Archive for January, 2008

Sacred and profane

I hesitated to write the word cunt on my Facebook profile yesterday, because my mother was likely to be reading. Apart from being quaintly old fashioned, this struck me later as being pretty silly.

Sure, it can be offensive – if I shouted “I hate you, you stupid cunt,” at my sister, she’d be right to be upset. But I could shout “I hate you, you pygmy toad,” with equal malice and that would hurt too. In that case it wouldn’t be the words used, but the sentiment conveyed that would be distressing.

When we break it down, we generally agree that no letters have mystical powers. Yet this particular combination of them produces one of the most powerfully offensives sounds an Anglophone can make. How odd, when you think of it like that.

Of course, I realise it’s not the sound, it’s what the sound represents that we find offensive. But again, when you really think about it, it’s pretty strange. Other body parts fail to elicit the same reaction – mouths can be just as dark and wet as your common or garden cunt, but no one quails at the word ‘gob’.

I think we, the sacred feminine, the proud possessors of the mighty cunt, must be partly to blame. Even ardent non-feminists chastise people fiercely for using the word, perpetuating the myth that a sound or a label can be a dangerous thing.

Perhaps you could argue that gender-specific abuse is derogatory to one sex or another, yet male genitalia provide us with a host of insults without engendering the same hullabaloo – dick, prick, knob, cock are all cheerfully offensive.

Perhaps because Englishmen have been making fun of their cocks since at least Shakespeare, they are now inured to the shock of referencing them.

Who knows, if grown men paled and swooned when reminded that they have genitalia, maybe I’d suddenly be a whole lot more cautious about using the term knob-jockey in front of my mum.

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Ms Electra, allow me to introduce…

I’ve looked for father figures in a lot of my boys. Guys who will wrap me up in their arms and let me be small. I’d even say I’ve manipulated people into treating me like that, subconsciously, of course. 😉

The reason is simple, and oh so classically Freudian. My father, while being a massively generous provider of schooling, clothes, books, holidays, cars and other sweetmeats, is quite emotionally distant.

While ponies and private school have undoubtedly shaped the person I am, so has being scared that if I fall and graze my knee, no one is going to kiss it better.

That said, seeking unconditional support and comfort from people I’m dating hasn’t worked out that well for me, and it took a long time to figure out why.

For a start, it’s quite a lot to ask of someone who isn’t my father (kinky fetishes aside, that’s a whole different ball park). It’s draining to take responsibility for someone else’s emotional health along with your own. Then there’s the problem of me feeling resentful if I think that yet another ‘father’ is rejecting me.

The real turning point in this cycle was just over a year ago, but it takes me a v-e-r-y l-o-o-o-o-n-g time to process some things (!). Now I’ve realised that the key isn’t finding someone who fits the emotionally protective bill, it’s accepting that I don’t actually need anyone to fulfil that role except myself.

Interestingly, in all the relationships where I’ve been emotionally needy, I’ve been sexually dominant. Now I’m in a relationship where I’m emotionally equal, I’m sexually submissive. I wonder why?

Backpacking in Goa

Backpacking in Goa

Drink some bhang lassi,
Write ‘cunt’ on your mate’s forehead
With a henna pen.

La Maroma

La Maroma

The almond blossom
Is late this year – too soon we
Wash ourselves with dust

Something moved, I’m not sure it was the Earth

I’ve been with my boy for six years, most of which we’ve spent “living as married” as the authorities put it. This means (among other things) living with the ebb and flow of a maturing relationship – squabbles about gas bills, cleaning rotas & whether courgettes are real food.

It also means ups and downs in libido and sexual attraction. There’ve been times when we had lots of sex, and times when I’ve wondered if we were doing it just to keep the national average up. There was also a time when I was depressed – the libido equivalent of locking yourself into a chastity belt and swallowing the key along with a handful of roofies.

I’ve come to accept the changeable nature of long-term sex. For a while I resented the fact that the honeymoon period had to end – why don’t we fuck four times a day anymore? Blame work, blame money, blame something other than the trajectory of a growed-up relationship.

I’ve since made my peace with this (and come off the pill, so that I’m physically connected with sex in a better way), so I was somewhat surprised, in a very pleasant way, when last night I had the best orgasm of my entire fucking life (expletives necessary on many levels).

I consider myself something of a connoisseur, sexually speaking. I’ve done it quite a lot, with all sorts of people, and plenty of it has been pretty fucking mind-blowing, especially when I was an overly horny teenager.

Last night I felt everything I’ve ever felt before and more. I felt 15 again, but I also felt 5,000 – like I was connected to everyone who’s ever enjoyed a great orgasm. And connected to every cell in my body, every star in the sky, every tortuous epic movie.

Amazing feeling, and amazing to have a boy who slips things like that in among the petty pace of day to day living. Maybe I’ll marry this one!

Recurring dream

I am a member of some reactionary protest group, living on the organisation’s commune. The meeting and class rooms are all very modern, with lots of chrome and sliding glass doors.

By contrast, the living quarters are dusty old barns, with mattresses laid on the floor to create dormitories. There is a problem with mice.

I acquire a child’s toy snake, which is supposed to help with the mouse problem in some way. I keep the snake in a wooden drawer in the barn wall above my mattress.

I begin to find the snake in a different position each time I open the drawer, and start catching it moving out of the corner of my eye.

The snake takes on talismanic qualities (is this Freudian?). I become scared of touching it and eventually am scared even to open the drawer.

I wake feeling mildly panicked.

I have had this dream three times recently.

Waking life

In this order:

* Winter sunlight is beautiful

* My daffodils are growing

* My head hurts like a mofo

* Red wine is not the answer
(Except on Double Jeopardy, when the question might be “An alcoholic beverage made from dark-skinned grapes”)