On Sexual Double Standards

by f

So here it is — the post I’ve been wanting to write for ages but somehow never got the opportunity to write.

I have been trying to figure out what more we could do with Subterfusex. As a blog, it’s a terrific idea. Two young women in a recession talking about sex and relationships in a frank way. I almost feel like a spy when I write on this blog, because I hide this part of my life from almost everyone that I know. D is a bonafide sex goddess who has nobody in the world to placate. I envy her. It’s certainly my fault that nobody knows about this blog, because the problem is, I don’t know how to tell anybody about it.

I feel like my vagina is a cobwebbed room. I can’t think about it. Or touch it. Or have someone else touch it. Or fuck it. Or tell anyone that it is getting the bejeezus fucked out of i t. Instead, I have to go about my life pretending that this part of my body doesn’t exist. I can’t talk about it, make off-color jokes about it. The fact that I am a sexual being can’t ever be revealed, like the biggest non-secret in the world.

Let me tell you something about my boyfriend’s sister. Regardless of her opinions — we rarely agree — I admire her rare openness when it comes to her relationship with her now-fiance. By ‘relationship’ I mean designated-on-Facebook relationship, a everybody-in-her-family knows about it. She’s a beautiful girl and with the knowledge that she is now, you know, fucking a guy, she’s met with secret scorn wherever she goes. Her family doesn’t talk to her about it. None of her aunts will even mention her name because they’re so scandalized by what she’s doing. Regardless of whom this man is, she’s in love with him and has stayed with him for close to six years now. Is she not entitled to enjoy the benefits of her relationship without meeting with a whole lot of crap about it from everyone else?

(By the way, the guy is a buffoon. But that misses the point. She shouldn’t have to be the object of scorn on something so basic as a relationship.)

A lot of my friends take their freedom to have relationships for granted. I envy the girls whose parents help them and encourage them to make mistakes. The arranged marriage system is predicated on a total fear of letting children make mistakes. The whole “let’s match up lots of random archaic factors so that we can hone down some mysterious stranger” thing is merely a way to mask feelings of institutional racism and classicism. What these parents want to do is to avoid “incompatibility”, which is really a buzzword for “inability to deal with the fact that one’s children might fall in love with someone they pick

I am fucking, want to be fucked and want to choose what schlong enters my you-know-what. I’m not interested in being drier than a nun’s nasty and I want to be able to promote this blog in such a way that people can read it. Yes, it’s not like I want people I know to know about my sexual exploits for other reasons (mostly being sheer embarrassment) but I can get over a degree of mortification if it meant that, say, D & I could start that advice column we’ve always wanted to start. Instead, I’m crippled with paranoia. Somehow, the word is going to get back to me. But what do I do?

Problem is, I live with my parents. They find out about what I say and I could get into serious trouble. They might even restrict my computer access.

This makes it so important that I do get the word out there. I’m just as flummoxed as to how. The fact that I was born in this glorious country which, face it, is a great deal more frank and honest about sexual issues than the country my parents left — no matter how much the Motherland wants to talk about their exotic advances into the erotic — means that I’ve been given the gift to reach out to others like me. I can, and therefore I should. My hands are behind my back. How do I do it?

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