It’s a great debate, of sorts, and one that makes for interesting bar talk. Sitting there, considering the implications of unshorn armpit and leg hair in the age of neatly preened, high gloss Photoshop images of hairless models lying around languidly in bikinis. The double standard for men and women is keenly noted, seeing as men are allowed to walk around looking like hairy beasts throughout their lives (unless, of course, they’re gay men in Miami, or that’s what I was told). Women, however – we’re expected to shave our entire bodies from the eyelashes down. While some of my friends have taken on the body hair debate (and this doesn’t even include the pubic region) as a feminist cause, refusing to shave their legs and armpits, I, as a feminist who shaves her legs and armpits, feel a bit stuck in between. While I understand that it’s “our bodies, our choices,” there’s still this part of me that has been conditioned to obey the American Media Standards of Attractiveness as enforced by television ads and my innate desire to want to be desired by another human being. It’s a natural instinct, really, and while I realize that just because I don’t feel oppressed doesn’t mean that I’m not actually oppressed, as an ethnic woman with coarser, darker body hair, there’s something a bit comforting, a bit pampering about shaving and/or waxing (as the case may be). Sure, there’s also that part where several of my male friends have rather vociferously and rather consistently expressed their disdain – nay, disgust for women who don’t shave their armpits, but I’ve also come to terms with the fact that I don’t really have a philosophical crusade quite as lofty as feminism with which to justify my need to remove my body hair. Really, I’m just reveling in the fairly shallow argument that I’m still willing to spend an extra twenty minutes a week shaving my legs and armpits if it marginally increases my sexual attractiveness to the opposite sex. Shallow as that may be, I respect my feminist counterparts who refuse to shave, and, also, it’s worth noting that they still get laid all the time by really attractive men, so maybe my argument that it makes me more attractive is null and void. Therefore, maybe I’m just doing it out of force of habit, as has been impressed upon me by American culture, and, at the end of the day, the misperceived boost in attractiveness is just a boon to my sexual self confidence. If that’s the case, so be it. I like feeling self confident.
Meet up at bars late at night, and I’m running out of bars where I can go without running into anyone I know, which would be ideal seeing as my creeping attempts at seduction can be too easily thwarted by the presence of yet another former lover or future former lovers. I must focus on the task at hand, which is me, slowly monitoring my alcohol intake while simultaneously drink counting how much beer he’s sipping down right at this moment, then compounding that math with the probability of his ability to get it up after, what is that? His fifth beer? I check my phone, and it’s already 1AM, which means that the odds of avoiding the inevitable hook up half boner and then deciding if I should say something or just let him deal with his half hard boner and whatever orifice he thinks that he can shove it into while still guzzling down alcohol after last call – sigh. This mathematical calculation also taking into account the fact that he probably doesn’t get enough exercise, and probably doesn’t lead a very healthy lifestyle, and I’m suddenly getting nostalgic for being 22 – well, not me being 22, but when all the guys I hooked up with were 22 and didn’t have this problem. Maybe the CDC should put out a PSA about the benefits of exercise for men, and rather than emphasizing the fact that it helps curtail cancer, they should just be honest and say: If you exercise more, you’ll be able get your dick hard even after you’re totally wasted. Which brings me to the conclusion that I should be hooking up with guys when they’re less wasted, which means that I have to look for men who are self confident enough to take their clothes off without being totally shit face wasted, and also to get a guy to take his clothes off without being totally shit face wasted, I’ll probably have to do them the service of getting to know these theoretical future hook ups a little better than the two hour before last call.
What can I say, I’m a bartender. It’s my job to drink count everybody I come across.
And what if the biggest con of all, in all of the human history – what if it isn’t about money, or sex, or power, or glory? What if it’s not about being smarter, or prettier, or faster, or richer, but what if it’s just about learning how to trick another human being into loving you. And not so much that it’s perceived as trickery, but the long, smooth con of reeling someone in, the emotional vice grip on another person’s heart, not as an act of cruelty, but an act of – of what? Of love? Hah! The cynic inside me begs to disagree, but that is what it’s about. Because with love, and all it’s ineffable auxiliary emotions, comes some sort of life long coupling. Something that isn’t perceived as shackles, initially, but something less sinister to that. If you can convince another person to suffer for you – well, then, that’s it, isn’t it? The only caveat to that one being, love is never a one way street. If you want someone to suffer for you in the name of love, you have to at least make it seem like the feeling is mutual. So I guess it’s time to learn how to fake that one.
Time for a little bit of ejaculatory self congratulations! This is the 1,000th post on Fuck Feast, and while, sure, it wasn’t 1,000 original pieces of literary crotch spew, it’s still 1,000 pieces of shit that came careening out of me and into the Internet. In one month, Fuck Feast will be two years old, which is great, because I’m pregnant with new ideas.
Sometimes the line between a healthy attitude about liberated sexuality and using one’s own sexuality as a habitual opiate to numb the pain in other area’s of one’s life can be blurred. Especially as women, who are told that the moment they open themselves to sexual possibilities that they become whores. It’s easy to entangle one’s sexual liberation with the idea of sexual addiction, ignoring warning signs about unhealthy attitudes and actions by chalking it up to feminism. But, much like that drug phase that most of us went through in our late teenage years and early twenties, the exploration of sexuality can be a dangerous endeavor. While the desire to engage in sexual activity is a natural phenomenon, At what point does the sexual impulse become unhealthy? For some people, the race to engage in sexual activities and explore one’s sexuality to the brink of normalcy can push certain individuals to engage in activities that might normally be considered taboo. Things such as anal sex, sex for money, BDSM, group sex and homosexuality – things that initially were not on the table – might become commonplace. While these activities in and of themselves are not perverse or unhealthy, and perhaps the exploration of these activities might help to further liberate an individual, it’s important to remember that one’s own boundaries are exactly the thing that define healthy and unhealthy. For one person, having had 600 partners over the course of a lifetime is something to shrug at. For others, having had 6 partners is a cause for crisis. While I certainly am an advocate of people exploring their sexuality, questioning their boundaries, pushing for better sex and better partners, I realize that at a certain point some of these impulses become compulsive and unhealthy. So while I encourage you to do whatever the fuck you want to do, I also encourage you to ask yourself, “Is this good for me?” Because, personally, I have reached my breaking point several times. A while ago, I was engaging in certain activities that proved to be quite unhealthy for me, and, on a sexual level, some of these activities proved to be somehow also unsatisfying. Sex had become like a drug to me – I had to have more and more and more of it in order to feel any sort of high. Having been into the depths of human sexuality, I realized that I could resurface and find satisfaction in what would be considered some of the more mundane aspects of human sexuality. Because I realize that I have been guilty of engaging in sexual conquests like it was a competition, seeing who could stoop down into the deepest, darkest corners of depravity and lust. It was a game that was fun for a while, but it later occurred to me that I was playing a game with no winner. Because after a certain point, the darker it got, the less fun it became. So, while I realize that this is a sex blog, and not sex addict’s recovery blog, I also realize that people have their breaking points. And breaking points aren’t about boundaries – boundaries are self-imposed limits of comfort, and breaking points are the points of no return. You can cross a boundary and come back, but if you cross a breaking point, you’ll be broken with no fix in sight. So, kiddies, in conclusion, please explore your sexuality to the fullest of your abilities, but, remember, sex is like drugs, and if you start shooting up heroin every day, then you’ll be one of those people who shoots up heroin every day, and no one really wants to be that.