Sexual Snowflakes

In our cleavage, ass-shorts, outlined-vulva, always-in-your-face culture, how can we not always be talking about the various ways in which women express themselves sexually? Do we, the ones with the vaginas and the penises, own our sexuality at all? I’m not sure.

Sex is overtly in everything now. I personally can’t even watch drama series anymore because more than anything, the subtext beneath any storyline is, “Here is sex and here is violence.” Sometimes the violence is mental only. Sometimes it’s not. Either way, it’s sexual in nature. And it’s almost always soft porn with intermittent conversations and chase scenes (or whatever) in between.

About ten years ago, while channel-flipping, I stumbled across a documentary about sex (NOT PORN). There was a scene of a woman,  roughly in her early fifties, very thin but a touch flabby. She had short, boy-cut hair. She was pretty, and you could see her age clearly in the lines on her face. Her B-cup boobs were appropriately sagging for her age. Her skin wasn’t perfectly smooth and supple. And she was in a hot tub by herself, masturbating in front of the camera. But in no obvious ways was she masturbating for the camera. She was not gyrating and giving come-hither doll eyes to the camera. Her eyes were closed and she was focused on her own pleasure. When she had an orgasm, she didn’t make a pouty O-face. She made a sort of half grimace, half the-sun-shineth-upon-me face, an unconscious and real expression of intense pleasure. A natural one. Like the face you make when you have an orgasm and no one is looking.

I like sex. Most people like sex. I also like French fries and a good pee when my bladder is super full. I don’t need to have a good pee or a good French fry every minute of my life, and I don’t need to see someone else having a good pee or a good French fry every minute of my life. I don’t need to see it on billboards or in all of my shows or on my social media all the time. But yet, there it is. (Not the peeing and French fries … the sex.)

Here’s the thing. (And it’s a thing that can’t possibly be covered thoroughly in my Saturday morning blog.) With this whole Trump thing happening right now, it should serve as a reminder of the fact that, no matter what a woman does or how she behaves in any context or setting, the objectification of the female of our species is everywhere we–both genders–look. In the eyes of our capitalist society, where advertising plays a big part in defining our culture, we are not sentient beings, we are not snowflakes. Men either. Men are drooling troglodytes trolling the city streets looking for a round ass, skinny hips, long, flowing hair, and grabbable tits whose owner to clobber and drag into a cave for a mating ritual.

So I ask again: Why don’t we talk about the various ways in which women express themselves sexually? Because women are not free to express it how they want to or how they feel compelled to. They ostensibly are not free to express it naturally. We fit into one of two categories: fuckable or unfuckable. And we’re thinking about how we rate in terms of fuckability, in the eyes of the world, during every moment of the day and night. Men are too. It’s inescapable.

It’s a self-perpetuating cycle of self-effacement and destruction. The only way out is if we protest in our own lives, stop trying to conform to our designated roles. Stop trying to be the girl (or the guy) in the ad, in the show, on the screen, in your phone. For fuck’s sake–literally for the sake of fucking!–just be you. And above all else, don’t let anyone tell you what face you’re supposed to make when you have an orgasm.

New Republic




Published by: crucifixionqueen

Full-time freelance developmental editor and evaluator, writer, mom, know-it-all. I have an MFA in fiction from NC State University, an MA from Manhattanville College, and a BA from SUNY Purchase. I'm here to make the world a better place.

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