Full Exposure: Opening Up to Sexual Creativity and Erotic Expression (7 page)

In his essay “The Politicization of Pornography” he illustrates:

There’s a cartoon, it’s from
Penthouse.
A man and woman are in bed. He’s on top, fucking her. The caption reads, “I can’t come unless you pretend to be unconscious.” The joke could as well have taken any number of variations: “I can’t get hard unless—I can’t fuck unless—I can’t feel anything sexual un-less—” Then fill in the blanks: “Unless I am possessing you. Unless I am superior to you. Unless I am in control of you. Unless I am humiliating you. Unless I am hurting you. Unless I have broken your will.”

Only a few men have spoken out militantly on this subject, but I can see the terror in many men’s faces when they think, “Yes, this is the price. If you give up your male vanity and arrogance, there goes the erection, too! I guess I’ll just have to settle for being a prick!” Or others may say, “I’m not a monster, I want not only a conscious lover, but an equal”—without wanting to pay much attention to how masculine sexuality got such a brutal, indifferent reputation in the first place.

But men and women don’t have to settle for being prisoners in their little gender dormitory. Girls can be women with real adult sexual appetites; men can be love bunnies and still have raging hard-ons. It’s true. I’ve seen them, I’ve petted them behind the ears, I’ve shared their contradictions, and I’ve even swapped a few doll parts. The point isn’t to disown the masculine or feminine characters of our erotic identity, but rather to realize we’re hardly all of one piece, and we can’t claim our whole sexual selves if we insist on male and female segregation of our own feelings.

I didn’t get my own “cock consciousness” until I made love to a woman who wanted me inside her. I’d never felt what it was like to take direct initiative with sex, to ask people out, to get rejected, and also to get a few demands made on my own prowess. I don’t think I would have even used the word
prowess
before I made love to a woman, because my idea of what was sexually appealing about myself was based on merely being fetching.

I remember a butch date of mine who asked me right up front, “Are you a fuck-me femme?” I laughed; I’d never heard that before, but I had an idea what it meant. “Yeah, that’s right,” she explained, “those pretty girls who just want to lie back and watch me do everything—I’ve had it with that.”

“I think I’m about a 75 percent fuck-me femme,” I said. “Maybe you’ll catch me on one of my turnaround quarters.”

I
am
pretty girly—but I wouldn’t give up my 25 percent of butch-ness, or whatever it is; if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be me, and I’d hardly be human. I wouldn’t be sexually satisfied. I’m only sorry I ever had the idea that what I looked like and how I behaved was anything but a perfectly holistic combination of masculine and feminine attributes. I don’t have the patience to be stereotyped as a pink or blue marionette anymore, and I’m attracted to people who get the gender-free message.

The best part is watching women younger than me move boundaries with a wave of their hand. When I was in college in 1979, there were a couple of liquor stores close to campus, and one of them, Mr. G’s, sold porn magazines. College gals who were down at Mr. G’s testing their fake IDs to buy a six-pack were also just getting their first taste of those famous feminist antiporn slide shows that came to our campus and turned it upside down.

I was one of those young women. Before I viewed the
Women Against Violence in Pornography and Media
slide show, I don’t

think I’d seen a
Hustler
magazine; I’d only flipped through the slick soft-core men’s magazines. According to W.A.V.P.M.’s hushed presentation,
Hustler
and a bunch of other low-grade sex mags were pouring women’s bodies into meat grinders. Talk about your worst patriarchal fears confirmed!

A bunch of students went down to Mr. G’s after they saw the slide show, and demanded that the owner remove this filth immediately. Mr. G told them to fuck off. There’s no love lost between town and gown in that city, and this man had never even heard of a feminist critique.

When Mr. G wouldn’t budge, he was boycotted. His business suffered immediately, but he was no martyr for pornography—he was just outraged at some underage chicks telling him how to run his business. Finally Mr. G gave in, outraged but submissive. Whatever dirty magazines remained in our college town, you had to be a sleuth to uncover.

Fast-forward twenty years: I now teach a class on sexual representation at the same college I graduated from. I told my students that they might want to go outside the university library to look for examples of contemporary erotica—porn videos, skin magazines, and so forth. The next week, a group of my women students came into class bewildered and insulted. They had been to Mr. G’s.

“What’s the matter with that guy?” one girl asked. “We just asked him if he carried
Hustler
magazine, that we needed a copy, and he blew up!” “How old is he, anyway?” another one said. “He was screaming, ‘You broads are crazy! First you put me out of business for the magazines, then you say you want it back. Are you going to shut me down now if I don’t get you a copy tomorrow?’ ”

Sorry, Mr. G. Women have been a little crazy—but that’s what infantile propaganda will do to you.

CHAPTER TEN
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THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION CRACKED UP

S
ometimes I wonder if what I’m doing is a page out of a stand-up comedian’s script. Say, for instance, I take a seat on an airplane for a long cross-country flight. The gentleman next to me is looking for conversation, and, sneaking a peek at my bag of books and laptop computer, he asks what I do for a living. I’ve rehearsed at home a thousand times the answer I ought to give: “dental hygienist”—but then I really know nothing about dental hygiene. In fact, I am incredibly unequipped to answer questions about any profession except the one that is truly mine: writing.

So the man on the plane will ask me what I write about, and again, I have a perfect opportunity to lie. Surely I could say “motherhood” or “dead Bolsheviks” and be able to carry on a facsimile of a genuine conversation. But some imp in me can’t stop myself, I

can’t wear a beard. I have to tell him, “I write about sex—sex and sexual politics.”

It’s like a test; which way will they go? Will they choke on their pretzel, ring for the attendant, or tell me they’re my biggest fan? Actually, no one has done any of those things, but they have all continued the conversation. One Japanese grad student at Stanford, who was already working full-time in the computer industry, told me in halting English that he was gay. He looked surprised to say the word
gay
out loud, then he told me that he had never told someone this explicitly. Another time, a woman sitting next to me told me that she used to be a nun but that now she was a sex coun-selor for pregnant teenagers.

But that’s not the most common reaction. Usually, I’m sitting next to a man in a suit, and as soon as he hears that I write about sex, he gives me the eye: Am I coming on to him? He cannot imagine why a woman would tell him she was a radical sex writer if she was not implying that she was ready to induct him on the spot. And there I am, having told the man my occupation, without any regard to whether I am attracted to him. I want to make a point that women should be able to start a conversation about sex without having to put a “For Sale” sign on their ass. I want to champion passionate conversations about sex, whether we are about to have sex or not. But are my fine distinctions making any sense at this altitude?

One especially confident man, whom I recall now only by the memory of his snakeskin cowboy boots, interrupted the description of my latest book and said, “Well, do you want to hook up when we reach the ground? I have about an hour.” I suppressed a laugh, thinking about the prim undergraduate who was supposed to meet me at the gate and take me to speak at Bryn Mawr forty-five minutes after I landed.

“Actually, I’m getting picked up by someone else,” I said—and he looked at me like, “What the fuck?” He thought I meant that I was already signed up for a quickie with someone arriving from another flight. Busy, busy girl!

In the sixties, the first blush of the sexual revolution, there were a lot of snide jokes about the easy lays that came along with “liberated chicks.” The slick hero of the punch line—a guy, of course—got laid at some naive sucker’s expense, and the naive sucker is always a woman. She thought she was being liberated, but she was really just a cheap patsy who lost her virtue. The sexual revolution was a political excuse for idealistic (horny) girls to rationalize their promiscuity, as well as a dandy line for male opportunists.

When a woman raises her voice in the name of sexual liberation, she doesn’t get labeled a predator, as a man would, but rather a self-deluded narcissist—so wrapped up in her vibrator cord that she’d trip and fall on her face if she ever tried to make a connection with anyone else. She’s a delusionary who thinks her orgasm is some sort of beacon of enlightenment—and while she’s finding her G-spot, critics will remind her that people are starving in misery elsewhere, desperate for fundamental social change and uninterested in bour-geois sexual fulfillment.

This cynicism about the place of sex in our lives rests its weary, jaded head on some of the oldest prejudices around. We hear that men and women are utterly “different” sexually, and that the main motivation in social progress is the quest for a material upgrade. That may be the traditional wisdom, but it isn’t wise, it’s oppressive, and it produces a kind of discouragement that leads straight to apathy’s door.

SEX LIE NUMBER ONE:

Men aren’t looking for liberation, they’re looking to get laid.

Not many people of either sex are actually looking for liberation, at least not until they get to the end of a very weary road of dissatisfaction. That usually takes a decade or two.

Liberation, per se, is not the sort of thing people count as tops on their to-do list, right up there with finding a certain kind of job or partner or new home. Maybe that indicates our lack of concern for our personal growth, but it’s certainly not limited to men.

Men are expected to be horny; they are acknowledged as “natural” for wanting to have sex, but that desire is tainted with weakness, as if their fantasies are an Achilles’ heel that will betray them when they need their strength the most. The “little head” of the penis will lead the “big head” above the shoulders, and won’t we all laugh when we see the results! We grant men sexual feeling as if it were unavoidable, but we make fun of them for what we believe will be their inevitable undoing.

I say, let’s give this wish to get laid a decent shake. What is this desire, after all? The wish to feel sexual ecstasy with another person, to feel yourself completely inside another person’s body, to feel your own body open and single-minded and wanting? That’s a pretty intense experience to yearn for. It deserves respect.

But it’s not always like that, you might be thinking. Some people are totally distant when they’re having sex; it’s just an ego trip, a notch on their belt. And that’s true—there are some cold SOBs out there, whipping it out and walking away. What’s so poignant about their condition is that even their stunted efforts

are a search for a connection—for that fleeting moment when the ego disappears and they feel something bigger and more complete than either of their “heads.”

If men can’t express that longing to their lovers, openly and without trepidation, it’s not because their sexual desire is in the way; it’s that little rat cage in their mind that shames them and shuts them up. Yet every time they get laid, there’s that opening again, the chance to be intimate.

A man who wants to get laid is a man who wants to stay in the human race. Let’s treat that as a positive sign and look more carefully at the nature of his sexual connections.

Often the first erotic bridge that men and women cross is the dis-covery that someone else wants them—and that always seems like a miracle when they’re convinced that they will be forever alone and unloved in the world.

Then when you do get laid, and then it happens again and again and again, the confidence you acquire leads you to some new questions about the value of sex, about a lover’s companionship in your life, about your own sense of adventure and mystery in your erotic body.

At that point, we’re experiencing sexual liberation, whether it’s given that name or not. Some men will start to question all the things a male is “supposed” to do or feel in the three-ring circus of sexual relationships—and no doubt they will find much of it unnecessary and regressive. They don’t want to sacrifice their emotions and ex-pressiveness on the altar of compulsory masculinity. These men are on the first platform of sexual revolution: they’re not buying the late model of The Omnipotent Man, all polished and ready to go. Refus-ing to buy into all the blue-label baloney is a sexual revolution right there. I’m happy to meet such a man; he has hope that there’s something better out there—and he’s right.

SEX LIE NUMBER TWO:

Nice Girls get tricked by men into having sex, when all they really want is some loving romance.

Nice Girls want so many things: a devoted husband, wonderful children, a lovely home, a rewarding second career, the admiration of their neighbors, a great appearance, a new car, a fabulous yard, a Hawaiian vacation—I could write down thousands of things that Nice Girls want to have. Nice Girls may indeed be defined by their shopping list. How can it be that nowhere on their impressive list does sexual desire or fulfillment ever make an appearance? Let’s face it, we can’t shop for intelligence, creativity, or freedom.

The book of Nice Girl Rules and Regulations clearly states that if you show yourself to be lustful or horny or in any way sexually alert, then the nice husband and children and status you’ve gained for yourself are going to be ripped out of your life like the hair out of your head. “You cannot have it all” is the warning of the feminine mystique. You can be a slave with a lot of pretty charms on your bracelet, or you can be a fallen woman and take your chances.

Of course it doesn’t make any sense. You have to have sex to have children, for example, but you’re not supposed to be seen as sexual by your children, since Nice Girl Motherhood is modeled on the Blessed Virgin. You have to be creative and ambitious to be noticed in your professional and community life—but if you get creative or ambitious in your bedroom, your virtue is going to be questioned, because being a perfect wife is really incompatible with sexual adventure. Women are asked continuously to deny themselves, as a qualification for their femininity, and they’re encouraged to find their reward in men’s patronage.

Admirers are always nice, but they’re no substitute for the destiny of a woman’s own desire.

A lusty woman cannot put up with the double standard, because acting on sexual desire takes some confidence, some initiative—some balls, as it were. If a woman stops herself from sexual initiative because she’s too fat, or her children will be horrified, or her neighbors will gossip, then she will never experience her erotic self. She will probably censure and punish any other women she sees trying it—including her own daughters.

Early feminists had some brilliant names for the double standard at which women invariably lose: the Feminine Mystique (Betty Friedan), the Female Eunuch (Germaine Greer), the Woman as Nigger of the World (Yoko Ono). From the earliest days of women’s liberation, feminists have protested that it wasn’t parity they were seeking with men’s sexual power. Women have been degraded endlessly by the mythology of romance, the glory of feminine sacrifice, the perpetual vicarious living—but we’re not giving up the old “virtues” just to trade them in for masculine stoicism, pomposity, or arrogance. No, if there’s a sex-positive vision for women, it’s of a new society where sexual feelings and actions are not feared, repressed, or promoted because of one’s gender.

Desire persists in spite of the double standard; Nice Girls sometimes have to throw a fit, and let themselves pursue their orgasmic imagination. That’s the glimpse of the new world that we could have if every woman copped to her sexual self-interest.

If a woman tells the truth about her rebellion, she will admit that she doesn’t need to be tricked into sex, she wants it for herself. She wants to feel her erotic power, she wants to open that vagina dentata and take a lusty bite out of life. She wants to come so hard it makes the house shake. Her erotic body is so large and

powerful that nothing petite or slender could possibly be ascribed to her.

She is the Mother of Desire; she makes life take shape every time she touches herself and says, “This is mine.” She no longer lives to please; she is pleased to
live,
and that spirit inspires everyone around her. There’s hope for Ms. Nice Girl yet—she just has to start telling the truth.

SEX LIE NUMBER THREE:

Bad Girls are making asses out of themselves, waving their sex toys and pamphlets in the air—trying to disguise the fact that no man would put up with them in bed, no woman would want to be their friend.

I guess somebody has to come up with this propaganda, because if the truth got out about Bad Girl Land, every man and woman would want to move there.

It’s not even propaganda, it’s jealousy. When you look at a woman who’s been courageous enough to tell the truth about her sexual history, you see someone freed from the burden of lying and secrecy that wears so many women down. When you meet a woman who has sexual confidence, she’s not someone to pity or patronize. When you love a woman who has no regrets about her passion, you’ve got someone who won’t find a leash becoming.

So instead, the envious accusations begin. She’s “different,” so she won’t easily find a family or lifelong companionship. It’s obvious that loneliness affects us all, and being a Bad Girl doesn’t

necessarily make one popular. But that’s not why a woman rebels in the first place. The Bad Girl will have to find friends, family, and lovers who embrace risk as she does, who think there are family values in freedom and imagination.

One common denunciation of the Bad Girl is that, while she may have her fleshly pleasures and bohemian companions, she has re-duced herself to the Persona of a Boy—selfish, childish, impetuous, and not much of an intellectual challenge. She’s all snakes and snails and puppy dog tails; and even if that’s endearing at times, who could really take it seriously?

In reality, Bad Girls are smart enough to see that, in the gender gap, they were getting the short end of the stick, and they decided not to play nice—no mean feat of mental strength. There are Bad Girls who are academic geniuses and others who are street-smart or nature-wise; but whatever they are, they are not cursed with erotic ignorance.

SEX LIE NUMBER FOUR: