates under the premise that men and women dealing with same-sex attraction are attempting to restore broken familial relationships in an insufficient, unhealthy way.” Right. I probably like vagina because I was breastfed as an infant. Or something.
Back in the real world, even schoolchildren can check biology texts for more cohesive facts. Thankfully, these morally reprehensible programs were pulled off the market once those iGeniuses realized that one rotten app could spoil the whole barrel.
In response to their app being pulled, Exodus International’s Senior Director stated, “We want to ask that there would be fair and equal representation of religious belief on this platform as is already existing. We would like the spirit of diversity and tolerance that is so valued within the LGBT community.” Yes, of course. All they want is the spirit of tolerance that will allow them to freely condemn innocent people as hell-bound sinners for their sexual orientation and brainwash them to feel irreparably-destructive guilt about their natural sexuality. I mean, isn’t that what Jesus would want?
I was recently reading an article about Eva Longoria’s lesbian love scene in a new comedy, “Without Men.” My blood really started pumping when I thought about Eva and some other beautiful woman trading lipstick in the name of old-fashioned, gratuitous, girl-on-girl, softcore-for-the-mainstream visuals… but then my lady-boner was knocked down with this statement from the Huffington Post:
“It was a little difficult as the two girls are both straight so they were very nervous and laughed a lot,” the film’s director, Gabriela Tagliavini, told Fox News. “But I think that just made it even lovelier. [Female audiences] don’t want to watch porn, so it was all very sensual, both are very beautiful women aside from being incredibly funny.”
First of all, I don’t see how two straight women kissing is lovelier than two women who might actually want to kiss each other. Secondly, what?!? I’m a woman and I find myself absent-mindedly browsing the web for naked ladies and fantasy material on a regular basis. Besides, the Internet makes porn so readily accessible that it’s practically impossible not to get sucked in (no pun intended) to look at something naughty, even when you’re not really looking for something naughty. When a person says something like this, what are they really saying? Are they saying women don’t have a sex drive? Are they saying women don’t masturbate?
I keep hearing how “men are more visual than women.” Since I am neither a scientist nor an omnipotent being, I can’t attest to the validity of this statement. However, I do know that when I’m staring at a dick (or a vagina, for that matter), or even when I’m looking at someone attractive who has clothes on, I’m usually revved up and ready to go. I refuse to believe I’m the only female on the planet who is sexually stimulated by visual input. Besides, how do you explain all of these women who fall for good-looking jerks? Obviously, women are sexually aroused through visual stimulation. Why aren’t they watching porn? Who says they aren’t?? A scientific poll?
Many women don’t want to be seen as “sluts.” Because of this, they are less likely to explore something like porn for fear of being caught… and if they do explore porn, they probably don’t fess up to it.
Do women watch porn? YES. Don’t be naive. Do they constantly broadcast it or wear t-shirts and buttons that advertise their appetites? Um, no… well, unless they’re me 🙂
1993’s Demolition Man had promise at first glance. One of the lead characters was an adventurous female with Kung Fu moves, perfect aim and, best of all, a hint of bloodlust. She plays a futuristic law enforcement cadet who is fascinated with the 20th century (now, the “old days”). She has a sort of dopey, clueless charm but maintains an air of personal tenacity and proves she has nothing short of a titanium backbone.Wesley Snipes was a psychotic criminal who gave the audience the vicarious pleasure of brutally – and with flair – outsmarting the super-whitey police force and its overlording white establishment.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well… let’s begin with Snipes’ character (Pheonix) who, despite being a bad-ass criminal way back in the 20th century, is only now “truly intimidating” due to physical and mental enhancements bestowed upon him by a white man during his incarceration in ice. The capper? Even with these upgrades, Pheonix is incapable of defeating our hero, white guy Stallone. Our warrior cries against the inhumanity, the injustice, the prejudice, the abuse, the oppression, the corruption and the racism of the white establishment are drowned in Pheonix’s unfathomable death at the hands of our hero, white guy Stallone.
Unfortunately, that’s not where the travesty ends. After Bullock’s character (Huxley) proves herself to be a first-rate marksman, the audience’s excitement builds in anticipation of her certain role in day-saving. Wrong again. Right before our hero, white guy Stallone fights the evil Simon Pheonix, he renders Huxley unconscious, promising her it’s for her own good. He then goes on to save the day alone, once again restoring white male order to the universe and defeating the evil, however somehow still inferior, black criminal. When the dust settles, Huxley actually thanks him for keeping her out of the big finale. This statement is particularly bewildering since she has heretofore shown no signs of shying from danger and has enthusiastically plunged into any and all peril with gusto and drive. An integral part of her character’s motivation was her dissatisfaction with her mundane life of order and safety.
And the cherry on top: despite her forward sexuality in an earlier scene (she outright asks Stallone if he wants to have sex), the white male order is once again restored to the universe when he literally sweeps her off her feet romance-novel-cover style and plants one on her. And she didn’t even make it on the cover.
So… yeah. Whatever.
It’s just another disappointing caucasian male ejaculation on the summer dress of egalitarian potential. Boo. Damn, I really hate the good old days.
It was recently brought to my attention that there are A-sexual individuals who populate this world right next to us indiscriminately leg-humping horndogs. I hadn’t previously considered the fact that there were people out there who had no sexual attraction to others or that there were those with zero sex drive who weren’t interested in sex at all. Once I realized this, I thought myself very narrow-minded and self-focused to never have contemplated this possibility but I tried to forgive myself because most people don’t become aware of things in a vacuum; they have to expose themselves to outside sources and influences in order to become educated and informed. That’s what reading is for. That’s why human contact with a variety of people is necessary.
Back to the point: here on this little blue marble, there is EVERYTHING, ranging from full-on “sexual addiction” to A-sexuality and ALL of it should be respected. However, use of the word “slut” points toward the complete avoidance of voluntary female sexuality. Female sexuality is only acceptable as a passive acceptance of the inevitable penis which must invade our helpless vaginas, because it is the way of things. Amen. However, if a female is utterly and completely uninterested in said penis, she is considered a deficient anomaly to be similarly dismissed and marginalized as “abnormal.”
To make things worse, our culture pushes emphasis toward the sexual median and forces all of us to walk a fine line between harlotry and frigidity, asserting that neither “extreme” of sexuality is acceptable. If we are completely uninterested in sex with others, we are defective and have issues. If we are too enthusiastic about sex and relish the opportunity to engage in every available casual encounter, we are overzealous and have issues.
If a “slut” is a promiscuous woman, how do we define “promiscuous”? By church-going, Republican-Baptist standards, promiscuity is pretty much defined as any extra-marital sexual engagement. Even a quick rub-and-tug. By free-loving, debauching, Liberal-atheist standards, promiscuity is alleged when you don’t know their first name. In the adult industry and swinging community, promiscuity isn’t a term that’s really even taken seriously; it’s considered laughable and ridiculous — however, this phenomenon is due to the commonality of casual sexual encounters and has little to do with tolerance of others. Those same adult communities ridicule those who choose not to participate with multiple partners.
The intolerance of diverse sexualities plagues our nation, with everyone attempting to shame everyone else to sexual practices that are more like their own. Don’t be gay, be straight. Don’t be slutty, be abstinent. Don’t be straight, be gay. Don’t be gay, be bi. Don’t be A-sexual, be a slut. Everybody’s human. Why can’t we just hump when we want to?
Just in case you don’t know the answer to this question, it’s PATRIARCHY. (Again.)
Why is that? Well… because that’s how oppressive, insecure men prefer their women: compliant but not too eager (lest a woman’s sex drive cause her to find a better dicking somewhere else.) And the Patriarchy is the system under which oppressive, insecure men set the cultural rules. If our cultural norms reflected female perspective, men would be similarly shamed for infidelity and promiscuity. But under current rule, there is no shaming word for men who like to fuck. There also isn’t a comparable word to the stigmatized “frigid” for men, either. That’s because men get to fuck who they want when they want – and don’t fuck who they don’t want to fuck – and they refuse to be shamed by their preferences.
Unfortunately, part of the problem is women themselves. Women help pass around the word “slut” and “whore,” eagerly slandering and belittling each other with the weapons that men happily wield against them. This is not because “women are naturally competitive.” Men are naturally competitive, too. If we lived in an oppressive Matriarchy, men would turn on each other in the same way women do in order to compete for validity. But here we are, clawing our way through the crowd to prove our sexuality and denounce our whoredom, therefore affirming our validity in a Patriarchal world. We’re truly pathetic.
Why can’t we just like ourselves and wait for the person who likes us back? Let’s stop buying into the degrading makeover reality shows and be ourselves for once; do we really believe that men will forever deny us? Are we really that convinced that we have to make out with our best friend to score dick on the weekends? Let’s fuck who we wanna fuck, labels be damned, and laugh in the faces of those who would try to insult us with meaningless references to our conquests. Let’s be proud of our sexuality, whatever it is, and deny the Patriarchy the right to shame us for what we do with our own vaginas.
Collectively, as a society, we decide what is culturally “beautiful” based on what we see depicted as sensual, sexual and beautiful on a regular basis. Maybe if there were more fat girls depicted within the sexual, sensual arena, it would help our culture accept fat sexiness as fact.
The problem doesn’t lie solely in the fact that women are emphatically encouraged to feel shame about their bodies and to “fix” them if they are not the required size or proportion; the fact is, people who are attracted to fat women (and men!) are shamed as well. If people aren’t allowed to speak up about their attraction to fat women and men, how are the “skinny slickers,” the “toothpick tappers,” the “bone bumpers” ever going to realize that not everyone sees it their way.
I have finally come out of the closet after battling with myself for YEARS… my name is Nikita Blue and I am a “chubby chaser.” I myself have wished I had softer curves and a gentler physique all my life. Even as a young girl, when I thought of sensuality, I imagined a voluptuous goddess with a soft face, tender eyes and a pouting smile. I dreamed that I’d be with a girl like that someday… or maybe even be a girl like that someday. However, my body was destined to be scrawny and diminutive my entire life.
As you might guess, I was never one to be particularly swayed by the media (largely because I grew up in a restrictive, Baptist home and we weren’t exposed to much media) or by my peers (I also had few friends, partially due to my lack of desire to “blend”). However, this desire – my sexual interest in fat girls and boys – was one that I immediately learned held great shame. Powerful shame. I still dated the boys and girls I liked – and I typically dealt with the discrimination through fights, defending my lovers’ body weight to insecure, often stick-bodied bullies of both sexes – but I never truly ‘fessed up about my preference for full-figured gals and barrel-chested men. I knew it was forbidden. When friends were gathered, divulging the dirtiest details about their sex lives and fantasies, I knew that my secret crushes and lusty daydreams would be scoffed at. So I kept my mouth shut and simply nodded enthusiastically, agreeing with whatever they said and whomever they admired, even if I could find no angle of interest.
For a while, I thought I was a lesbian altogether, since men with their musculatory systems hanging out at me held NO interest whatsoever. But I finally came to the conclusion that I just didn’t like those types of men. I wanted something more.
Once I finally came to terms with what I really wanted, I still kind of had a problem with the word “fat.” Why? Well, it’s obvious: people use the word as an insult, not a statement of fact. “Yeah? Well… you’re fat!” (It also seemed to be a word which “naturally” coupled itself with “ugly.” You don’t want to date Sarah’s sister; she’s fat and ugly. Fat-and-ugly. Fat-and-ugly.) Sooner or later, everyone gets the point.
But “fat” is not – and should not – be an insult. Some people are fat, some people are skinny… most people have fat – and, no, it doesn’t mean that those people should be terrified of diabetes or heart disease or whatever, for God’s sake. Breathe, and relinquish all concern for a person’s health to that person… and breathe… okay… now, some people are fat, some people are skinny, and most people have fat. (Also, lots of people smoke cigarettes and drink, but they don’t get dragged onto talk shows with family members who are “concerned” for their health.)
But because of the fact that I’d been fed the huge LIE that beautiful = thin for so long… and the equally-as-damaging lie that people who get turned on by soft curves or meatier muscles have something wrong with them, I have been in the closet with my secret for over 20 years.
I love ALL of the fat on my boyfriend’s body. I also love every follicle of hair, every square inch of skin and every powerful muscle.
And I’m not ashamed to tell you that I think fat women are HOT.
Rosario Dawson, Hollywood starlet and activist extraordinaire – a thesbian who has involved herself in a plethora of admirable causes from environmental activism to racial equality, GLBT advocacy, women’s rights, global needs and domestic violence prevention – swooped in to save the day for embarrassed, close-mouthed molestees everywhere at the 2011 Independent Spirit Awards.
It all started with a joke. The setup was that Eva and Paul had a “really funny bit” planned where he was going to grab her tits, but they were running out of time… and that’s when Paul Rudd grabbed her tit, apparently going ahead with the plan – a long walk for a lame, shock-factor half-a-laugh. Then again, award shows have gone downhill in terms of entertainment value lately, and the pathetic, failed grasps at humor have come to be expected.
However, the flaccid drollery had already been shamefully executed and the lights had gone down… and still, as the clip montage was running, Eva’s breast continued to suffocate in Paul’s grasp. Dawson told CNN what she was thinking as the moments crawled by:
“He did this vice grip on her breast, and I was like, OK, it was funny for like a second. But then it kept going and going and going. And then the lights went down and the clip started rolling and he was still vice-gripping her! I was sitting there with my fork like, ‘If he doesn’t stop, I’m going to stab him with my fork.’”
Sure enough, Rudd didn’t release his grip, and – sure enough – Dawson leaped onstage and stabbed him with her fork! But Rudd wouldn’t have it; he remained fastened to Eva’s chest… so Dawson did what she had to do, in the name of equality and protest: she grabbed his package. Mendes’ laugh had a touch of hysteria as she squealed, “What’s happening?” and her hands fluttered anxiously on the envelope. She read off the winner, sounding stressed and flustered.
The boob-grab/crotch-grab incident was criticized by some as an overreaction by Dawson to the situation; by others, it was condemned as a disgraceful lowering of the discourse; and others disregarded Rudd’s offense entirely, pointing accusatory fingers only at Dawson.
Racialicious.com’s Latoya Peterson said it best: “Activism is about education – but it is also about protest.”
The problem is, we don’t know what Mendes was or wasn’t thinking or feeling. It’s our job, as activists, to err on the side of caution – whenever we see a citizen in trouble; whenever we sense danger or encounter fear; whenever we perceive a sister to be in peril – we will be there. We will not hesitate, we will not fuck around.
Superman never twiddled his thumbs and neither do we.
Go Team Dawson!!
As I perused the aisles of blockbuster for a decent action flick conducive to adrenaline-pumping romance with my boyfriend, my guts were suddenly clutched by the sight of this pink-framed, psychotic barbie staring at me from the shelves. With one mischievously-raised eyebrow, she held a fork near her mouth where a tiny, helpless groom was impaled on the tines. The title, accompanied by her maniacal grin, could only mean one thing: this movie would definitely piss me off. Instead of merely rolling my eyes, I plucked it from the display and read the back.
Clarissa has every detail of her wedding planned. She has the dress tailored, the invitations labeled, and the due date set. Now all she needs is a groom! A Hollywood “it” girl who knows all the players, Clarissa finds herself turning 32 and realizes that although she can get any hot celebrity on the phone, at home, she’s all alone. She decides it’s time to get hitched, and starts planning her own wedding with the confidence that she can hook a husband using the same cunning and guile she uses to navigate the Hollywood social scene. Sarah Chalke stars along with Judy Greer, Gregory Harrison, and Maria Conchita Alonso. Based on the best-selling novel by real-life Hollywood player Gigi Levangie Grazer, Maneater recounts the hilarious adventures of one woman’s search for true love in the land of fake boobs.
Gulp. Flushed with agitation at the blatant sexism depicted in the summary, I wisely chose to put it back where I got it… until Patrick (said-boyfriend) chimed in, “Why don’t we get that one, too?”
Fierce negation electrified my gaze as I curtly replied, “No fucking way.”
“Why not?” he pursued, intrigued.
“Because it would definitely piss me off.”
He immediately snatched it from the rack and countered, “Then we’ll watch this one first.”
Okay, I thought. Fine. Maybe it will be funny. Maybe it won’t be as bad as it seems. Worst case scenario, I’ll blog about it.
So, ladies and gents, it has come to this: the worst case scenario. But here’s the problem: there was so much to barf at, I’m not sure I can make a quality post about all of it. So here are just a few things that can be found in this Lifetime Original movie:
- Ageism – The intense emphasis on the horrors of getting older (without a man) is borderline-ridiculous. The insinuation that women are no longer cool, attractive, nor fashionable once they breach the 30-year mark is deeply embedded. (Actual quote: “Haven’t you heard? 20 is the new 9!”) However, the worst-fathomable consequence of aging is the inability to obtain a husband (Actual quote: “What I have to offer has a shelf life!”) – which is what the entire movie is about.
- Sexism – I can’t even begin to describe every disgusting nuance and rude comment, but how about this: one of the Main Character’s friends is smeared, to her face, as a “feminazi” by a southern “gentleman” who claims to “know how to treat a lady” – a lie that the audience is made to believe, since he was offering to push in her chair for her. She later falls in love with him, offering viewers an example of a “happy ending” for a frustrated girl with “daddy issues” who typically falls for married jerk-offs. And, btw, ALL relationship issues that women experience somehow track back to their paternal intimacy.
- Racism – I was floored to see this issue surface. The expectation of sexism was a no-brainer and the ageism was inevitable… but the racism was a bit of a shock. To begin with, Clarissa’s arch “frenemy” is a woman of color – absolutely gorgeous – and, at first, I didn’t catch on. This chick was fierce. But the running theme of the movie was that Clarissa stole every man she ever had away from her. That bugged me. I thought, Every man? Really? Not even a friendly back-and-forth? I was about to consider myself oversensitive when, suddenly, enter the pool-boy love-interest, Pablo. A lilly-white-girl with super-conservative, upper-class fam falls for gardener/pool-boy/caterer and her true love inspires her to bravely, occasionally, subtly request acceptance of other cultures. Okay… but then Pablo’s friends are all ex-cons – that he met while in prison – and not one of them is white. Adding insult to injury, when Pablo and friends arrive to cater an event, the matriarch of the palace exclaims, “You didn’t mention the house was being robbed!” Ouch.
The plot, in a nutshell, is Clarissa’s manipulation of – and eventual marriage to – an up-and-coming Hollywood star. Her father was a jerk, so she rejects intimacy (Daddy issues for everyone!) Her mother was a homemaker who considered it an honor to iron her cheating husband’s shirts, so she rejects the traditional housewife role. Clarissa is every career woman – in other words, chicks who are just waiting for the moment their life can truly contain meaning. (Meaning is another word for “husband and baby.”) Manipulation and harassment, if it leads to marriage and pregnancy, justify the means. All we women need to hear is that we’re pretty, and we know he’s The One. If we want to score a man, we must demurely accept all displays of chivalry and refrain from displaying any personal strength (Actual quote: “I’d offer to carry something for you, but I wouldn’t want to mess with your empowerment.” – Prince Redneck Charming.)
Since all’s well that ends well, each and every single woman – AND I MEAN EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM – isn’t single anymore at the “happy” ending. And we know Clarissa is with the right guy when we hear, “I never thought anyone could tame her.” Because, after all, if chick flicks have taught us anything it’s that once you’ve been tamed and impregnated, there’s no where to go but up!
“Why Men Love Bitches.” As soon as I laid eyes on that title, I knew I wanted to get to know this book a little better. And, like most bad relationships, it was good in the beginning. Don’t chase him, Don’t cook for him, Limit your availability, Believe in your worth – most of the first few sections of Sherry Argov’s book are fairly attractive (and contain practices I implement effortlessly, anyway.)
And then we arrive at page 75. Dumb Like a Fox: How to Convince Him He’s in Control While You Run the Show. Just the title gave me an uncomfortable tingle in my lower back. I knew something noxious was lurking on the other side of the page… and then – whoa. Check this one out: “When you appear softer and more feminine, you appeal to his instinct to protect. When you appear more aggressive, you appeal to his instinct to compete.” Yeah, um…. I’m going to have to call bullshit on this.
Maybe the guys she’s been with have had major insecurities… but I am here to tell you that lots of men are attracted to aggressive women. My current boyfriend loves it when I’m aggressive. In fact, if I wasn’t, he’d lose interest.
I don’t know how she does it – I suspect her idea of flirting is squeezing a guy’s bicep and cooing at it – but when I flirt with a guy, I’m usually battling wits or playing some sort of mental tag with him. I’m showing off. I’m “arm-wrestling” him a little. This does not turn guys off… competition is intriguing. However, Argov argues that when you “give a man the impression that you want to ‘wear the pants,'” you’re competing with him. When you compete with a man, according to Argov, he “plays to win at your expense,” since you’ve now become his opponent, and “good luck getting anything that way.” Personally, I prefer telling a man outright what I want and what I don’t want. Why? Because people tend to do better with clear instructions.
She then offers helpful tips on how to make him feel studly. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of these propositions, and when I read them to my boyfriend, so did he.
Argov’s Suggestion: If you hear a noise at night (like a bird pooping on the roof), act really scared. Tell him to check to see “what that noise is about.”
What I’d Actually Do: Grab my asp and pepper spray, get up, investigate, and devise a hypothesis. After determining it was a pooping bird, go back to bed.
Argov’s Suggestion: Ask him to open a jar that you can’t open (even if you can) or unzip your dress (even if you can reach it.) Or, you can ask him to lift a small box for you.
What I’d Actually Do: Open my own jar… though I would definitely let him unzip my dress if I thought it might make him horny… but, dammit, why stop at a small box? I’d make him lift a big box if I was struggling terribly with it – like my 60-inch TV. Thank god he was here to help me get that son-of-a-bitch upstairs.
But here’s the thing, Shel: aren’t you defeating your own purpose in the long run? I mean, are you really going to act that way all the time?? No, of course not – so what happens when you slip up and accidentally lift your own small box or kill your own spider or open your own jar? Won’t his ego be crushed and devastated from the realization that you didn’t really need his help all of those times? How manly will he feel when he figures out you’re feigning weakness?
If you truly want him to feel manly, show that you’re capable and strong. Then when you do need him, he will really feel needed. He’ll know that he did something big. Something important. Something macho.
He might even grunt with pride, if you’re lucky.
Seriously, Shelly, your exes must’ve had issues. Stand up for yourself? Yes. Be mysterious? Definitely. Play hard to get? Absolutely. But please don’t tell me to feign incompetence so that he’ll be attracted to my inferiority. That’s not foxy. That’s just dumb.