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v u l v a l i c i o u s

I have brains
2002-11-16 // 2:02 p.m.

On my rings page there is a link that claims that I have brains. Once a week, someone asks me a question, and I am supposed to use my brain to answer it, I suppose. It never feels appropriate, and I usually only ruminate on the question instead of getting verbose on the subject.

However, this week's question deserves some attention, as it is something I feel drawn back to pretty regularly: Can you still be a feminist and be into rough sex?

My gut response is a yes--a militant yes that is the voices of women speaking in unison, claiming their sexual freedom; it is followed by the yes of women in the throes of ecstatic pain, experiencing a mix of sensual pleasure and primal lust, the swelling of noise from cunts and mouths and skin filtered through apartment walls or tree-lined alcoves. It is a loud, earth-shaking, undeniable yes.

And then I hear the no. It starts out small, and gets louder as it asks me questions. It is the voice of my past reinforced by my present. It asks me, repeatedly, "why?".

She likes to be fucked, I say, hard. Why?

Because it feels good, because it feels.


Why what?

Why does it feel good?

It's there, it's stronger, it's deeper than the other feelings. She likes light touch of lover hands, she likes the feeling of lips brushing past the edges of her ear, down to her neck; the hot, sweet breath of a lover. But not alone. "Bring company," she says, "in the form of your teeth." She wants the lips to give way to the sharpness of that first nibble, for the hot breath to be followed by the raking of fingers down neck and back.

Why? Why isn't that first bit enough?

She just likes it. She needs it, sometimes. It feels good. It feels. Good.

To hurt? To hurt feels good? And she begs for pain, begs to be fucked? And that's ok? And that's alright?
(The voice gets louder, more persistent)
She's begging to be fucked, to be a temple desecrated?
(She quotes Catherine MacKinnon, saying, "man fucks woman, subject-verb-object.)
You think she's a fucking feminist when she asks to get slammed into walls, plays out his rape fantasies like they're her own, like they didn't come from his mouth-hands-mind? Why?

They are hers, somewhere. They are, and she owns them. She grabs the reins, she pulls, she directs. The rape fantasy is under her control--consensual act that gives her agency.

The voice stops, or I stop her.

Agency. Power. She can be a feminist, if she knows. If she feels it.

I can be fucked, can fuck, can control my destiny.

Fucking. Cunt. I am a fucking cunt, and I love my Self more for it.


i travel backwards in time, but dream of going forward - 2006-11-21
The Gentrification of a Perfectly Good Cunt - 2006-04-02
apologia, not apology - 2006-03-06
karen carpeter loops and the space time continuum - 2005-12-19
kissing like you mean it, even when you don't necessarily know what "it" is - 2005-04-16