F*ck men.
They cannot handle horny women.
Let’s not talk about one of my friend’s ex-boyfriends who did not get intimate with her for two months before she broke up with him. Wait, let’s.
He could not fuck her. There, I said it. He could not even get it up.
My homegirl would come to me crying, saying how worried she was for her cuck of a boyfriend. “He said he was nervous.” Okay, and? The dude got so comfortable with saying that he felt a certain way about performing for her; it was so casual like it was him getting nervous before a Calculus mid-term. Ho, it is literally just sex. Her—being one of the hottest people I have ever seen to have graced this Earth, him—being, let’s be honest, mid; and he could not even find a way to do what men are known for—using women for sex. Yet, this is not the first time that things like this have happened to her or anyone in our friend group—but perhaps not to this level.
Men cannot keep up with the 3-hour performance. Men get too hasty with the pre-chorus. Men cannot separate the corn seeds with their tongues. Men fear showing up every day. Men think things are hot when it is literally just a make-out session with a side of French.
Before you tell me that it is “not all men,” stand the hell up and finally advocate for yourself. Of course, we know it is not all men. But when you are given a fucking Sonny Angel, Popmart Crybaby kind of blind box every time you get hot and heavy with a man, it is damn close that you’re not going to get what you want. We all know this.
A modern pseudo-myth is that women should always be attractors. If this applies, all power to you. But here is a fact: mainstream media has always made women the objects of all desires (heavy on the “object” part). We cannot turn a fucking corner in any type of media where women are not expected to be chased by men, to be worshipped and pleased by men. Especially in art that is marketed directly to women, the male characters are always these picture-perfect Mr. Darcy, who doesn’t talk much but looks like he can plow you like a farmer. Oh, how splendid! Yet, how many times can we really say that we have experienced this?
Women’s desire and sexuality is not something that is or can be controlled by men. We have been injected with fallacies of hope that somehow someone who does not have our bodies, who does not understand how we work, who has never spent a day being a woman, can understand how to efficiently and beautifully execute a Spring Quartet on our bodies.
(I know, bitch, you do not have to remind me that it is not all men—I can still hear your comment from 3 paragraphs away.)
We are so conditioned to give that power away and entirely depend on men to explore our sexuality for us. How our bodies work, how we enjoy ourselves, our rhythm, our beats, our breaths—all of these belong to us entirely. Yet, our teeny tiny brains were bombasted with visuals and audios of how we should behave when met with the touch of a savior—the p*rn-stached veiny macho dude that would do nothing but thrust. Porn ruined sex for women. We had to watch and learn and imitate how it feels to be flirty but not too stiff, natural but not too wild, sexy but not too whore-ish. And may I remind you that most pornography is directed by men and for men? Sexual expectations reduce female pleasures into nothing but pawns in the fucking chess game, so ready for violence and so open for dominance.
This is especially potent for women who are a little bit more “out there.” You know, wild, flirtatious, slutty, hot, mysterious, powerful,…, whore-ish? Women who want more get less. We get less because we are too demanding; we get less because we are too much. Yet, this “less” part is even worse. When the desire of men to conquer the feminine is simmered and reduced to a thick paste, it gets stickier and uglier. Women in power—no matter where this power may lie (yes, this power can also be your sexuality)—are more sexualized than those who are not. Simply put, men have to find a way to put women ‘in their places,’ and one of those tactics is hypersexualization.
Your pleasure and how you find it should never concern the role of a man, a woman, or any other person in it. The matter of fact is: This is yours. Insecure fuckers with less than two pumps at all times will try so hard to pin you down, to conquer your divinity as if it is their day job. You and yours have nothing to do with it, with them. And who cares about their balls? Because they are not just blue, they’re not turquoise; they’re not lapis, they’re, actually, cerulean. Their sexuality should, too, belong to them, but they let it get so small, so minuscule, so unimportant, and so “fished (it) out of some clearance bin” that it is no longer your job to pick these men out from a pile of “stuff.”
Take back your power, this is the time to do it. Stop letting the skinny-jean-wearing, Andrew T*te-quoting, patchy-beard-growing “bros” ruin your experience with yourself. You deserve more than the mid asses and mid-ass intimacy. Your pleasure and joy should never have to be earned, and it should never be over-complicated by some dude who gets too nervous to perform. The truth is, he did not even like you (yes, I am speaking directly to you, girl), he was just finding a way out.
Yet, I do believe that there is someone who can take care of my body the way it should be taken care of. I think we all want that, to be taken care of. A vision would never be put into our brains unless the possibility of it happening is positive. Until then, we must continue exploring ourselves to see the full beauty of the range of emotions and sensations we can pull into our reality before we meet the embodiment of that in someone else.
So, for now, ditch the “boy” in your “boy toy.” Explore the body you are so extremely blessed to call home. Find the curves that tenderize your gaze. Take the time to hear yourself. Breathe into it.
Give yourself a good fuck. You deserve it.