My mom idly put the tv on Sex in the City 2 this afternoon. We were waiting for my dad's imminent arrival so we could partake of her spaghetti (mine consisting only of noodles, making my waiting kind of pointless...). Though it didn't dawn on me then, that we were even doing such thing a rang of the patriarchal society of the past, born from ideas that produce such things as Sex in the City.
I've watched bits and pieces of the show over the years, never even a whole episode. I only watched thirty minutes or less of the movie. But these small snippets told me everything I needed to know: this show is one of those female-empowerment movies that aren't really about female empowerment at all.
On the surface, the four privileged ladies own New York City (or Abu Dhabi, the movie's setting), strutting around, checking out young male models, and generally being what a mainstream male lead would be. This could be construed as progress.
But that is only on the surface. Yes, the women choose to sing karaoke to "I Am Woman." But they were singing the powerful words to impress a supposedly sultry man staying at the hotel. They change into new sets of elaborate, expensive clothes every scene. They ogle a sweaty men's rugby team in the pool. They perpetuate the common myth that women must either be frivolous and slutty or subservient and boring. Their kind of "feminism" means using sex as a bartering tool, manipulating men with the promise of their bodies. Then sitting around drinking Cosmopolitans and complaining about that very quality in men. Double standards are not broken by simply flipping them around.
This false sort of feminism is everywhere, and it's learned young. The summer before sixth grade, my male cousin and I were rooting through all the random junk collected in the nooks and crannies of my grandma's house when we stumbled upon a small collection of what I assume were my grandfather's Playboys.
I flipped through them, intrigued by the novelty of the things; I read some of the articles, even laughing at the desperation ringing through the questions posed in the advice column. But my cousin sat spellbound. The naked images swarmed his consciousness; his hormones glazed his eyes over with a creepy kind of hunger. He asked me for some scissors. I helpfully pointed out pictures that seemed the most practical to remove and conceal, but many were rejected for focusing too heavily on one half of the body or the other.
As he expertly chose the money shots of women draped suggestively over chairs, lying on their backs wearing nothing but stilettos, cradling their boobs like they're precious cargo with faked innocent faces, I began to squirm in my under-developed flesh. I knew I hadn't the power of those pictures, but thought one day I might, but even then, so young, it just felt so wrong.
It wasn't the general society-frowned-upon conscious catching that weirded me out. It was the nature of the power of sexuality, something I hadn't really contemplated before. It seemed somehow unfair, to both the models on the page and eyes feasting upon them. The awkwardness of being an impartial observer to the interaction (and implying the future of the relationship...) made me see how powerful sexuality can be.
Sex and the City tries to show that, but they only really portray superficiality and manipulation. I think maybe a more genuine feminism respects an equal sexual dynamic. It's a powerful tool, and we're not right to give it completely to one sex or the other.
Nor is feminism completely tied up in sex, In the City or elsewhere. Soon, Mom realized that the first preseason football game had started, and we flipped the channel and observed the game with an enthusiasm usually reserved for men. It's this small give and take, realizations that no qualities should be masculine or feminine. That is what a true feminist show would promote. Not snagging the pool boy with the most impressively filled Speedo, as Samantha Jones might think.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Aug 12, 2011
Nov 8, 2010
Sex and Swings
I promised, more to myself than anybody unfortunate enough to read this, to tell the story of the rickety swing set behind my friend's house.
I was in forth grade, and he was in third. This, of course, meant that I was ever so much more worldly than he and could explain things he'd never fathomed. He looked up to me unquestionably, and I valued him highly as a dear friend and protegee of sorts on all things regarding neighborhood children politics.
Any serious discussions we had occurred in one of two places: the miniature-sized trampoline enclosed in the fence in his backyard (which is where he confessed what his parents called his "puppy love" for me and the first and definitely not the last place I disregarded honest affection for superficial and unattainable attention) or the swing set.
This afternoon, we had ventured to the swing set. Neither of our parents knew it existed and it was a few houses down from his place, so naturally we felt rebellious and isolated. In the safety of the weeds and rust, we were free to talk about the most taboo of subjects.
His sister had just called that morning to announce she was pregnant. This was her second child, after what I now realize was a deeply controversial teenage pregnancy that caused great rift in the family. My friend was deeply curious and deeply conflicted.
At first, his eyes were wide with pride at getting to be called "uncle," a grown-up title. He had been too young to fully enjoy the event the first time around. Then his thought process turned the idea over slowly and horror crept into his face, which he looked to me to absolve.
"How does it happen?"
Of course, he meant makin' babies.
Like an actual parent, a moment of panic struck me. Should I lie? All I knew I had gleaned from television and the forth grade version of sex ed and the "Alice" books from the school library, but it would probably be enough to satisfy his curiosity. I gathered my thoughts and answered deliberately. I was never good at sugar-coating.
"They had to have sex."
The word only garnered a small glint of recognition in his face. His parents were pretty over-protective, which explains his sister's adolescent behavior. He'd probably only heard the word in a negative context. A swear word, a forbidden action. Something that caused his parents and sisters to fight.
"Does it-- hurt her?"
Even at that young age, I remember being touched by his deep concern for his sister's welfare. "Maybe," I replied, "but it musn't be too bad if people keep doing it." I thought this was a good balance between honest and reassuring.
He contemplated this for a moment and then switched to new kind of possible damage. At this, the methodical pumping of his feet and the creaks of the rusty swing both halted, and the only sound was his voice and the ubiquitous Texas wind.
"Did she have to... be naked?"
I answered this question with odd clarity. I explained which parts essentially had to be uncovered, and that it didn't actually need to take that long for it to work. I left out, what I considered mercifully, that all the parts were probably uncovered and the length of their marriage suggested it probably took longer than he'd like to think.
I could almost hear his brain processing the information. All at once, his feet began pumping again. They scraped the bone dry ground and a plume of gritty sand enveloped him for a few minutes, and then he swung through it as if it were the confusion that clouded his brain moments before. The smile had returned to his face.
"Maybe they'll name him after me."
I ignored the assumption that the baby was to be a boy, and started my own swing back up. The thing rocked back and forth dangerously in the ground, but our innocent confidences ensured us that it would never tip over while we were sitting in it.
And it never did.
I was in forth grade, and he was in third. This, of course, meant that I was ever so much more worldly than he and could explain things he'd never fathomed. He looked up to me unquestionably, and I valued him highly as a dear friend and protegee of sorts on all things regarding neighborhood children politics.
Any serious discussions we had occurred in one of two places: the miniature-sized trampoline enclosed in the fence in his backyard (which is where he confessed what his parents called his "puppy love" for me and the first and definitely not the last place I disregarded honest affection for superficial and unattainable attention) or the swing set.
This afternoon, we had ventured to the swing set. Neither of our parents knew it existed and it was a few houses down from his place, so naturally we felt rebellious and isolated. In the safety of the weeds and rust, we were free to talk about the most taboo of subjects.
His sister had just called that morning to announce she was pregnant. This was her second child, after what I now realize was a deeply controversial teenage pregnancy that caused great rift in the family. My friend was deeply curious and deeply conflicted.
At first, his eyes were wide with pride at getting to be called "uncle," a grown-up title. He had been too young to fully enjoy the event the first time around. Then his thought process turned the idea over slowly and horror crept into his face, which he looked to me to absolve.
"How does it happen?"
Of course, he meant makin' babies.
Like an actual parent, a moment of panic struck me. Should I lie? All I knew I had gleaned from television and the forth grade version of sex ed and the "Alice" books from the school library, but it would probably be enough to satisfy his curiosity. I gathered my thoughts and answered deliberately. I was never good at sugar-coating.
"They had to have sex."
The word only garnered a small glint of recognition in his face. His parents were pretty over-protective, which explains his sister's adolescent behavior. He'd probably only heard the word in a negative context. A swear word, a forbidden action. Something that caused his parents and sisters to fight.
"Does it-- hurt her?"
Even at that young age, I remember being touched by his deep concern for his sister's welfare. "Maybe," I replied, "but it musn't be too bad if people keep doing it." I thought this was a good balance between honest and reassuring.
He contemplated this for a moment and then switched to new kind of possible damage. At this, the methodical pumping of his feet and the creaks of the rusty swing both halted, and the only sound was his voice and the ubiquitous Texas wind.
"Did she have to... be naked?"
I answered this question with odd clarity. I explained which parts essentially had to be uncovered, and that it didn't actually need to take that long for it to work. I left out, what I considered mercifully, that all the parts were probably uncovered and the length of their marriage suggested it probably took longer than he'd like to think.
I could almost hear his brain processing the information. All at once, his feet began pumping again. They scraped the bone dry ground and a plume of gritty sand enveloped him for a few minutes, and then he swung through it as if it were the confusion that clouded his brain moments before. The smile had returned to his face.
"Maybe they'll name him after me."
I ignored the assumption that the baby was to be a boy, and started my own swing back up. The thing rocked back and forth dangerously in the ground, but our innocent confidences ensured us that it would never tip over while we were sitting in it.
And it never did.
Jan 2, 2010
Everything I Know About Being a Girl, I Learned From Judy Blume
Some books are just better by booklight and 3 a.m.
I'm no statistician, but I'm going to guess that in 75% of women's pasts, they've spent a few late nights huddled underneath the covers, reading a forbidden but juicy Judy Blume book by a flashlight (or booklight).
I know I'm no exception. Judy Blume pretty much wrote the book(s) on being a girl. When I saw a book titled "Everything I Needed To Know About Being a Girl I Learned From Judy Blume," I simply couldn't leave the store without it. The title alone sums it up perfectly.
Last night, true to my typical fashion, I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, out comes the books. Usually, I just turn on the lamp strategically placed beside my bed. But for some reason, I felt compelled to attach the small pink booklight that sits uselessly on my nightstand to the cover and read by the glow of a single, tiny LED bulb. I also felt compelled to set aside the interesting novel I'm currently in the middle of, and pick up the aforementioned Judy Blume homage.
As I sat there, staring at the title page, I couldn't help but laugh. This is exactly how most girls read a Judy Blume original.
Judy has managed to become one of the most challenged authors of all time. She isn't charged with the crime of promoting witchcraft like J.K. Rowling or religious sacrilege like Philip Pullman. She simply told prepubescent girls how it is when nobody else would.
The middle school and early high school years are notoriously tumultuous, and tv would to tell you that everybody has a wise mother or a cool aunt to assist you in navigating it. I'm here to tell you that not everyone does. My mother, while great and perfectly adequate, is definitely not nurturing and pretty much as embarrassed as I was. She was also an only child. No cool aunts.
So I turned to the one thing that had always worked for me before: books. I discovered Judy Blume in a random chance-grabbing at my middle school library, which is how many good things happen. But I discovered more than just something to read. I discovered my cool aunt and wise mom and best friends and beautiful reassurance all alphabetically arranged on the bottom shelf in the first row in the library.
Judy Blume knew all and knew how to make a confused twelve year old girl understand. No time in life is more embarrassing than puberty. There's not a soul alive that doesn't blush a little at just the word. But Judy made it alright. Judy made it alright for so many young girls.
Judy teaches the pitfalls of bras and boys and even God. Though she pisses a lot of people off (the audacity to suggest that it's okay for girls to masturbate or that going to your parents isn't always the best solution for bullying or that sometimes the heroine just doesn't get the guy), she teaches so many girls how to be girls, how to be women. Even though her books are banned so often, by libraries and over-protective parents alike, somehow anybody who wants the books somehow gets them and reads them surreptitiously under the covers.
Though I read almost all of her books in the course of my growing up, I never got around to reading Forever..., the most notorious Blume title (even more notorious than her refreshingly blunt and explicit novel intended for emotionally and sexually frustrated housewives). Often known as the The Sex Book, it simply tells the tale of a high school couple exploring the boundaries of their relationship, physically and mentally.
I don't think it's the sex scenes themselves that make people cringe at the content. The female lead, Katherine, has sex and nothing bad happens. She doesn't get pregnant, an STD, or become a raging sex addict. She satisfies her curiosity, and eventually, moves on. I'm sure this story plays out over and over in high schools all over the country. Judy Blume recognized this, and helped so many Katherines feel a little less alone.
Though life has yet to present me with that particular problem, I know I'll be just a little more prepared when it does. After all, I have Judy Blume in my corner.
Are You There God, It's Me Margaret affected me more soundly than almost any book I've ever read, and I read it in middle school. If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she reads this book. But perhaps I'll leave it lying about, and let her experience it the way most girls have experienced Judy Blume--at 3 a.m. with a booklight and a sense of wonder.
I'm no statistician, but I'm going to guess that in 75% of women's pasts, they've spent a few late nights huddled underneath the covers, reading a forbidden but juicy Judy Blume book by a flashlight (or booklight).
I know I'm no exception. Judy Blume pretty much wrote the book(s) on being a girl. When I saw a book titled "Everything I Needed To Know About Being a Girl I Learned From Judy Blume," I simply couldn't leave the store without it. The title alone sums it up perfectly.
Last night, true to my typical fashion, I couldn't sleep. When I can't sleep, out comes the books. Usually, I just turn on the lamp strategically placed beside my bed. But for some reason, I felt compelled to attach the small pink booklight that sits uselessly on my nightstand to the cover and read by the glow of a single, tiny LED bulb. I also felt compelled to set aside the interesting novel I'm currently in the middle of, and pick up the aforementioned Judy Blume homage.
As I sat there, staring at the title page, I couldn't help but laugh. This is exactly how most girls read a Judy Blume original.
Judy has managed to become one of the most challenged authors of all time. She isn't charged with the crime of promoting witchcraft like J.K. Rowling or religious sacrilege like Philip Pullman. She simply told prepubescent girls how it is when nobody else would.
The middle school and early high school years are notoriously tumultuous, and tv would to tell you that everybody has a wise mother or a cool aunt to assist you in navigating it. I'm here to tell you that not everyone does. My mother, while great and perfectly adequate, is definitely not nurturing and pretty much as embarrassed as I was. She was also an only child. No cool aunts.
So I turned to the one thing that had always worked for me before: books. I discovered Judy Blume in a random chance-grabbing at my middle school library, which is how many good things happen. But I discovered more than just something to read. I discovered my cool aunt and wise mom and best friends and beautiful reassurance all alphabetically arranged on the bottom shelf in the first row in the library.
Judy Blume knew all and knew how to make a confused twelve year old girl understand. No time in life is more embarrassing than puberty. There's not a soul alive that doesn't blush a little at just the word. But Judy made it alright. Judy made it alright for so many young girls.
Judy teaches the pitfalls of bras and boys and even God. Though she pisses a lot of people off (the audacity to suggest that it's okay for girls to masturbate or that going to your parents isn't always the best solution for bullying or that sometimes the heroine just doesn't get the guy), she teaches so many girls how to be girls, how to be women. Even though her books are banned so often, by libraries and over-protective parents alike, somehow anybody who wants the books somehow gets them and reads them surreptitiously under the covers.
Though I read almost all of her books in the course of my growing up, I never got around to reading Forever..., the most notorious Blume title (even more notorious than her refreshingly blunt and explicit novel intended for emotionally and sexually frustrated housewives). Often known as the The Sex Book, it simply tells the tale of a high school couple exploring the boundaries of their relationship, physically and mentally.
I don't think it's the sex scenes themselves that make people cringe at the content. The female lead, Katherine, has sex and nothing bad happens. She doesn't get pregnant, an STD, or become a raging sex addict. She satisfies her curiosity, and eventually, moves on. I'm sure this story plays out over and over in high schools all over the country. Judy Blume recognized this, and helped so many Katherines feel a little less alone.
Though life has yet to present me with that particular problem, I know I'll be just a little more prepared when it does. After all, I have Judy Blume in my corner.
Are You There God, It's Me Margaret affected me more soundly than almost any book I've ever read, and I read it in middle school. If I ever have a daughter, I will make sure she reads this book. But perhaps I'll leave it lying about, and let her experience it the way most girls have experienced Judy Blume--at 3 a.m. with a booklight and a sense of wonder.
Nov 23, 2009
In my heart there rings a melody...
I've always maintained the argument that music isn't any better or worse today than it was in any other decade and that the people living in those decades probably thought the same thing about their music as we think ours. Legends are only made with time.
But as I watched the American Music Awards last night, I couldn't help but think perhaps our music really is worse than that of decades past. I am ashamed to think that any artist performing at that ceremony is the legendary icon that will define this decade for generations to come. Surely Jay-Z is not the Elvis, the Beatles, or the Michael Jackson of our time.
Many of the performances were just sex on stage; Shakira's performance was little more than sex noises and synchronized pelvic thrusts set to generic music. How is this good?
I realize that statement makes me sound like a prude, and if being a prude means I only think you're allowed to have clothed stage sex if the song you're singing is actually good, prude I am.
I thought Shakira couldn't be beat, but then I saw Adam Lambert stuffing a back-up dancer's face in his crotch and just couldn't help but laugh. I thought sexual innuendos on primetime television were meant to be subtle, like you're supposed to wonder if the person sitting next to you got the same thing out of that that you did or your mind is just perverted. But there was no doubt it. When Adam pulled that one, everybody thought BAM ORAL SEX!
I really don't know why this is what is considered entertainment these days. I think good music is so much more than fiery pianos (Thanks Lady Gaga) and bad boxing outfits (looking at you J-Lo).
There's the times when I've sat, unable to sleep, in the middle of my bed. The only light comes from the glow of my ipod screen and the only thing I can hear or feel or think about is the simple melody and perfectly descriptive lyrics completely flooding my consciousness. This is good music.
I think the mark of a good musician is a musician who can take a whole song and make it project one singular feeling, startlingly and overwhelmingly present. From the meaning of the words to the arrangement of the chords to the tone in the singer's voice, it all works together to scream out that one, unifying emotion. That's a song worth listening to.
I don't want to come off as a musical elitist- I like Lady Gaga every now and then. But what lasts and should be praised is true artistry, not the music that rides on sheer sex appeal for popularity.
I look around and all I see is are superficial billboard hits. Will any worthwhile superstars emerge? I doubt it. Everybody's too busy looking at Adam Lambert's crotch.
But as I watched the American Music Awards last night, I couldn't help but think perhaps our music really is worse than that of decades past. I am ashamed to think that any artist performing at that ceremony is the legendary icon that will define this decade for generations to come. Surely Jay-Z is not the Elvis, the Beatles, or the Michael Jackson of our time.
Many of the performances were just sex on stage; Shakira's performance was little more than sex noises and synchronized pelvic thrusts set to generic music. How is this good?
I realize that statement makes me sound like a prude, and if being a prude means I only think you're allowed to have clothed stage sex if the song you're singing is actually good, prude I am.
I thought Shakira couldn't be beat, but then I saw Adam Lambert stuffing a back-up dancer's face in his crotch and just couldn't help but laugh. I thought sexual innuendos on primetime television were meant to be subtle, like you're supposed to wonder if the person sitting next to you got the same thing out of that that you did or your mind is just perverted. But there was no doubt it. When Adam pulled that one, everybody thought BAM ORAL SEX!
I really don't know why this is what is considered entertainment these days. I think good music is so much more than fiery pianos (Thanks Lady Gaga) and bad boxing outfits (looking at you J-Lo).
There's the times when I've sat, unable to sleep, in the middle of my bed. The only light comes from the glow of my ipod screen and the only thing I can hear or feel or think about is the simple melody and perfectly descriptive lyrics completely flooding my consciousness. This is good music.
I think the mark of a good musician is a musician who can take a whole song and make it project one singular feeling, startlingly and overwhelmingly present. From the meaning of the words to the arrangement of the chords to the tone in the singer's voice, it all works together to scream out that one, unifying emotion. That's a song worth listening to.
I don't want to come off as a musical elitist- I like Lady Gaga every now and then. But what lasts and should be praised is true artistry, not the music that rides on sheer sex appeal for popularity.
I look around and all I see is are superficial billboard hits. Will any worthwhile superstars emerge? I doubt it. Everybody's too busy looking at Adam Lambert's crotch.
Nov 18, 2009
Whoopee
Human beings whole lives revolve around sex. This is a concrete and unavoidable fact of life.
No human being is as obsessed with sex as the teenager, thus I'm usually surrounded by it. (Not literally mind you!)
During the sex chapter in my much-alluded-to psychology class, it was interesting, watching everybody squirm as my teacher casually spouted words like "orgasm" and "clitoris." Inexperienced teenagers and wiser middle-aged women all turned the same shade of embarrassed pink, even though we were just listening.
And, oh, the question and answer session! I now no longer wonder how teen pregnancy happens, because people are certainly dumb or clueless enough. What I don't understand is why it's so embarrassing.
I'm not saying I'm totally comfortable discussing it, but it's just funny how humans spend so much time obsessing over sex (just turn on the tv and count the innuendos!) but feel so uncomfortable talking about it. I guess we're just trained that way, to be embarrassed from the get-go; on day one, parents freak when kids ask where babies come from and it just goes downhill from there.
People either take sex too seriously (don't even think about it until you're married!) or not seriously enough (oh, look, I'm pregnant and playing STD bingo!). What about a moderate approach: sensible sex? That's what should be taught instead of the ineffectual abstinence classes.
But happy mediums are not what people do best, especially in what are deemed "more important" topics. I suppose this is just a short, incoherent rant, but there it is.
No human being is as obsessed with sex as the teenager, thus I'm usually surrounded by it. (Not literally mind you!)
During the sex chapter in my much-alluded-to psychology class, it was interesting, watching everybody squirm as my teacher casually spouted words like "orgasm" and "clitoris." Inexperienced teenagers and wiser middle-aged women all turned the same shade of embarrassed pink, even though we were just listening.
And, oh, the question and answer session! I now no longer wonder how teen pregnancy happens, because people are certainly dumb or clueless enough. What I don't understand is why it's so embarrassing.
I'm not saying I'm totally comfortable discussing it, but it's just funny how humans spend so much time obsessing over sex (just turn on the tv and count the innuendos!) but feel so uncomfortable talking about it. I guess we're just trained that way, to be embarrassed from the get-go; on day one, parents freak when kids ask where babies come from and it just goes downhill from there.
People either take sex too seriously (don't even think about it until you're married!) or not seriously enough (oh, look, I'm pregnant and playing STD bingo!). What about a moderate approach: sensible sex? That's what should be taught instead of the ineffectual abstinence classes.
But happy mediums are not what people do best, especially in what are deemed "more important" topics. I suppose this is just a short, incoherent rant, but there it is.
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