Saturday, January 24, 2004

There’s some new lesbian show out. I hear it sucks; but the topic of today’s blather concerns a friend who told me about columnist Maureen Dowd’s (earth tones! Run!) take on the show: that it’s no better than a beer commercial, of men exploiting women’s affection for their own erotic gain.

(edit: A Google search resulted in the original column at the New York Times, locked up for pay. Can somebody do something slightly left-field and send me the article, so I can see if I should eat crow or not?)

Now, I have seen neither the show nor Dowd’s column (it’s the morning, I avoid reading these times), but I’d like to barf. I’m sick of how no woman can ever express her sexuality without being “controlled” by men. We’re all sick puppies who need to be freed by the stranglehold the Penis has on us. Oh, have I mentioned the Penis and the Phallic Symbolism? Penis Penis Penis! Oooooogghhhh!!!

So yeah, I was at school once and heard a discussion of “feminism.” Most people in our group, mostly girls, were afraid to call themselves feminists, because the label was inherently restrictive on what they can and can’t do with their bodies. This broke my heart; feminism is supposed to free you to make your own choices. When did the switch happen?

Anyway, for the record, I don’t need healing, and I’m not being pulled by puppet strings reaching from the Galactic Penis that threatens to homogenize our society with the far-reaching penis of patriarchy. (And while you’re at it, stop critiquing what kind of sex we have for the content of its gender politics. I see this all the time in the queer community and it makes me want to puke all over some guy’s penis. Really.)

So, anyway, also for the record, feminism means you believe in equal rights for men and women. Men and women can join the party. Come on, like Rebecca West said it, “I do not know what a feminist is, all I know is that I am called feminist when I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat.” (Actually, the full quote is “doormat or a prostitute,” which kind of pisses me off. Why should prostitutes not be allowed to be feminists? But let’s move on...)

So let’s all get to work and differentiate ourselves from doormats. After all, doormats aren’t very sexy, right? (giggle)


(written in my Morning Haze; I start out with strange openings, so forgive me if they throw you off. It's the only way I can write)

Come on, I feel sick. I wanna go home. Take me home and fuck me long into the night so I can feel like I have a purpose for maybe an hour or so.

Yeah, Naomi Wolf says that’s seen as the female existence, a lot of women give themselves up to teenage boys thinking of it as their right of passage into adulthood. That makes me wanna cry, but yeah, I’ve felt it before. I’ve felt that I need to defile myself early on, because I’m going to be in the missionary position for the rest of my life and I might as well enjoy it. It’s part of what’s fueled this blog; yes, I enjoy it, but sometimes I go a little to far in the feminine passivity department. I don’t need to be passive to be a woman, and I can enjoy sex without succumbing to it.

Oh, man, I do need healing. I need to have that naked walk on the beach in the sunset with my mentor, with me about ten years younger, so we can bond and she can tell me all the secrets of womanhood and we can pace around get sand on our feet and be one being for just a little while, and I’ll be safe inside her aura. I... need a mother figure.

Ugh, this is too much. I’m’a go do homework.
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