It was the best first night of fucking ever and not because the sex was the best first sex ever. (It wasn’t. It was very, very nice, but we never quite got past what our Others had liked in the past.) Much to my chagrin, I have to admit I was flustered and more than a little off my game because the thought kept repeating itself in my head: “God damn, I’m actually petting a fucking unicorn!”
I had begun to think they were extinct. Mythological creatures hunted by cryptozoologists until they were cornered into a hinterland far from prying eyes. But I was wrong. They exist still. And I met one just a little while back: a man. A real, live man: untamed and undomesticated, uncompromising, very clear in his boundaries, and without a whiff of situational ethics about him. He actually has integrity. Imagine. (Well, at least as far as I can tell.) Yep, they do exist. And I actually got right up close to him and was fortunate enough to touch him.
He’s a dark horse, this one. Not at all the stereotype of a “real man.” (Joke that it is.) But there is just an indescribable something about him that is different. Fire in the belly? Yes, but not that evident from watching him. The way he carries himself? Well, no, not quite that, either. His words are few and precise. He can be downright blunt, which is incredibly refreshing because it isn’t the usual oppositional/defiant thing to show off how smart he is (and he is extremely intelligent) – he just says what he thinks, whether he agrees with me or not. Like I’m an actual adult person and can deal with this type of behavior in a man. It is sooooo nice for a change, dammit! Then there’s the way he looks right into my face – something I find a little unnerving. (Let me ‘splain: I come from a long line of coal miners: you look at the other person’s face while they’re talking to light it up and watch expression. While you’re talking, you look away so they can shine their light in your face.) I’m just not used to being studied so and it makes me feel a bit shy. Yeah, I know: me? Shy? Give me a fucking break. Veritas, fellow groundlings.
In short, I like him. He’s solid and real. I’m very glad he inhabits my small part of the world. In Southern terms, I’m glad to know him. I hope I know him for a long time, in whatever capacity he chooses.
If it sounds like I’m a little bit in love, I am. But I know better than to have any expectations with a wild creature. And all real men are wild. On the other hand, I’m tickled to be a little in love. Forgive me if I ride this wave for a while because it’s been a long while since I’ve felt anything similar. It’s fun.
Who is he? Well, let’s just call him Conor. What did we do together? Well, that is NOT going in the blog and for several reasons. But I will say he couldn’t have been sweeter or more passionate. I’ve learned a real man can be extremely strong and then gently kind within seconds of one another. Always suspected this was so and now I know.
And, being a real man, Conor fearlessly voiced a hand-to-God opinion and handed me a jewel.
There are times in my life when I cling to old ideas simply because no better paradigm has made itself known. Generally, these obsolete notions are rather like those sheets I had in college that I never seemed to find the money to replace: I knew not to move my feet to that side of the mattress because my big toe might get stuck in the hole and rip it larger. So my world – and my bed – seemed a little smaller, more confined, a little less free. And I’ve been holding onto a wrong-headed idea for some time. I’ve felt cramped, but I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt that way. I just knew, given time, the teacher would appear. He did. And he had something to say.
Yes, I’m paraphrasing. But not by much. The words are his.
“It’s time to put that whole idea of sex-within-the-first-five-minutes-is-a-bad-thing to rest,” he said. “You’re perpetuating a myth that’s outmoded. Frankly, whether I respect a woman has fuck all to do with whether we have sex right away or not. It has to do with character.” Told you: he’s a man. (Hard not to love a man who uses “fuck all,” now, isn’t it?) Conor sighed. “Besides, many women beg to be lied to.” (What I think he meant was that they abdicate responsibility for their actions in this way.)
My subconscious got the point. Women. Character. Strength. . . That was the jewel. In my subconscious, it was already evolving, turning over and inward on itself.
My conscious mind whooshed right past it. I told Conor I still think there are predators out there (i.e., the man-wannabes) who exploit the hell out of insecure, confused females. And, yes, I admitted being a little protective of both my sisters and myself when it comes to assholes who lie to us for expediency’s sake and who see us as nothing more than fuckholes. Not people, mind you, and not human beings: fuckholes and only fuckholes. Objectification. To me, it’s a grave but ultimately surmountable injustice: something to be pointed out and excised. (Like I am going to change the mind of a predator. Yeah, stupid, I know. I can be very dense, at times. I admit it and own it.) I went on to say that the women who allow themselves to be exploited hurt all of us and feed that monster. It’s a man’s world. Blah, blah, blah. But I wasn’t happy with what I’d said. It wasn’t sitting right in my gut.
Conor didn’t point out that I had missed his point entirely: he is a real man and strong enough to be kind. Besides, something else came up. So to speak.
But I got to thinkin’ about my position in this whole fucked up scenario and I realized I was part of the problem. I saw and owned my hypocrisy. You see, in taking this protective stance, I was being the victim’s advocate. And a victim’s advocate, ipso facto, needs a victim, no? Shouldn’t we as women just fucking own the world as much as men do without asking permission from anyone? Haven’t I always said I was about freedom? What if women don’t want to instruct men on how to treat them as something besides fuckholes? And what if men don’t want to learn? Aren’t we all free to choose to be persons of integrity or assholes or cunts? Isn’t feminism about the freedom to be one’s self and make choices? So what if that choice is to fuck a man within seconds of meeting him? So what if the choice comes from abject insecurity or just the fact that you can see he has a really big dick and a nice pair of hands? Am I not infantilizing women and giving the assholes too much power in this paradigm? And on the flip side, am I not encouraging cunts to be even more cunt-like and use sex as a weapon?
Finally and most importantly to this venue, wasn’t I buying into the whole double standard thing? I mean, exactly who fucks whom? I’m the one who is always preaching that we should get past the different rules thing. You know exactly what I mean: men fuck women, women get fucked. Passive voice. Or do we? No one wants to get fucked. We want to fuck, period. The ideal is mutual fucking, beyond all the power and control shit. But people will either see this or they will buy into the power and control paradigm. Either way, it’s not my choice to make for them. They are free to choose, just as I am free.
So I’ve changed my sheets and reframed things a bit. “Wouldn’t it be nice, Titania, if everyone were as enlightened as you are?” Yeah, well, maybe. . . but I doubt it because I know I still have a lot to learn – and mostly from others who are more enlightened than myself. “If you ruled the world. . .” Yeah, well I don’t and life would be too much the same if I did. It would be boring and safe and not half as much fun. I’d HATE it!
So I now see the fear in my former protective stance. And fear is the complete opposite of freedom and coming from a place of love. Being safe doesn’t require strength. Vulnerability requires real strength. Being free requires being vulnerable because less enlightened (i.e., more “dangerous”) people are also free. So, by turning over the jewel and studying it I’m stepping outside my comfort zone and becoming even more vulnerable because nothing in life means more than freedom (not even fucking). Fear keeps our power in the hands of those whom we fear. Take it back and they’re not half so scary.
“Yes, I’ll have that back, NOW. That power belongs to me. It’s got my name written all over it.”
Oh, and by the way, Conor: you know that sweet little slap on my ass we both like so much? I reserve overtly sexual PDAs for lovers, not Friends with Benefits. In private, it’s fine. But YOU set that boundary, dude. Don’t cross it unless you mean it. I abhor lies in any form. Veritas, indeed, but veritas et aequitas.
Confessions of a Denver Cougar 