Recently, I was surmising about the sexual objectification of women. On my Facebook profile, I even went so far as to question, "If I've got it, should I flaunt it?"
And, here's the reality. Here's the stone cold, hard truth of the matter.
EVERYONE HAS IT. EVERYONE HAS SEX, as in a gender, as in a body with which to act out sexual fantasies, as in an ability to be objectified!!!!
Little 5-year old girls go missing and end up dead because of it.
And, coming of age teenage boys are sexually abused for it.
Sex is easy, folks.
What is hard is listening to the voices that say "No. Although you are attracted to that young woman, she is only 16. And, even though, you are just a mere 24, you must refrain. You are her teacher, and it is best for all involved if you do not get involved."
What is hard is talking about our sexual fantasies, about where they come from and who they are with. About the dreams we have at night and the visions that float through our minds when we masturbate.
What is hard is engaging with other sexual beings in soft, supple ways that are brillaintly sensual but do not distill these neccessary moments down into the heaviness of sexual longing.
We all want sex.
So, how do we get it?
How do we fulfill this very basic human need?
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
On Sex, Take II
the spark
found in another's big, deep eyes.
there lay
an unspoken agreement
of what could possibly be,
of moments in time to come,
or of what once existed and took place,
in some other realm,
on some other plane,
somewhere.
it is the succulent lips,
the prickly, dragon fruit of thailand,
where you feel yourself drawn
and desiring to seek out with your
own
small,
pink
pucker.
a hint of possibility
it brews
in your stomach.
your harbored
animus reawakened
mewling
like a cat in heat
as it prowls
back and forth
behind
the glass, window pane
crying
for just
one
more
last
look
at whatever brought you here, to this place of
absolute
need.
a need to know
what he tastes like.
salty?
as though he has just emerged from a refreshing dip in the ocean?
or cold?
like a flapping goldfish on a hardwood coffee table where an aquarium home resides? maybe, his mouth is warm, like a southern gulf coast where there is no reprieve to be found from a summer sun's rays?
it is a need to decipher
smell.
is she fruity in the hollow of her neck?
or, is she musky in all the glory of her birthday suit?
are her pheromones compatible with your own?
do you still want to kiss that sensual opening even after having wallowed in the stank of a stale mouth?
intimacy shared
innocence lost
the start of relationships
and the end of friendships.
where do we begin?
and with who?
do we only speak of those whose bodies and orifices we came to know quite well?
or, do we also mention the fleeting dreams,
as well as the unsavory realities?
do we only write of sweet kisses?
or, shall i briefly touch upon lustful embraces?
do i only speak of passion?
what of the need to use,
and be used, in order to fulfill short-term satisfaction?
how do we quantify and qualify these must-have sexual, life experiences?
a greek god sauntered in through my bedroom door.
at the time, i was living near frat row, on prospect street in berkeley,
california. nearly forty-eight hours later, he walked out, leaving me only tom robbins' "a roadside attraction" and the memory of an opportunity seized.
he was 6'4, muscular yet thin. with fair features and attributes, he was a far cry from the mirror image i had, for so long, been attracted to (dark and brooding). blond, closely shaven hair. piercing eyes with irises of a soft azul that conveyed quiet power. he was a stoic, old soul, traveling the american countryside in search of learning what his ivy-league experience could never teach him.
in the split second it took for me to welcome him in to my quaint abode, he held my breath in the palm of his long, outstretched hand. spiraling energy coursed through my veins, corkscrewing, and bringing to life an aged, and perfectly fermented, fine merlot.
my mouth, dry. my eager anticipation, on fire. his soothing voice, slow as honey.
he poured his liquid tongue all over my writhing body.
he offered enormous passion, - for life, love, and sex. it was unequal to anything i had been privy of before. he knew woman's wants, pleasures, and form, like so few men care to, or do, know.
despite all of my pent-up emotion,
regardless of my puritanical upbringing,
i denied the subliminal messaging.
instead,
i reveled
in complete
abandonment.
i physically gave all that i had
knowing
full well
that all i would be left with would be the occasional, email update,
forever.
still, i made no attachments to those blissful, momentary meetings
of saliva
and body fluid.
when another king of the renaissance arrives, extending an open invitation,
to join his armed band of nomads, i will gratefully accept.
i will luxuriate
in the knowledge
that it was zeus who led me here
to this momentary blink of the mythological eye
of time and space.
devan
wes
kale tej
it is the feel of their names on my tongue,
it is the way that my teeth come together with every spoken syllable.
rachel ivory omar leo
a diversity of shapes, sizes, colors, and beliefs.
christain
keenzia kevin keith
mark mario tim and teak.
small waists that fit within the crook of just one arm
broad backs, and large pectoral muscles cupped in greedy hands
soft, supple breasts
legs and arms entwined.
bodies mold into indistinguishable heaps
listening ears
grasping toes
tickling tongues
jamie, jason, jay, and jimmy
matt with one 't'
andy, anthony, and albert
dominic, david, and dee.
human beings desperately trying to reclaim
wholeness
attempting to remember
a beginning
the first nine months of development
spent in utero
on this planet earth.
sudhu
line.
she was a drop dead gorgeous dane. as we perused the lengths of a south sydney beach, the heads of young, pop culture attuned men, and women, turned. she was a booby blonde. a pin-up without a poster. western man's masturbation embodied.
and she wanted me, this petite voluptuous brunette woman.
she would purrrrr to me to
"think of me" as i drifted off
into a southern hemisphere slumber.
she wished aloud to sleep on her hostel cot snuggled up to my female form, instead of alone, and aching.
when we first met, i made a bet with myself. "i bet she is here with a staunch, over-protective boyfriend," i said in my head. but he never materialized and instead, it was an unimposing i who accompanied her to an italian dinner of pasta, bread, and salad, and who shared a bottle of vodka over laughs and conversation of a high school, best friend-turned lover, - a sultry, southe american who had returned home only to be missed by this nordic queen.
as the clear intoxicant emptied itseld of its previous container, into the hears and souls of these two lonely travelers, i felt my libido punding out a rhythmic tempo rap tap tap rap tap tap rap rap rap.
we walked back along a cliff lined shore, towards our temporary shelter on the hill. it was only natural that we stopped along a boulder strewn path and made our way onto the ground, and on to the top
of one another.
found in another's big, deep eyes.
there lay
an unspoken agreement
of what could possibly be,
of moments in time to come,
or of what once existed and took place,
in some other realm,
on some other plane,
somewhere.
it is the succulent lips,
the prickly, dragon fruit of thailand,
where you feel yourself drawn
and desiring to seek out with your
own
small,
pink
pucker.
a hint of possibility
it brews
in your stomach.
your harbored
animus reawakened
mewling
like a cat in heat
as it prowls
back and forth
behind
the glass, window pane
crying
for just
one
more
last
look
at whatever brought you here, to this place of
absolute
need.
a need to know
what he tastes like.
salty?
as though he has just emerged from a refreshing dip in the ocean?
or cold?
like a flapping goldfish on a hardwood coffee table where an aquarium home resides? maybe, his mouth is warm, like a southern gulf coast where there is no reprieve to be found from a summer sun's rays?
it is a need to decipher
smell.
is she fruity in the hollow of her neck?
or, is she musky in all the glory of her birthday suit?
are her pheromones compatible with your own?
do you still want to kiss that sensual opening even after having wallowed in the stank of a stale mouth?
intimacy shared
innocence lost
the start of relationships
and the end of friendships.
where do we begin?
and with who?
do we only speak of those whose bodies and orifices we came to know quite well?
or, do we also mention the fleeting dreams,
as well as the unsavory realities?
do we only write of sweet kisses?
or, shall i briefly touch upon lustful embraces?
do i only speak of passion?
what of the need to use,
and be used, in order to fulfill short-term satisfaction?
how do we quantify and qualify these must-have sexual, life experiences?
a greek god sauntered in through my bedroom door.
at the time, i was living near frat row, on prospect street in berkeley,
california. nearly forty-eight hours later, he walked out, leaving me only tom robbins' "a roadside attraction" and the memory of an opportunity seized.
he was 6'4, muscular yet thin. with fair features and attributes, he was a far cry from the mirror image i had, for so long, been attracted to (dark and brooding). blond, closely shaven hair. piercing eyes with irises of a soft azul that conveyed quiet power. he was a stoic, old soul, traveling the american countryside in search of learning what his ivy-league experience could never teach him.
in the split second it took for me to welcome him in to my quaint abode, he held my breath in the palm of his long, outstretched hand. spiraling energy coursed through my veins, corkscrewing, and bringing to life an aged, and perfectly fermented, fine merlot.
my mouth, dry. my eager anticipation, on fire. his soothing voice, slow as honey.
he poured his liquid tongue all over my writhing body.
he offered enormous passion, - for life, love, and sex. it was unequal to anything i had been privy of before. he knew woman's wants, pleasures, and form, like so few men care to, or do, know.
despite all of my pent-up emotion,
regardless of my puritanical upbringing,
i denied the subliminal messaging.
instead,
i reveled
in complete
abandonment.
i physically gave all that i had
knowing
full well
that all i would be left with would be the occasional, email update,
forever.
still, i made no attachments to those blissful, momentary meetings
of saliva
and body fluid.
when another king of the renaissance arrives, extending an open invitation,
to join his armed band of nomads, i will gratefully accept.
i will luxuriate
in the knowledge
that it was zeus who led me here
to this momentary blink of the mythological eye
of time and space.
devan
wes
kale tej
it is the feel of their names on my tongue,
it is the way that my teeth come together with every spoken syllable.
rachel ivory omar leo
a diversity of shapes, sizes, colors, and beliefs.
christain
keenzia kevin keith
mark mario tim and teak.
small waists that fit within the crook of just one arm
broad backs, and large pectoral muscles cupped in greedy hands
soft, supple breasts
legs and arms entwined.
bodies mold into indistinguishable heaps
listening ears
grasping toes
tickling tongues
jamie, jason, jay, and jimmy
matt with one 't'
andy, anthony, and albert
dominic, david, and dee.
human beings desperately trying to reclaim
wholeness
attempting to remember
a beginning
the first nine months of development
spent in utero
on this planet earth.
sudhu
line.
she was a drop dead gorgeous dane. as we perused the lengths of a south sydney beach, the heads of young, pop culture attuned men, and women, turned. she was a booby blonde. a pin-up without a poster. western man's masturbation embodied.
and she wanted me, this petite voluptuous brunette woman.
she would purrrrr to me to
"think of me" as i drifted off
into a southern hemisphere slumber.
she wished aloud to sleep on her hostel cot snuggled up to my female form, instead of alone, and aching.
when we first met, i made a bet with myself. "i bet she is here with a staunch, over-protective boyfriend," i said in my head. but he never materialized and instead, it was an unimposing i who accompanied her to an italian dinner of pasta, bread, and salad, and who shared a bottle of vodka over laughs and conversation of a high school, best friend-turned lover, - a sultry, southe american who had returned home only to be missed by this nordic queen.
as the clear intoxicant emptied itseld of its previous container, into the hears and souls of these two lonely travelers, i felt my libido punding out a rhythmic tempo rap tap tap rap tap tap rap rap rap.
we walked back along a cliff lined shore, towards our temporary shelter on the hill. it was only natural that we stopped along a boulder strewn path and made our way onto the ground, and on to the top
of one another.
Friday, April 24, 2009
It's All About the "Little" Things..(Take II)
As a human, what truly feeds, sustains, and nourishes me is the amount of time that I spend engaging, interacting, and being with others (as well as other creatures/things).
I am extremely fortunate to engage with a community of dancers weekly, some of whom have been consistently meeting together for the past twenty years. In this milieu, and in this environment where a platform of non-verbal communication is agreed upon, I am provided the space to work through the crises and neuroses of my own everyday life. Sometimes, I even find dance partners who are willing to negotiate with me. My time spent here, twisting, twirling, and talking, ripples out in concentric circles into the other facets, compartments, and arenas, of my meager existence.
More and more, I have been enjoying stopping by Mario's coffee shop for my refill of daily java. Ever the keen entrepreneur, Mario's shop is staffed by a bevy of beautiful babes, a gaggle of gorgeous girls. This little fact does not always delight me. It isn't the girls, or the understanding that there is something about this dynamic that Mario really likes, in so much as it is about some of the customers. Usually men, more specifically, who ride on through with eyes sparkling of objectification. This drinking in of womanhood and distilling it down to simply sex and symmetry really gets my guard up. Why is this, - especially when I can so easily object myself? Hell, if I objected myself more often, then maybe I'd be more "successful" than I am today. It isn't it this, though.
What it is, is this: as woman, it is easy to believe that your power is situated in the amount of attention you accrue from members of the opposite sex (specifically, white men). It is so easy to forget the small things that feed you and to, instead, focus on the superficial, - on the hair cuts, on the cute shoes, and on the shopping at Target. On the glances that come your way, and on the men who want more, - a name, a number, a date, an opportunity for sex.
Sex is great, don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating for celibacy here. I'm just saying that my sex is only skin deep. And, when I forget this...
Case in point: One of Mario's employees, and friends, is super cute. At only twenty-five years of age, she has spent a short lifetime attracting the not-always- desired attention of males. With dark, olive skin and exotic features, her petite frame is fawned over. Men and boys, literally, froth at the mouth in their wanting of her, of her sex, of whatever fantasy her visual image conjures up in their small brains.
For the past few years, I have witnessed her sense of self wither amidst this unasked for, and even undeserved (after all, she really has nothing to do with the genes she was given at birth), absorption. She has spent too many days, weeks, and months, not eating, purging what little amount of food she did partake of, and then drinking excessively (given her weight and size). Desperately, she sought to retain control of this self-perceived "power." Naturally, she would always fall short of maintaining it. For, it was always just an illusion.
In her 'Reading Lolita in Tehran,' Azar Nafisi writes: “Dreams are perfect ideals, complete in themselves. How can you impose them on a constantly changing, imperfect, incomplete reality? You would become a Humbert, destroying the object of your dream; or a Gatsby, destroying yourself.” (page 144) Today, however, when I pulled my sputtering Volvo into the black paved parking lot of the coffee shop, I looked out of my windshield with glee as my eyes fell upon this same, young woman.
Today, she has filled in her hard edges with soft curves. Her angular body no longer has a strained, taut appearance. She looks comfortable, vibrant, and happy. She is in love, and she is actively working through the day-to-day of taking care, - of caring for both herself and another.
In Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love" (which I also highly recommend right along with Nafisi's book), Gilbert writes of her travels through Italy:
"I came to Italy pinched and thin. I did not know yet what I deserved. I still maybe don't fully know what I deserve. But I do know that I have collected myself of late - through the enjoyment of harmless pleasures - into somebody much more intact. The easiest, most fundamental human way to say it is that I have put on weight. I exist now more than I did four months ago. I will leave Italy noticeably bigger than when I arrived here. And I will leave with the hope that the expansion of one person - the magnification of one life - is indeed an act of worth in this world. Even if that life, just this one time, happens to be nobody's but my own." (page 115)
I am extremely fortunate to engage with a community of dancers weekly, some of whom have been consistently meeting together for the past twenty years. In this milieu, and in this environment where a platform of non-verbal communication is agreed upon, I am provided the space to work through the crises and neuroses of my own everyday life. Sometimes, I even find dance partners who are willing to negotiate with me. My time spent here, twisting, twirling, and talking, ripples out in concentric circles into the other facets, compartments, and arenas, of my meager existence.
More and more, I have been enjoying stopping by Mario's coffee shop for my refill of daily java. Ever the keen entrepreneur, Mario's shop is staffed by a bevy of beautiful babes, a gaggle of gorgeous girls. This little fact does not always delight me. It isn't the girls, or the understanding that there is something about this dynamic that Mario really likes, in so much as it is about some of the customers. Usually men, more specifically, who ride on through with eyes sparkling of objectification. This drinking in of womanhood and distilling it down to simply sex and symmetry really gets my guard up. Why is this, - especially when I can so easily object myself? Hell, if I objected myself more often, then maybe I'd be more "successful" than I am today. It isn't it this, though.
What it is, is this: as woman, it is easy to believe that your power is situated in the amount of attention you accrue from members of the opposite sex (specifically, white men). It is so easy to forget the small things that feed you and to, instead, focus on the superficial, - on the hair cuts, on the cute shoes, and on the shopping at Target. On the glances that come your way, and on the men who want more, - a name, a number, a date, an opportunity for sex.
Sex is great, don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating for celibacy here. I'm just saying that my sex is only skin deep. And, when I forget this...
Case in point: One of Mario's employees, and friends, is super cute. At only twenty-five years of age, she has spent a short lifetime attracting the not-always- desired attention of males. With dark, olive skin and exotic features, her petite frame is fawned over. Men and boys, literally, froth at the mouth in their wanting of her, of her sex, of whatever fantasy her visual image conjures up in their small brains.
For the past few years, I have witnessed her sense of self wither amidst this unasked for, and even undeserved (after all, she really has nothing to do with the genes she was given at birth), absorption. She has spent too many days, weeks, and months, not eating, purging what little amount of food she did partake of, and then drinking excessively (given her weight and size). Desperately, she sought to retain control of this self-perceived "power." Naturally, she would always fall short of maintaining it. For, it was always just an illusion.
In her 'Reading Lolita in Tehran,' Azar Nafisi writes: “Dreams are perfect ideals, complete in themselves. How can you impose them on a constantly changing, imperfect, incomplete reality? You would become a Humbert, destroying the object of your dream; or a Gatsby, destroying yourself.” (page 144) Today, however, when I pulled my sputtering Volvo into the black paved parking lot of the coffee shop, I looked out of my windshield with glee as my eyes fell upon this same, young woman.
Today, she has filled in her hard edges with soft curves. Her angular body no longer has a strained, taut appearance. She looks comfortable, vibrant, and happy. She is in love, and she is actively working through the day-to-day of taking care, - of caring for both herself and another.
In Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love" (which I also highly recommend right along with Nafisi's book), Gilbert writes of her travels through Italy:
"I came to Italy pinched and thin. I did not know yet what I deserved. I still maybe don't fully know what I deserve. But I do know that I have collected myself of late - through the enjoyment of harmless pleasures - into somebody much more intact. The easiest, most fundamental human way to say it is that I have put on weight. I exist now more than I did four months ago. I will leave Italy noticeably bigger than when I arrived here. And I will leave with the hope that the expansion of one person - the magnification of one life - is indeed an act of worth in this world. Even if that life, just this one time, happens to be nobody's but my own." (page 115)
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