Eve Ensler, you can bite my apple any day.

Hello there my lovely vaginas (and the occasional [homosexual] penis),

Tonight is a very special night for I will be performing in the vagina monologues. Fittingly enough, my monologue is called "the woman who loves to make vaginas happy." And you know what, I really do. Not the character. Me. The Actor. I, A. Woman, truly loves to make vaginas happy. Unfortunately I cannot do so by going down on women for money as my character does (I mean I suppose I could but let's just wait a few years and see how my financial situation is once I graduate...) but I created this blog in hopes of making all you vaginas out there a little happier about your own vagina. And so I'd like to take a few things I learned from the show and throw it out there to you guys who didn't get to see it. Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.

"Hair. You cannot love a vagina unless you love hair." Now, my personal pubic preference does not always mirror this statement but I would just like to acknowledge how valid it is. It grows there. It is part of our body. We might shave it, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't love it. I might peel my carrot but I still respect and love that it grows with an extra layer. If it didn't, it would simply not be a carrot and I wouldn't be able to adequately enjoy my salad.

"It [the clitoris] is both the doorbell to the house and the house itself... Be my clitoris" For those of you wondering what exactly that means (as I did at first), take a bath. Take a long hot bath. A lot of people suggest you look at it with a mirror, and that's important too. But I think there's something to be said for feeling around, not even in a masturbatory kind of way, just feel around to honestly know what's down there.

My call is in 15 minutes so I'm gonna have to bring this to an early conclusion.

There is a saying that "men think with their penises." Women do not think with their vaginas. That's because we ARE our vaginas."

YOUR VAGINA IS YOU. YOU ARE YOUR VAGINA. Its is not an extension of you, a pal, a pet, or something reserved for sexual pleasure IT IS YOU. When you laugh, or cry, or sigh, or beg, when feel anything your vagina feels it too. It feels because it is. Eve Ensler reminds us that "we forget our vaginas." I am so thankful for the opportunity to be in this show because it has made me remember. Even feminists forget. It's easy to forget with the media, and horror stories in the news, and it's even easy to forget when your life is going well because we're just not thinking about it.

Today I ask that we all try to remember. Because when we forget our vaginas, we forget ourselves.

Woman v. Union Square: verdict upholds seperate but equal

I'm literally seeing red.

Today it's a beautiful day, probably one of the last before it starts getting cold. The sun is shining, it's not too windy and perfectly enough, my class was cancelled. So I thought, hmm why not spend this lovely afternoon enjoying the sun in Union Square. That's not asking too much, just a little moment of peace to enjoy the sunshine- a modest mission, right?

I scruntch up my jacket put it under my head and lie back. "How freeing it is to feel the sun on my face," I thought. A minute later, I hear a  old womens voice blaring in my ear: "You are lying in a very immodest position... and you probably wonder why men follow you home." Now, I might have pointed out that she looked like she'd probably die tomorrow of natural causes and I bet she had a really shitty life because she let other people run it, but I was distracted by the man sitting next to me who called out, "you know, she's right."

"EXCUSE ME."
"She's right, you shouldn't lie like that"
"If I was a man you wouldn't give a damn how I sat."
"That's right, but you're not, you're a woman."
"And I'm supposed to accomodate that?"
"Yup."
"Well that's WRONG so I'm gonna lie however the fuck I want"
"I mean you CAN lie however you want you just shouldn't if you don't want men to do something to."

Now, racism is a touchy subject so I'm probably about to piss some people off, but this man was black and he was probably alive during the Jim Crow laws. Doesn't he know social injustice? Shouldn't he at least have studied how fucked up "seperate but equal" is? He LITERALLY told me if I sit a certain way, I'll face reprecussions SOLELY because of the way I was born and he LITEARLLY told me men have the freedom to the persuit of happiness (lying in the SAME position in the SAME spot) without consequences and without fear while I do not because of my gender.
He thinks I'm lesser.
Yes maybe the law says I can sit that way, but I have to worry for my physical safety if I chose to do so? And if someone does decide to infringe upon by BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS it's MY fault because I didn't sit in "my section of of the bus," metaphorically speaking.

This example of sexism is no different than any other kind of "ism." In the 1890s blacks were told, "well legally you can do that, but you probably shouldn't cause you might get lynched." Today I was told, "well legally you can do that but you probably shouldn't cause you might get raped." Notice how the later statement is INFINITELY more socially acceptable than the former? But is it any less wrong?

Gay people can have civil unions but God help us if it's called a marriage.

Women can sit in the same spot as men but God help us of they sit in the same position. 

THIS IS SO WRONG. I am a citizen of this country, I should be able to sit wherever I want, in any position. I should be able to sit in a fucking diamond G-string with my legs over my head if I wanted to. I should NOT have to worry about my physical saftety because I want to rest my legs on a beautiful fall day. Fuck you, little old woman, and fuck you, offensive man.

Y'all can lick my ovaries.

Hello, my name is...[Gay/Straight/Bi: Circle ONE]

The more I read about female sexuality in other cultures the more I begin to question own our own culture's views. In the Westerner's view of female sexuality, you are either straight, lesbian, or bi. If you're a lesbian it means you can't want men, and if you're straight it means you can't want women. Those are some pretty rigid rules.

The term bisexual is a little more flexible, but even that word has some boundaries. It implies that you're attracted to both genders equally and that at any given moment you could ditch one for the other.

The problem with this mindset is that it totally constricts us- forcing us to block thoughts from our heads even before we've had them. As a "straight" woman, I wonder how many lesbionic inclinations I might have had before now had I not been raised to think I could only be gay straight  or bi. I say "inclinations" because they are not full blown female-on-female eroticisms, they're just inclinations. For example, today I was watching the Ellen Degeneres and noticed (after over-coming my social censor) that I was attracted to her in this particular episode. Her pants-suit and masculine haircut made her appear very androgynous and it was... kind of hot.

Now does this make me a full-fledged lesbian? Absolutely not. Love me some men. Does this make me bisexual? It's pretty safe to say no. I highly doubt I would be attracted enough towards a woman to partake in some good ol' fashioned lady sex. 

However when I overlook society's rigid categories and am extremely honest with myself, I can acknowledge that there are plenty of times when I feel a certain attraction towards a woman. I'm not sayin I want their face between my legs, but maybe I wouldn't mind kissing one. And sometimes the attraction isn't physical at all, sometimes, it's simply romantic. Someitimes I don't even want to be kissed, just nurtured in a way most men aren't comfortable with.

Even as I type this it feels taboo. Part of me is even a little tentative to post this because I don't want people to categorize me as bi. Not because there's anything wrong with being bi, just because I really don't think I am.

Despite my previous efforts, I am sexually attracted to men. And even when I find myself unexpectedly attracted to women it is nowhwere near the level to which I can be physically attracted to a man. But to ignore that feeling, however slight, might mean ignoring a beautiful part of my humanity, just because Western society has told me to. And as a twenty-year-old woman living in a rough city, I should probably take every chance I can get to connect with humanity.

Fathers, Be Good to Your Daughters

Because I consider myself to be a loud and proud feminist, many are surprised to learn that I have a beautiful relationship with my father. He is the wisest man I know and I am constantly learning from him. However, as I reach my adulthood, I am beginning to realize that there is one aspect of my life he does not yet understand:

What it feels like to be a woman in a patriarchal society.

What it feels like to be a member of a subordinate group in a a country founded on equality.

What it feels like to be a decedent of "the weaker sex."

He does not understand what it feels like to be followed three blocks by a group of people spewing physical threats at you. He does not understand what it feels like to have a stranger grip your waist when all you want to do is go home. He does not understand the fear his own flesh and blood feels walking anywhere at night, or the verbal attacks I face at any hour of the day, regardless of what I wear. 

And speaking of what I wear, consider this: If a biological male feels most comfortable walking down the street in a dress, this person should be able to do so in peace without obscene vulgar language being spewed at  them, true?

TRUE.

Therefore, if a woman feels most comfortable walking down the street in a tight, short, low-cut top, she  should be able to do so in peace without obscene vulgar language being spewed at her. No, men might not be able to control their eyeballs, but they can control their tongues. 

Instead, we must walk home at night the with that horrible feeling we never seem to tell our fathers about. That feeling of clenched fist, tight jaw, quickened steps; that pit in your stomach that says, please, just leave me. Please, just let me get to my destination. Please, just don't touch me.

And so, I have recently made it my mission to make my him understand.

I think that it is important for a father to understand his daughter's experience, and I can't help but wonder:

If every father truly knew how hurt and damaged their daughters were by the behavior of certain men, and how frequently their "little girls" were afflicted with this pain, wouldn't they be angry too? Wouldn't they want change?

We have tried to seek change through our own anger, and anger is indeed a very powerful force. But I feel it isn't enough. We need something greater.

And the only force more powerful than hate is empathy.

Fight the media, Feminist!

With shows like Drop Dead Diva and Tool Academy blazing through the media, I think we could all use a bit of a reality check.

Women. Women, women, women. 

1) You are beautiful. You boobs aren't too small, your thighs are not thunderous, your hair is not out of control, your arms are not too saggy, and yes, you can leave the house without makeup. I'm not bullshitting you. I really believe that.

2) Skinny does NOT equal Love. We as a nation seem to have this convoluted idea that being fat is worse than being dead. Just look at that god awful "overweight bachelor" show. All these poor women talk about is how lucky they feel to finally get a chance at love because this wonderful man is willing to overlook they're fatal flaw of not fitting into a size 2. Come ON America. This is ridiculous. These women are not only intelligent, caring, and funny, but they're also REALLY PRETTY! They don't need him!

 Oh, and let's talk about Drop Dead Diva. Ok, So a model dies and her soul is put in the body of (god forbid!) a larger brunette. And so now she has to... what deal with being large and brunette? That is the conflict?! 

That shouldn't even be an issue. It's really NOT that big a deal. It's not a curse. It's just a different body. Love it and be glad ya not dead.

3) You deserve loving, loyal boyfriends.  You should know how wonderful you are, and you should demand that anyone who is lucky enough to be wanted by you knows that too. If he doesn't, you don't need him; you can do so much better. He should think your beautiful, he should think your body is perfect as it is, and if he says he's committed to you then he better be committed to you. If this is not the case, don't try to change and BY GOD do not accept the situation. I'm not sayin great guys are everywhere (I haven't met a whole shit ton of them) but I will say, you're WAY better by yourself than you are with the next contestant of Tool Academy.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is, with all of this media bullshit invading our homes it's difficult to remember how important is is to love ourselves. Now, I'm no authority, but I happen to think the curves of a woman are beautiful. I happen to think that our capacity to communicate is truly special. I feel so lucky to have my breasts and my hips and to be able to communicate with both sides of my brain. I am a woman who truly loves being a woman. That's what being a feminist means to me: A woman who truly loves being a woman. 

I just wish there were more of us. 

4am and i'm still awake writing a song

Alright men, it's 4:23 am, i'm drunk, and i've got some beef.

I've tried saying it every modern way i can so maybe i should try some old english.

WHY DOEST THOU FUCK WITH US?

You know exactly what I'm talking about. Just when we're in a divine place, once we've finally centered ourselves, entered healthy relationships and felt good about the paths we've chosen you come in like a fucking tornado and jumble shit up. i mean i may be short, but this ain't Oz. Chill out. Maybe leave us alone? We may not want you to because we're confused and involuntarily open-hearted, but he-who-plays-mind-games causes damage. He-who-fucks-with-heads fucks people up. And we've worked SO hard not to be bitter. We've done SO much soul searching not to be cynical. And just when we can feel the eastern religious views of meditation and mindfulness flowing through our veins, one or two, or multiple people in my unique case barge in and fuck shit up. Making our back muscles tense and our jaws tighten. Making our eyebrows furrow and our hearts "crust," as good ol' Siddhartha would say.  And usually it's the people who know we're a little fucked up who like to kick us when we happy. Usually it's the people who know our prior confusion who like to confuse us when we've finally got our shit together. They swoop in like flying monkeys, invading our brains and shaking our very new foundations. Isn't that a form of evil-- to dissolve newfound solidity? Isn't that some branch of horrid? 

And if that's the case, then when you're in a drunken state of honesty at 4:23 am, how can you not be bitter?

Is She Really Dating Horse Shit?

This morning, as I ate my toast, I made the horrible mistake of choosing MTV over Bravo.  I was enticed by a series I had never seen before "Is She Really Going Out With Him." The description reads "Beautiful, sweet young women date obnoxious guys."

A recipe for obscenity. 

Ok, so I typed that on a commercial break and the show just ended. I want to throw up. I literally want to vomit.

SO. This girl michelle is a beautiful soft-spoken blonde who works full time as a nurse. She is intelligent kind and articulate.

Blake is her live-in boyfriend. He is a piece of shit. 

Blake has been unemployed for months and isn't looking for a job because he thinks he's too good for it (really, fucktard? because I'm pretty sure sitting of your fat ass watching Japanese  action films with subtitles you probably can't even read doesn't exactly market you as a highly competitive member of the workforce. Ya dickwad.) 

So naive and "optimistic" Michelle gets this trashbag a job interview and buys him a 300$ suit. In true trashbag style, Blake gets all dressed up in the suit until Michelle leaves for work, ditches the interview and has a BBQ with his redneck friends, using Michelle's money to pay for the food. She calls him on the phone she bought him to wish him luck on the interview and he ignores her calls. She's so paranoid that she leaves work to go home and check up on him. She finds him in the height of his festivities and tells everyone to leave in an offensively calm and collected manner. His white trash friends don't leave until Blake tells them to leave. On his way out, Red Neck Friend #1 looks at Michelle and retorts, "you gonna clean this stuff up?" 

I gripped the arm chair.

The naive, "optimistic," and apparently self-loathing Michelle does manage to kick him out for a few days, but she takes him back, thinking everything will be different because he managed to land a sales job in the days he was gone.  "He's proven to me he really cares."

I felt my nails dig deeper into the cushion. 

I bit my lip.

HE CARES?! HE REALLY CARES?! Well done, Blake, you got a job. You're a member of society. You're doing what everyone else has been doing since they were 15. Well done, you pathetic mound of horse shit.

And you, Michelle! I'm sure you're a nice person, so I hate to be as harsh as I'd like to be, but you're kind of ruining our movement here. By appeasing pathetic mounds of horse shit, you're excusing behavior that is SO beyond inexcusable and your allowing yourself to be degraded and made a fool. In front of all the middle schoolers and myself watching MTV. 

I know the reality of all reality shows is questionable, but these people exist. These people live in THIS country. Women in THIS COUNTRY date men like Blake, who promise to take their long time girlfriends out to dinner and leave them with a $250.00 check.

I'm embarrassed to sing the same National Anthem as them.

Sex and Nacho Bell Grandes

When I've abandoned my blog for weeks there is always one thing that gets my fingers slamming on the key pad:

Sex And The City.

Tonight I indulged in one of the first episodes, in which Carrie is researching how to "have sex like a man." For those of you who didn't spend your high school years with your eyes glued to HBO on Demand, this entails "having sex and then feeling nothing." Carrie tries and walks out feeling like a million bucks, but when she runs into him again, he hardly felt fucked over. Figuratively, anyway. He was thrilled that she finally understood what he'd wanted all along.

"So any time I want to have sex, I'll call you," she half-heartedly stated with a sudden loss of confidence. 

Alright. If you live in New York and you're as busy as the next novel-reader on the subway, chances are you've got that acquaintance you call when you need a little... echem... stress release. And you actually really do care more about your orgasm than his lack of feelings for you.

I know what it's like to be stressed. No worries. 

But is that really the goal? It seems more like a rest-stop, a taco supreme on your 6 hour road trip to visit your cousin in Maine. Who's a chef. 

For better or worse, when I was 15 Sex and The City was my bible. When I inhaled I smelled their Cosmopolitans and when I exhaled I imagined their orgasms.

And I wasn't even sexually active yet. 

At the time, their characters seemed so real and their dilemmas  so oddly relatable. At 15, I was as bitter as Miranda and as over-analytical as Carrie. For the first time in my youth I felt like something was acknowledging feelings I had as a female and validating them.

Why then, at twenty years old, am I suddenly so turned off by it?

To "have sex like a man, you know, feel nothing" now bothers me in so many ways. Allow me to list them:

1) Despite prior beliefs, men do fall in love. So maybe they feel nothing with you, but they're gonna feel something with someone else. You're taco bell. If you're cool with that and they just so happen to be Mickey Ds, than go right ahead. Do yo thang. As long as you know. 

2) There are certainly times when women have sex and feel nothing-- just ask their casual acquaintances. It's not exclusive to men. Women do it all the time, they just don't make a big stink about it because honestly, who brags about downing a taco supreme. It feels great, but it's not exactly newsworthy. 

3) Alright Carrie, here me out: at the end of the episode you were bummed. You were bummed because this guy was just as cool with it as you were. AKA you were pissed because he didn't feel used and degraded like you did all the other times you hooked up with him. Revenge can never be a goal of meaningless sex. After all what could possibly be more chock full of meaning than revenge? You don't down a Nacho Bell Grande cause your pissed your taco supreme wasn't good enough. 

Well now that I've spent my night analyzing the life choices of a fictional character through a fast-food metaphor I should probably be off. 

But I'm sure I'll be back after my next Big Mac.

Peace With Penis

In New York it is hot. Oppressively hot-- sun pouring down your back with no hope of a breeze and the odor of rotting garbage potent in the hazy air. 

Yum.

I think back to San Francisco, the way the fog would engulf the city at dusk and the wind rippled your clothes after dark. 

I think back to San Francisco, and I can't help but contrast it with New York, in so many ways more than the weather.

Like so many New Yorkers, my personal life was a jumble of hard liquor, friendly-fucks, and feminist angst-- usually in that order. And it had been that way, or some variation of that way for... well for as long as I can remember.

So why is it that within the first week of my trip to California, I stumble upon some kind of relationship?

It was exciting when he asked me out on a dinner date and I didn't panic.

It was surprising when I continued to see him after the dinner date.

And it was utterly shocking when he suggested we be exclusive.

Utterly. Shocking. I began to think the drugs smoked by hippies had accumulated in the fog, transcending me to an alter universe where I was more chill, and the men were neither gay nor assholes. 

But why was I so shocked by basic consideration? I certainly didn't expect that. 

But maybe I should have.

I am still surprised when he says he'll call and then does. And part of me hates that. Part of me is so frustrated with myself that I can preach female empowerment and still expect to be treated like shit.

But I think another part of me has recently learned to be a little kinder to myself. I've had a pretty bloody war with the male gender, and maybe I had some battle wounds that were unaccounted for.

I will never stop fighting for women.

But maybe in order to successfully fight for women, we have to stop fighting against men. Maybe fighting against men is what's defeating us. Perhaps in my effort to belittle men I've belittled myself. I was so focused on spiting their wants and needs that I forgot to listen to my own. 

So maybe it's just the heat making me a tad delirious, but I'd like to offer up a peace treaty.

Men, from now on I will expect more from you.

But y'all betta bring it.

Giant Penises, Museums, and Drag Queens

I write to you today from a San Francisco hostel.
For those of you I haven't told, I've decided to take a trip.
I spent the night in San Francisco and today I'll be taking 2 buses and probably hitchhiking 4 miles to get to a Freegan Farm. It's like vegan but you get your veggies second hand or out of a dumpster instead of from Whole Foods in Union Square.
This farm is a self-proclaimed hippie commune with a group of farming vegans who don't believe in "god, government, or relationships." So what do they believe in, you ask? Well, I'm not really sure, so that's why I figured I'd check it out.

Even my one night in San Francisco gave me a touch of new insight. I stayed in a hostile on Mission Street, described by a kind stranger as a "Latina China Town" before giving me her number and address and telling me if I ever found myself in trouble I could call her.
At the hostile I had 5 roomates: 4 men from England, France, Sweden, and Atlanta, and 1 girl from Australia. They were all so incrediblely friendly and the English one decided to take me around San Francisco and show me the hotspots.
It's PRIDE WEEK so there were giant penises, museum exhibits, and drag queens galor. So basically it was heaven. We left Castro where I insisted on going to the Harvey Milk exhibit and went Haight Nashbury. I don't know if that's acutally how you spell it. But It was total hippie-ville. I thought Brooklyn was hardcore but I was in for a rude awakening. Let me tell you, my fellow American Apparel V-Neck wearers, we ain't got nothin on these people. I ate bangin vegan food in a pretentious attempt to fit in, and ended the day in Golden Gate Park under a tree planted by Janice Joplin.
Despite my attempts my Englilsh roomate wouldn't let me pay for anything but the cabride home which I forced on him, and surprised me with sunflowers. When we returned to the hostile he made a comment about how adamently I protested his kind gestures and the one female quickly retorted, "American girls aren't used to be treated nicely."

Is that true? Here I was thinking I was being independent. Maybe it wasn't about independence. Maybe it was just about someone else wanting to treat me because it would be a nice thing to do for another person.
When that kind older stranger gave me her number in case I need help, she told me, "I don't do this very often, but I think it's time we all start be a lot kinder to one another in this country."

And I couldn't have agreed more.

The Tao of Jew

One of the many symbols the Yin-Yang holds is a balance between male and female. The meld into one another, complimenting each other, and within each is a bit of the other. When all is well the dark mixes with the light in perfect harmony, melting, pushing towards the top, releasing towards the bottom and vice versa. They live in a state of peace. Meldy, melty, complimentary peace.

I like that model. I like that idea. And despite my salty rough edges, I think it's true.

Recently, a slightly more optimistic friend did me the service of listing all the good traits of the masculine that is typically less common in the feminine. As she rattled them off one by one I felt a surge of hope. I agreed. Things were going well. I almost felt ready to embrace the masculine, as a friend and not a foe-- Eve's companion, instead of the the dumbass who got caught with the apple.
And so my newfound Yin-Yang mentality was going well, until an ugly thought pushed its way horn first into my head:
In every almost- perfect model there is the potential for exploitation.

I mean twenty-first century capitalism does pretty well, but Bernie Madoffs still show up every now and then to steal grandpa's money.

What happens when the nearly-utopian model of the yin-yang gets exploited? What if one pushes the other a little too hard and instead of pushing back it retracts? And suddenly, like the mental state of a bi-polar teenager, it splits in two.
BAM.

So now, without the model that's served others so well, you're kind of wandering in female zone. Falsifying your truths, shitting on your instincts, and if we're being real honest, missing the gentle push of the Yang. It takes a whole lot of energy to be angry. And it's a lot trickier to keep your Yiney shape without that resistance to balance you out.

And then you start to wonder what the Yin is made out of. If the separation has occurred, will it hold its shape, anxiously awaiting its reunion with the Yang? Or will it just puff out into a circle and become it's own entity?

Some wounds heal flawlessly while others leave scars that undeniably change what was.
I guess only time will tell.

A Feminist Falters

A catalyst is rarely intended to stir up the cacophony that soon follows. A mother scowling at her overweight twelve-year-old as she grabs a potato chip doubtfully means to give her bulimia and the assassin of Franz Ferdinand couldn't have possibly planned on turning the whole world into a battlefield.

And that is why, when an acquaintance told me that a community in which people don't believe in relationships was the perfect place for me, I doubt he meant anything by it.

But behind the strained smile I had managed, a bomb exploded.

There comes a moment in a strong woman's life when she starts to wonder why exactly she's so strong. Well, she begins, she has a strong mind and even stronger ambition. Nothing wrong there. She has overcome obstacles. I'd say that's objectively viewed as admirable. So if all is well and good, then why does her strength feel like her greatest weakness of all?

It's pretty commonly known that when many women hit thirty and have no prospects of marriage they begin to panic. After all, most of their friends are married and it's an experience many other women have had that they haven't.

But what about when a woman hits twenty and she's never been called a girlfriend? It's not really covered in the media, but, um, it happens. And she obviously doesn't need a boyfriend to be happy, it's nothing like that, it's just... it's an experience that many other women have had that she hasn't.

She isn't ugly, or boring, or dim-witted, or clingy. She's actually quite the catch if she does say so herself. But she's beginning to wonder if she has a fucking tattoo on her forehead that says Do Not Date. And it's starting to get to her, to gnaw away at her because what in God's fucking name is the problem and WHY if she's so fucking strong does she even care at all?! And maybe, just maybe, it isn't that men only use the left cerebral hemisphere of the brain to communicate while women use both (because they do!) maybe it isn't the genes or the chromosomes or the hormones, maybe it's just that by being so fucking strong, by being so God damn sure she could stand on her own two feet, that nobody thought she needed a hand to hold when she started to fall. And so she fell. Down a spiral of science textbooks, friendly fucks, and questions that don't have answers.

It doesn't make her research less valid.
It just makes her wonder why she has such a passion to research in the first place.

But what is she supposed to do? Pretend that she doesn't have a thirst for answers? Make believe that just because there may not be an answer, the questions don't persist to rain in her head?

And so she continues to put on her armor of red lipstick and carry Darwin's text as a shield, all the while wondering if her hubris will ever bring her happiness.

O Didn't Always Stand for Oprah

OK, I have been a REAL slacker lately and for that I apologize. In the past 24 hours I have purchased a plane ticket to a freegan farm, run through the streets of Brooklyn in a bikini (it was raining), and probably ruined my liver. Not necessarily in that order. But although I am quite busy being irresponsible and spending money I don't have, I managed to find the time to do some research. I've been reading a lot about gender differences in the work force, politics, and even in learning disabilities. All of which is very valuable information.

But I'd rather talk about sex.


The hypothalamus is the part of your brain that craves food, power, and sex. It is the lowermost part of your brain and is involved in hormone production.
Oh, and here's the best part:
It's connected to your clitoris.

So if you're feeling beautiful, in control of your life, and powerful in every which way, hop in the sack, baby, cause that little ball of nerves is gonna sing like a tea kettle.

But the problem is, most of us don't feel that way all the time. And unlike men, our orgasms are EXTREMELY moody.

When we have sex we are constantly thinking about our partner- what our relationship is to him, what he mean to us, and how much we care. Now don't get me wrong, there is certainly something to be said for that.

But it's kind of a buzz kill. Literally.

Perhaps the trick to a truly orgasmic union is to not think about the union at all. Maybe some sex isn't about a bond. Maybe some sex is more about your relationship to your body than your relationship to your man. Perhaps if we thought less about who was touching us and more about the touch itself, we'd be more likely to put on that infamous O face so many women have yet to make.

I'm not saying that's the only way to have an orgasm, and I'm not saying there isn't beauty in a connection. I'm merely implying that maybe there's beauty in having "just sex" too.

My personal theory is that a woman's sex drive is the natural activity of her hypothalamus combined with her emotional past- especially with men. So if she's had healthy sexual experiences and an overall positive outlook on male figures her hypothalamus gains some points. But if she hasn't had the best of luck, that's gonna intercept those signals. So even if she naturally had a hyper-active hypothalamus, a negative experience can totally prevent a grand finale. After journaling and a few therapy sessions she can reclaim her power emotionally, but how can she reclaim it physically?

Perhaps having "just sex" can be healing. Perhaps, if done safely and with a trustworthy person, it can make her learn new things about her body, its different patterns, and its incredible potential.
Maybe "just sex" can be the best sex of all. Because realizing the touch feels good makes her hungry. And realizing it's safe to be hungry makes her powerful. And realizing she's powerful makes her tilt her head back and...


well, you know the rest.




Oh and P.S.- Many women aren't exactly sure what an orgasm is. It's extremely common to think you've had one if you haven't. Trust me, I've been there. So I'm just gonna clarify without the fluff: You kind of feel like you have to pee and then fluid comes out. And it's not pee. So if you feel it coming and you're not sure what it is, don't stop and say you have to go to bathroom like your good ol' friend, A. Woman over here.

Yeah.

An American Oedipus

In the early 20^th century there was some form of a “lesbian” movement. Women partook in intense friendships with one another that developed into some form of physical relations and before long they were living a happy men-less life together. Very Kissing Jessica Stein.

These intense homogeneous friendships have been documented throughout history as lesbian relationships. And while I have very little (O.K, zero,) experience in a lesbian relationship, I can’t help but question if that was in fact was these women were experiencing. Two people (women in this case) clearly bonded very strongly on an emotional level. And this emotional level was so intense, that they were looking for another way to express it, to further develop it. To have some kind of tangible evidence of the bond they share.

But is that sex? If sex is about expressing a friendship, then why is the term “friendship” literally interchangeable with the word “platonic?” Isn’t sex about expressing the tangible, the physical, and not trying to personify a platonic bond?

Since then, Americans have experienced the black and white “I’m-wearing-his-pin” relationships of the Eisenhower era, the spontaneous free love of the hippies and the “fuck-whoever’s-at-the-club” attitude of the sexual revolution.

Many feminists say we’re regressing back to the gender roles of the fifties, and I do see some truth in that. But I think a younger generation of feminists can see that we’ve gone back even further.

We are fucking our friends.

There, I said it.

We are fucking our friends because they’re there, we trust them, and we care about them. But does that mean we should have sex with them? I mean we trust and care about our family too, but even Oedipus didn’t mean to screw his mama. So what makes us think this is a good idea? What makes us think this is any less taboo?

I don’t know if it has a historical name yet, but we’re in a sexual movement. We are in a cluster-fuck of fuck-buddies.

Maybe we should just poke our eyes out.

Are Friends-With-Benefits Female Friendly?

Living in New York, I have found that along with bubble tea, relationships are quickly becoming a craze of the past. They have since been replaced with the "fuck buddy", or the slightly classier "friend-with-benefits." Right under my nose I see that endearing pink-wearing relationship-lover spend a saturday night under the covers with an old friend. I see a hand-holding, flower-buying boyfriend-type suddenly keeping tally of how many girls he can get to pull down his pants in a week. 

But here's the thing.

For some women, this is nothing new.

For some ladies of New York, this is not a change in tide. It's more like a lazy river. Still flowin' after all these years.

She never had an actual relationship with a boy. But most of her friends from high school were boys. And most of her friends from high school had bumped lips with her at some point. 

oops.

But what about when that sixteen year old grows up, moves out, and suddenly it's not just about bumping lips anymore. Suddenly it's about bumping other things. She doesn't know what a relationship is so she sticks to what she does know. Only this time the terrain is a little rockier and the stakes are a little higher. A lot higher. 

She wants to believe that men can be good and that they care. So who better to turn to then a male friend? The closer the friend, the more you care about each other, right?

But maybe it isn't that simple. Maybe there is something special about a platonic hetero-male-female relationship that could get lost. That can't be regained once the eh...bumping occurs. After all, once it happens it's out there. Like riding a bike- you never forget. And no matter how much time you take off, there's always that silent option of jumping back on to ride it again. 

Don't get me wrong, you can gain something from the experience. It can certainly have its perks. And at the of the day, it isn't even the fear of what may have been lost that gets to you.  It's the principle of it- the "why" factor. Did you do it because you needed some kind of proof that someone could actually be physical with you and care about you as a person at the same time? And if he ends up proving that to be possible, then why do you still feel lost? Like even if you wanted to search for something more... stable? traditional? you wouldn't even know where to start. You wear hemp shoes, you eat gluten-free food, but when it comes to men, you're still not sure what the healthy choice is. After all, you hardly have the resume. 

Well look at the bright side: 

Those vile tapioca balls are on their way out, and you're suddenly very much in style. 

Darwin Be Damned

Hello, there! It's been a little hectic with finals so I decided to peace out and go to Boston for absolutely no reason. My friend sitting next to me defined it as "New York for midgets." She is currently telling me a "bed time story" about Care Bears and an imaginary friend we named Fez, after the delightful character on That 70s Show. But sadly, I am not particularly listening, because...well, honestly because I'm giant loser and I'm thinking about genetic variation.

Shit, they've fallen asleep. Will my typing wake them? I'll have to be brief.

OK, here's the deal.

If you took 9th grade bio, you probably know that women have two X chromosomes and men have an X and a Y. If you took 9th grade bio, you also probably have seen a picture of the X and Y chromosomes, but if you were busy daydreaming about how cute Benny looks without his braces that day then I'll remind you that the Y chromosome was smaller than the X. Literally smaller. And say what will about the bedroom, but in this case, size does matter. Turns out, because that second X chromosome is longer it literally has more room for genetic variation. So when men say women are complicated, they're actually right on target. We are more complicated- genetically. And all the while, women are complaining that men can't express themselves. Well, our aim's not so bad either given they physically have less room for gene expression.

And while I'm on the topic of genetic variation let me just clear something up about the common notion that men are more likely to cheat. Some men are. But not all men. According to my research, whether or not a man will cheat has more to do with Darwin than you. In order to assure the survival of the species (a funny notion now, given the overpopulation of our planet) some men are programmed to be monogamous and some men aren't. So when your best friend tells you "if he cheated with you, he'll cheat on you" she's probably onto something. Except now it's not just common sense- it's genetic variation. 

Alright shit, they're totally passed out and I haven't even changed my tampon. brilliant. 

But if you're a giant nerd like me and you want to read more about this, just shoot me an email (A.womanblogs@gmail.com) or a comment and I can totally lend you my sources.

But finally, before I go, I'd like to say one more thing. If I believe this, then I have to believe that every nasty cheating-induced break up is the result of evolution. Well hats off to you, Darwin you've done it again. Thank you. I'm so utterly ecstatic evolution is part of my life. We may stumble upon that monogamy-man, but if you're anything like me, you'll pick the monkey with the cheat-gene out of the barrel any day of the week.

Maybe we're better off with apes.

Ps and Vs

Alright, I've had a rough day and I need to lighten the mood, so I'm gonna go with a really shallow topic that just happened to come up in conversation over drinks last night:

When it comes to words exchanged during sex, I have made it my policy not to judge. You can talk about Barney the Dinosaur for all I care- if that's what gets you going- that's your private business. 

But... Ah... I just... can't help but notice...

If you're having sex with someone and they make a comment about your vagina, how do you react? 

Male: "Your ___ is so_____  ."

Female: "    "

Female's thoughts: "...?"

I mean, correct me if I'm wrong here, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't do anything for us. It might do something for them and that's great! By all means! But here is what totally fascinates me:

If you're having sex with someone and you make a comment about their penis, they freak out. They love it. I mean I'm not going to pretend to know what's going on inside their heads so I won't make a cute little hypothetical conversation. But I think it's pretty safe to say it turns them on.

But why?! My vagina is a part of my body. So making a comment on its size, shape, or texture doesn't really excite me. It's like saying, "your eyes are brown." I know. And you can totally say it, I really don't mind at all. But I know they're brown. They're my eyes. 

So why is it so different for men? How can they be sexually stimulated by their own body part? It's almost like the penis is its own person; it has feelings and needs positive reinforcement to grow up big and strong. 

Not that there's necessarily anything wrong with that. I don't judge them for it. In fact, I almost feel bad that they have that extra person to deal with. But every time I notice a difference between men and women I just have to point it out. I can't help it- it's like staring at someone's pimple when you know they see you. 

I should really stop that.

The Commodity of Romance

When it comes to dating, I find I often miss the beat by one quarter note.  On those rare days on which I long for someone to share my meal with, I find my list of contacts useless, yet when I decide to "focus on myself" I find my inbox flooded with prospects. 

It is a unique and special day when I discover exactly what I want, so I suppose today deserves some recognition. As I reflected back on my recent flings with all their perks, peaks, and pitfalls, I defined my ideal relationship:

A strong friendship with he whom I can sleep with whenever I want.

And through that definition, I realized why I have a sudden anxiety towards dating:

Dating Is Romance.

Romance Is A Commodity. 

I hate the idea that in order for someone to show their interest they have to spend money on me. If I had a boyfriend, I would truly appreciate him spending money on me and I would be more than happy to spend mine on him. But this courtship thing rubs me the wrong way. Aside from the hipster fuck-consumerism aspect, I just find it uncomfortable. Forced. Like laughing at your boss's joke.

And then there's that whole, "I'm not your average girl" element. We sickos are so damn quick to inform these dinner-seeking men that a romantic evening is really not our style. We don't look for relationships, we go with the flow, and we'd much rather chill on a park bench with our shoes off. We freak out because if they already want a traditional date, than they probably want a traditional relationship, and we're not a traditional girl, so maybe we should just quit while they still categorize us as normal. 

And we wonder why we fall for the head-cases.

But what if there's some validity in this twisted emotional guard? I really would rather sit on a park bench with my shoes off and exchange Michael Scott impressions than have a candlelit dinner in Tribecca. I really am just seeking a friend I am sexually attracted to who is ready to go at any given time. And if it develops into something exclusive than that's great.

In my head, that's not settling. That's just what I want. That, to me, is a relationship. A friendship with mutual care and support and exclusive physical activity. 

It sounds so simple, yet it's shockingly hard to come by. Perhaps because in wanting the simplest things, I've made myself unattractive. Apparently in order to get what you want you have to want the world. 

I would be more than happy for a platonic relationship to turn into a hookup and then have that hookup turn into something more. But by starting as friends, I can't be seen in terms of a relationship. Because I lacked the dinner, the movie, the upstate vacation, I lacked being seen in a romantic light. 

Last night I ran into a smart, cute, funny guy I'd ran into a few times before. When he asked me if I was available tomorrow I tried suggesting a couple of casual day-lit activities in which we could just hang out and chat. 

Needless to say, tonight at 7:00pm you can find me a beautiful expensive dim-lit dinner in Tribecca, knowing that all I really want is bare feet perched on a park bench and a long talk on the phone.

I Wish Freud Were Female

Let me preface this by saying I should be sleeping right now. I should definitely be sleeping right now because I'm so tired, I'm watching lost (which i've never seen before and am more interested in why all the women have blue eyes than the plot) so I'm a little distracted, and i have a show tomorrow afternoon. 

But I'm not just physically tired.

I feel like every interaction I've ever had with a male, in any shape or form, involved accommodating his ego. That fucking male ego, that precious jewel that needs shining, that delicate pup that needs stroking.

He needs to know he's a good person. Fine. You're a good person.

He needs to know he's doing well in bed.  Fine. You're doing well in bed. 

He needs to know his jokes are funny. Fine. Hahahahaha.

He needs to know you can be civil after a break up. Fine. Hi, how are you?

But my God what about our egos? Would it be so much to ask for a little validation here and there, you know, maybe one encouraging comment for every 4 we give you? and here's what I don't get: when we call them upset seeking comfort, we are viewed as emotional, needy, or fragile. But what could be more emotional, needy or fragile than a CONSTANT need for validation like that of the male ego? 

I have calluses on my fingers from petting it. 

The hypocrisy of the whole thing has boggled my brains and I'm wiped. 

I'm going to bed.

I'd like to think that tomorrow some guy will massage my ego, and after all, tomorrow's only a day away...

But I'm pretty sure Ginger over here had to chill on the streets for more than 24 hours till before the baldy took her in.

4x7=28 and here's how to end a hookup

Hello, men. I think we need to have a chat. 

Your last hookup may have been a serious girlfriend, someone you were casually dating, a friend-with-benefits, or someone you found on Craigslist. Whatever it was, it ended. You know that much.

Here's what you don't know:

THAT'S OKAY. 

If it was faltering, we were aware. If it ended, it's because it needed to. Something obviously wasn't right, or it would still be occurring. 

Now. here's something else you don't know. 

When a woman gets upset with you after it's over it is NOT because she still wants to be with you. It is NOT because she can't handle the fact that the flame has petered out. She is upset with you because you are denying her the most basic, most simplistic, one and only thing she wants:

RESPECT.

That's right. R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to me respect. An acknowledgment that it happened and just a LITTLE BIT of validation that it existed- that there was ANY positivity in it at all. Which there was! There must have been! Or it wouldn't have happened more then once! (ok, twice if you were really fucked up. both times).

Y'all have this little habit of thinking the only way to handle the situation is to ignore the girl until she...what, takes a hint? Is that it? If you were friends, tell her what's up. Doesn't your friend deserve to know? And try this: if she meant something to you, at any point be it physical or even platonic. Let her know. Maybe it was the best sex you've ever had. Maybe it wasn't, but you like the way she listened when you spoke. Maybe you just like her tits. But if you just liked her tits, would you really have taken her out for breakfast in the morning? Would you really have called her on the phone just to talk? 

Maybe you would have. But you can STILL acknowledge the fact that it happened because you wanted it to. Most of us don't practice voodoo. Most of us are not dangling grapes before your lips, and the great majority of us are not slipping you roofies. Your penis did not fall into anyone's vagina. YOU PUT IT THERE. So you're not really foolin' anyone. 

It has been said before that there is a correct way to break up with someone. But a) that statement was apparently not very widespread and b) I'd like to make an addition:

There is a correct way to stop hooking up with someone. No matter how casual it was, it happened. Acknowledge that. Validate the experience. Honor it for what it was. You will come out the good guy. And isn't that what you're all so damn worried about to begin with?

This has happened to all of us way too many times for me to just accept it. I don't know how to reach them. I don't know how to make them understand. I don't know how to drill this into their brains.

All I can think of is flash-cards.