Gandhi wisely said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
For someone who loves arguing as much as I do, it is not always so simple to follow his advice. Although I choose my battles as carefully as I can, there are some things that I can't just sit back and watch or listen to- I feel an immediate overpowering desire to fight it. One of those things is the repression of women's sexuality. As soon as I hear the words- usually coming from a man, but you'd be surprised how often they come from women- "There are two types of women in the world, the ones you marry, and the ones you fuck," or, "A woman who sleeps with a man too quickly is a slut who has no self-respect," I can feel the blood rush up to my head.
I'm in Brazil right now, where, in my opinion, this happens much more often- but maybe people just say it out loud more often, who knows, and last night I went out to dinner with some friends, among them an ex-boyfriend, and a huge discussion regarding this topic exploded. The aforementioned statements were presented as truths and, although the men at the table agreed that it was a cultural imposition of a sexist nature, they still believed in them. It did not end well, and I was very upset by it.
I wish the sex education I received in my life had told me that I would enjoy sex. That I would enjoy it a lot. That I SHOULD enjoy it, and that if I didn't, I should figure out what was missing, I should get to know myself sexually. Although sometimes in magazines I would read about how masturbating was healthy and sex (safe safe safe sex) was wonderful, that information paled in comparison to how rigorously I was taught that I needed to worry about pregnancy and STD's even before I took my clothes off with a guy, that I had to make absolute certain he was the right guy, the perfect guy, and that I shouldn't ever ever be too "easy". The equation was simple- if I turned into one of those girls who was "easy", I would never have a boyfriend again, I would not have many girlfriends, my parents would disown me, I would get pregnant and maybe even die.
So here's what happened. I turned 13 and started going to parties and kissing boys in dark corners, and it felt so good, I mean it felt so so good, that I found myself terribly, tragically confused. I was suddenly having thoughts like, "I hope he touches my boobs," and then when the boy tried I knew I had to slap his hands away and scold him otherwise I would be labeled a slut. I did my best, I did my very best, to be a good girl. To be the kind of girl guys want to marry. But it didn't make any sense, it felt like a complete lie, and I was secretly terrified they would find out how, in my head and when I was alone, I was not a good girl at all.
At 16, I met the guy I mentioned earlier (whom I had a huge discussion with last night- go figure), and he full-heartedly believed I was a good girl. He became my first serious boyfriend, and I figured he was the right guy to lose my virginity to. I played the part of the good girl to an exhausting extent- making sure to set limits in our sexual progression so that he wouldn't lose interest in me. At 17 I lost my virginity to this boyfriend who loved the good girl I had projected. The people I told seemed to approve. No one asked me if I was having orgasms, if I was enjoying the sex, if I was in love with him, if I felt good about it. They asked me if I was being safe and told me it was a good choice, he was the right guy to do it with.
The next phase came in college, when I tried to reject the good girl mask as much as possible. I was living in the U.S. now and attending Sarah Lawrence, so it was easier- maybe, again, who knows. But something wasn't right. I didn't want to treat men like they were disposable and I didn't want to be treated like I was disposable. I wondered why a guy thought he didn't have to respect me because he was "just" having sex with me. I was still confused, but felt a little less repressed than I did as a teenager in Brazil.
Then I started a fling with a wonderful man who seemed to get it (he was raised by a feminist and went to Sarah Lawrence after all); there are not two types of women. Every woman wants to fuck and every woman wants to get married! It was a gift. Through his understanding of women and sexuality, I started to understand myself as a woman and my own sexuality. Although we were monogamous, we were causal. And although we were causal, we were respectful. I could explore my sexuality with him without him ever disrespecting me or for a moment thinking I was not "worthy of marriage". He came into my life at the right time, and when he left, I met another man and I fell in love. Things got confusing again, because although I was in love with him, he and I never made love, and although he was much older than the other guy, he was way inferior in bed.
But that's just part of life. I see now that what I had to learn from him had nothing to do with sex. I would, later on, experience making love with someone I was in love with, and would learn that people in love can also fuck like pornstars and still want to spend the rest of their lives together afterwards. I met several more men who "got it" and treated me with the respect I demanded and deserved, whether we were in a relationship or not, while allowing me to be as sexual and impulsive as I wanted to be. I am always grateful to the universe for sending me these men.
But there are still a lot of men, and women, who don't get it. Last night I couldn't help myself and I tried, in vain I think, to shift the consciousness I was dealing with. I know that it's not up to me to change people, though, and I can only hope that one day life will teach them that repressing a woman's sexuality serves no one. Women can not be categorized. Women may be complicated, but in this area I present you the simplest equation, the "... us" equation:
Love us, Free us, Hold us, Fuck us, Need us, Marry us, Make Love to us and, above all, Respect us.
Showing posts with label naked. Show all posts
Showing posts with label naked. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Naked
I always felt comfortable dressing and undressing in front of other women- be it in the locker room in my high-school or at a fitting room in Bloomingdale's. Perhaps because my mother always changed in front of me, it was my understanding, for most of my life, that women can be naked around other women comfortably and shamelessly.
Then I went to college in the United States. Sarah Lawrence College, to be precise. One of the most liberal, actively feminist colleges in the world. I lived in a house-dorm with 27 people, 21 of which were women, I shared a room with two women, and a bathroom with five. I had been in the room with my new roommates for about an hour, and I needed to change my clothes since it was a hot day and I was sweating in what I was wearing. Of course I am not reckless and naive- I made sure to close the curtains and the door so that any passerby's (of the opposite sex) wouldn't look up and suddenly see a half-naked 18-year-old airing out her armpits. It would never have crossed my mind to go into the bathroom, lock both doors, take my clothes with me, and come out dressed in them so as to avoid being naked in front of my new female housemates. I took off my shirt and stood in front of my dresser topless- deciding what to wear (and enjoying not wearing clothes for a few minutes in that stuffy room). I picked a shirt that had a built-in-bra, so I took off my bra and turned around- only to find both my roommates frozen in place, staring at me. Or rather, at my bare chest. Of course staring is not something that shocks me. Even girls who change in front of each other their whole lives at school still stare at each other from time to time- usually comparing body parts. Nudity is always compelling, even when one is completely used to it. But this was not that kind of staring. One of my roommates- who I later learned was a virgin- was staring at me with pure, utter, unmistakable embarrassment. As if she were the one who was naked and had just realized she had a donkey tattooed on her left breast. The other one- who later became a dear friend- was staring with what I felt was a question mark, as if I wondering if I didn't know where the bathroom was.
Their stares were quickly masked and they each found something to busy themselves with, although their eyes couldn't help but occasionally glance over at me- the strange creature who had invaded their privacy and imposed upon them so much flesh. I did not apologize for my actions, nor did I stop doing it. I put on my shirt, and when I decided I wanted to wear a different one, I stripped yet again.
After a few weeks, my roommate who became my friend started shamelessly changing in front of us as well. But the virgin roommate never even showed us her bra. She would pile up her clothes, lock herself in the bathroom and come out completely dressed. Once, when she was in a hurry, I think she forgot her bra or put on the wrong one, she grabbed the one she needed to wear and was on her way back to the bathroom when, to her horror, someone was already in there, and so I eagerly awaited as I thought I'd finally see her break through her armor of timidity. She did no such thing. With the skills of an acrobatic athlete, she changed her bra in the room without taking off her shirt or even showing her belly button. She left without saying good-bye, and I sat on my bed for about an hour, wondering how the hell society managed to do that to women.
In fact- it did not take me long to learn that most American women do not undress in front of each other, and that it would almost always shock them when I did.
I was taken completely off-guard one day when one of my college friends referred to me as someone who is completely comfortable with her body. I asked her where she got such an insane idea, and she answered, "Well you have no problem being naked in front of people." I quickly answered, "Women. I have no problem being naked in front of women. Because we have the same body parts! Because you're not looking at me and judging how fuckable I am when you see me naked!" She was silent for a while- as though it had not occurred to her that I might not be comfortable at all with my body, or that when a man is present I am completely aware of exactly how much skin is uncovered. I'm not sure my point made sense to her, and she asked yet another question, "But aren't you afraid of how judgmental women are?" This time I didn't know what to say. I thought about it for a while. Whenever I saw a woman with stretchmarks or cellulite or in-grown hairs I usually felt relieved that other women also had those things, and felt a kind of unspoken companionship blossom. Yes, when I was a teenager I had rivals, and would try to find imperfections in them so as to make myself feel better, but it was not something I obsessed over or was even proud of. I told my friend this and she seemed surprised, if not skeptical. How could a woman not instantly and constantly judge another woman- especially when seeing her naked? My heart broke as I started to realize that women judging each other was, for most, considered second nature.
I thought about all of this extensively, and have not come up with solutions or answers, but I recently invented a game. I usually play it on the subway. It's a simple game- it's like people watching and energy shifting combined. I look around at women and find one thing about each one that is completely beautiful to me. It does not have to be physical, it can be about their energy or an action they take. Her hair, her hands, the way she's holding her son's hand, her attention to her purse, her shoulders, her elegance, her grace....
It usually puts me in a much better mood- and it tends to have a very strong karmic force. On days when I play this game, I am often given a lot of compliments, usually from other women. And when I share the game with other women, they are often delighted, and want to know what I find beautiful about them. It is different from fishing for compliments or kissing up to someone, I think, because it only works if it comes from an honest place, and it is not intended to serve the ego, but rather to guide women away from judging one another, and towards admiration and respect for each other. Try it- I think you'll be surprised.
Then I went to college in the United States. Sarah Lawrence College, to be precise. One of the most liberal, actively feminist colleges in the world. I lived in a house-dorm with 27 people, 21 of which were women, I shared a room with two women, and a bathroom with five. I had been in the room with my new roommates for about an hour, and I needed to change my clothes since it was a hot day and I was sweating in what I was wearing. Of course I am not reckless and naive- I made sure to close the curtains and the door so that any passerby's (of the opposite sex) wouldn't look up and suddenly see a half-naked 18-year-old airing out her armpits. It would never have crossed my mind to go into the bathroom, lock both doors, take my clothes with me, and come out dressed in them so as to avoid being naked in front of my new female housemates. I took off my shirt and stood in front of my dresser topless- deciding what to wear (and enjoying not wearing clothes for a few minutes in that stuffy room). I picked a shirt that had a built-in-bra, so I took off my bra and turned around- only to find both my roommates frozen in place, staring at me. Or rather, at my bare chest. Of course staring is not something that shocks me. Even girls who change in front of each other their whole lives at school still stare at each other from time to time- usually comparing body parts. Nudity is always compelling, even when one is completely used to it. But this was not that kind of staring. One of my roommates- who I later learned was a virgin- was staring at me with pure, utter, unmistakable embarrassment. As if she were the one who was naked and had just realized she had a donkey tattooed on her left breast. The other one- who later became a dear friend- was staring with what I felt was a question mark, as if I wondering if I didn't know where the bathroom was.
Their stares were quickly masked and they each found something to busy themselves with, although their eyes couldn't help but occasionally glance over at me- the strange creature who had invaded their privacy and imposed upon them so much flesh. I did not apologize for my actions, nor did I stop doing it. I put on my shirt, and when I decided I wanted to wear a different one, I stripped yet again.
After a few weeks, my roommate who became my friend started shamelessly changing in front of us as well. But the virgin roommate never even showed us her bra. She would pile up her clothes, lock herself in the bathroom and come out completely dressed. Once, when she was in a hurry, I think she forgot her bra or put on the wrong one, she grabbed the one she needed to wear and was on her way back to the bathroom when, to her horror, someone was already in there, and so I eagerly awaited as I thought I'd finally see her break through her armor of timidity. She did no such thing. With the skills of an acrobatic athlete, she changed her bra in the room without taking off her shirt or even showing her belly button. She left without saying good-bye, and I sat on my bed for about an hour, wondering how the hell society managed to do that to women.
In fact- it did not take me long to learn that most American women do not undress in front of each other, and that it would almost always shock them when I did.
I was taken completely off-guard one day when one of my college friends referred to me as someone who is completely comfortable with her body. I asked her where she got such an insane idea, and she answered, "Well you have no problem being naked in front of people." I quickly answered, "Women. I have no problem being naked in front of women. Because we have the same body parts! Because you're not looking at me and judging how fuckable I am when you see me naked!" She was silent for a while- as though it had not occurred to her that I might not be comfortable at all with my body, or that when a man is present I am completely aware of exactly how much skin is uncovered. I'm not sure my point made sense to her, and she asked yet another question, "But aren't you afraid of how judgmental women are?" This time I didn't know what to say. I thought about it for a while. Whenever I saw a woman with stretchmarks or cellulite or in-grown hairs I usually felt relieved that other women also had those things, and felt a kind of unspoken companionship blossom. Yes, when I was a teenager I had rivals, and would try to find imperfections in them so as to make myself feel better, but it was not something I obsessed over or was even proud of. I told my friend this and she seemed surprised, if not skeptical. How could a woman not instantly and constantly judge another woman- especially when seeing her naked? My heart broke as I started to realize that women judging each other was, for most, considered second nature.
I thought about all of this extensively, and have not come up with solutions or answers, but I recently invented a game. I usually play it on the subway. It's a simple game- it's like people watching and energy shifting combined. I look around at women and find one thing about each one that is completely beautiful to me. It does not have to be physical, it can be about their energy or an action they take. Her hair, her hands, the way she's holding her son's hand, her attention to her purse, her shoulders, her elegance, her grace....
It usually puts me in a much better mood- and it tends to have a very strong karmic force. On days when I play this game, I am often given a lot of compliments, usually from other women. And when I share the game with other women, they are often delighted, and want to know what I find beautiful about them. It is different from fishing for compliments or kissing up to someone, I think, because it only works if it comes from an honest place, and it is not intended to serve the ego, but rather to guide women away from judging one another, and towards admiration and respect for each other. Try it- I think you'll be surprised.
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