Dr Liz Conor is about to blow your mind, and potentially upset your tummy. Depending on your proclivities, and possibly your gender.
I recently took to fucking around. A 25 year union ended and I went off like a frog in a sock. It occurred to me, when in human history has it been available to a woman to practice complete sexual autonomy. This, I ruminated, mentally gesturing to my nethers, is mine. It answers to no-one but me.
For some months I kept a stable. From this small sample of HetMen (one shy of a Dirty Dozen) I have made some entirely unsubstantiated generalisations about them. I hereby freely indulge in category thinking – but then we’re allowed, because HetMen run the joint and on their watch we are all going to hell in a handbasket. They’ve so got it coming.
Come to think of it, they were not only Cis HetMen, but they were nearly all white. So we have even greater cause to cast aspersions on their like. Particularly this week. Between asphyxiating sheep, Banker Barons and Reef Rage I am apoplectically murderous toward the White HetMen who have willfully set us, and all lifeforms, on a program of mass-suicide without maybe checking in on the public liability of the cool-aid first. Not drinking it.
Fuck ‘em I thought. So I did. In the process I was startled to summon they were also humans and I frankly love that species, with an ardor and passion most people reserve for captivity-bred mountain gorillas. I was intimate with these fellows. Along with hankering and hammering there were snuggles and smooches. They were, to the last, awfully sweet, and I wholeheartedly granted them the opportunity to redeem their Dominant Paradigm. To reach beyond the hegemony with their warm encompassing man hands. I got stuck on two of them and greatly fond of the rest. Confuzzles.
Nevertheless I did reach some unsubstantiated, virtually untried yet extremely close-up, conclusions about this category of humans that may advance our understanding.
It is mostly bald men who want to pull women’s hair. The last of my man-harem had only just flung me across the hotel bed when he grasped a handful of what by then was a matted shag-nest and wrenched my mouth from his. “Come on, kiss me,” he said yanking my head away repeatedly, “why don’t you kiss me”.
Now like most of us, I totally get the porous boundary between pleasure and pain. When roused. And though he had regaled me with stories of sex parties and sex cruises (!) on the red casting couch under the big round window of the Supper Bar, he sprang this on me as his opening move and it pissed me off – at the same time as I washed over cold, alone with this virtual stranger on the 23rd floor of an empty cavernous concrete carbuncle where no-one could hear me scream.
So I reached around and likewise grabbed a fistful of his atypically fullsome hair and jolted his head ceiling-wise. “Come on, kiss me,” I hissed, “bring it”. Then I propped a heel under my hip, flipped the fucker over, straddled him, twined my trusty black velvet scarf around his throat and gave each end a sharp tug. “Do not fuck with me,” leaning in.
Needless to the say this was taken as further encouragement so when he then tried to suffocate me with my red yarn dress I got out of that too and said, “Don’t frighten me. It’s not sexy for me to be frightened.” Then he behaved and a very good time was had by all.
But I ask you. Really. Does it need to be said. Or doesn’t it need precisely that – saying. And first.
I baited you dear readers, with that title and a full exegesis cannot tarry any longer. But first you need to be appraised of the facts on Squirting.
Men who watch porn – I can free-wheel sweeping-statement right here because this is a largish sample, close to definitive it seems – pick up all sorts of tricks for which I am mostly obliged but increasingly circumspect.
Much in the same way Hollywood stumps up an It Girl each year, porn has its annual It Twirl – a little flourish or display by the feminine body of ecstasy and frantic satiation through some new, hitherto unthought sex act. As an industry porn could not exist without (largely contrived) transgression (oh help, we are so censored!!) and modernity’s principal imperative – novelty.
And if it can’t be caught on camera, it pretty much ain’t happening as far as pornographers are concerned. Eyes rarely close on the internal reverie of sexual rapture in porn and there’s a reason for that. Porn is a seeing thing and the central obsession of HetPorn is the outward manifestation of women’s sexual pleasure.
Bit of a shame you can’t actually see female orgasm. It is hard to film the deepening of labial vermillion, their climactic ridging, the molten exuding, the palpitation of cervix and other apotheotic stuff that we don’t even have words for yet. Obviously I don’t mean the thrashing and shrieking either – good job girls, we are entirely convinced and in furious agreement – I’m talking about a money shot for women. Or is there.
What a woman’s body lacks porn will supply – by way of disavowing with all manner of fetish – and I swear squirting is this year’s It Twirl. In my absurdly unrepresentative sample it, pardon the pun, came up a lot. Men wanted me to gush. They wanted my waters to break.
Now where precisely, in a woman’s pelvic cavity, might she be stashing a spare pint of clearish liquid? Since I can guarantee you click-baited on the hyperlink provided above, I know you know that in the 40% of instances in female ejaculation we might shoot 30-150mls of liquid – less than a third of a small glass and hardly the kind of torrent porn is propagandizing.
Then there’s the impediment of women generally being, well, stoppered when climaxing, usually with one appendage or another. Hard to ride the rapid past a series of well-placed digits pulsating one’s g-spot, unless of course your Skene’s glands can produce 400-800 mls of liquid. Like, say, a bladder.
It was heartbreaking, truly, to have to disabuse my stable of their desire for me to wet their beds (or floors, or kitchen tables, or organ lofts, as the case may be). But therein lies the rub of pornography’s 2018 It Twirl. Ultimately it is about Hetmen’s eternal hankering for displays of their sexual mastery over women’s bodies. Involuntary feminine flourishes of crazed consummation and abandonment. This is really something Hetmen like to see us women do.
This is handy, for which of us Hetwomen doesn’t hanker for the same? We are in the main more than willing to oblige, right? But wetting men’s beds. It somehow seems descriptive. Why is it always down to us women to draw the line on what our bodies can and can’t do, on what we will and won’t do, on what does and does not please us?
Sexual autonomy, even in the #MeToo era, is always already compromised by men’s porn-induced fantasies. Somewhat exasperating. To avail myself of this hardwon feminist sexual utopia only to have to shoo off the garbled simulacra of sexually partisan Hetporn.
I should’ve stipulated that before auditioning, my stablehands needed to recite the abridged Hite report, or maybe watch porn through a critical, circumspect lens and not believe porn’s hydraulic hype.
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