Category Archives: Deep

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

June 24, 2018

Posted under

Because I'm A Lady, Big Wide World, Deep, Politics, Random, Relationships

Comments

Leave a comment

The Devaluing Dong

*I have been working on this piece FOREVER!  Somebody better share this shit!*

So I’m going to talk about penises.  Brace yourselves.

Well, a mix of penises and sex.  So, like, especially brace yourselves.

Are you braced?  Because I’m dead serious, this post in mostly about penises and sex and I do NOT want people telling me they were surprised/shocked/offended.  Because I feel the devaluing dong is a subject that deserves discussion.  And I warned you.  And I suppose I could warn you one last time via shock value, like by posting a bunch of penis pics or something to especially get my point across, but I have been on the receiving end of too many of those to ever do that to you, non-existent followers.

(Seriously, stop doing that.  If I wanted to see your penis, I would ask.  IF I DON’T ASK, I DON’T WANT TO SEE IT.

“Can you send me a PICTURE OF YOUR PENIS?”  [Picture of penis]    Acceptable.

“Hey, do you want to meet up later?”  [Picture of penis]   Completely unacceptable, why would you do that, dear God my poor unsolicited dick pic receiving phone.)

The devaluing dong is what I have decided to call the issue that coming into contact with a penis (other than your own) almost instantly lowers your “value” but possessing a penis somehow puts you at the top of the heap, to quote Frank Sinatra in a way that would probably horrify him.

What do you call a woman who sleeps with a lot of men during college?  I would call her hopefully sexually satisfied and pray that she uses protection (condoms really are important, people) but according to media, she would probably called a slut, a whore, a girl you don’t take home to Mama.  What do we call a woman who sleeps with a lot of women during college?  Confused, questioning, experimenting, lesbian until graduation, and a whole host of other terms that basically state, “Have your vagina fun because it doesn’t really count.”  See, from what I can tell, penile contact is a serious matter.  You can no longer wear white as a bride, your vajanejane suddenly risks “hot dog down a hallway” potential, your sexual value takes a sudden turn because the next penis won’t be the first.  In my opinion, total bullshit, but since my armies haven’t risen yet to create a peaceful global Musique23-dictatorship, we have to deal with the cards we are dealt.

Now I’m going to be honest.  I, musique23, am sexually active.  I have come into contact with the devaluing dong.  And even though I consider myself an active, healthy feminist and human being with all the urges and desires that come with that label as well as a healthy and understandable disdain for what I routinely declare as “patriarchal bullshit,” (which is often either hissed under my breath at the movies or in public or yelled at my television or phone as I read various articles), I had to deal with my own perception of my lowered value after I slept with my boyfriend for the first time.  Sad and shameful, I know.  For you see, despite my parents masterful teaching that value is much more related to what’s between your ears vs. your thighs, I still had a stupid amount of pride in my flowered status.

Speaking from experience as what felt like the world’s oldest virgin (23 years old baby!), I felt a stupid amount of satisfaction in shrugging while my friends talked about their sex lives.  A frustration-satisfaction mix, actually.  (My early twenties were weird.  I would recommend skipping them whenever possible.  If you ever have the chance to just wake up at age 27 with a degree and a job, I advise doing so.)  I knew I wanted some lovin’.  Didn’t know from where, didn’t know from who, but my ladybits were starting to not so quietly warn me that their time to shine had approached.  However, (again, despite my parents doing their best to combat the fuckery that is society) I still thought of women who “slept around” as something shameful and prided myself in my white bridal gown state.

It wasn’t until many moons later, dating and sexing a great guy and laughing with my friends, that the concept of the devaluing dong blew my mind and angered my soul.

So, quick poll: How many people would call a woman who kissed another woman just once in her life a lesbian?  How many would cite a singular Sapphiric night of love as basis that obviously said woman/women are DL lesbians, or at least bisexual?  The answer is very few.  Hell, I kissed a girl in college, and I thought I might actually be bisexual.  (She had very soft lips.  I was mentally disappointed she wasn’t a guy.  Team hetero it was.)  I openly have like 3 lady crushes.  My boyfriend has been informed that if Amber Rose and I are ever trapped on an elevator and we are both feeling it, I have a freebie card in advance.  (That woman is FINE.  She knows it.  I know it.  Ain’t no shame in my game…)  And at no point has he or any of my friends ever suggested that this might be because I am secretly gay.  My best friend is gay, and when I told him, “I think Girl X is cute; am I in the LGBT community now?” he just looked at me and rolled his eyes.

Now, how many people would feel the same way if instead of two women, it was two guys?  One night, when your boyfriend was 19 and on the wrestling team (I’m sorry, but that sport is crazy homo-erotic.  I enjoyed watching them struggle for dominance in the Olympics and all, but that sport is suspect as Hades.), he and his teammate got a little drunk and had sex with each other.  It was only the one time and your boyfriend decided that he didn’t really like it as much as he thought he would, but still, he came into contact with another penis.  Suddenly, it isn’t harmless fun due to youthful curiosity, it is confused men on the DL and unless he wants his heterosexuality to forever be in question, he will tell NO ONE.

This is where the patriarchal bullshit comes in.  (Seriously, that is one of my top ten phrases I use in my private life.  It covers so much!)  To be man is to be successful.  Wait, I can do better.  Masculine attributes are considered the default measure of success.  Feminine attributes are considered the default measure of weakness.  Men fuck, women get fucked.  To fuck is strength, to get fucked is weak.  Now ignore the bad language (Mother and Daddy, may you never read this post), I’m about to blow your mind.

Having a thrusting penis is apparently a good thing.  But receiving said penis-thrust is a bad thing.  Does that make sense?  No.  Is it nonetheless a thing that heterosexual women and gay and bisexual men have to deal with?  Yes.

(I would like to note that I came up with this concept before the Insecure episode “Guilty as F**k” aired; however, that episode is a great example of kind of what I’m talking about, especially sexuality wise.  Also, should Issa Rae ever come across this, know that I think you’re brilliant.)

Having a penis equals power.  But coming into contact with  that instrument of power equals weakness.  (I’m going to give everyone a minute to have a proper laugh at that statement, because it is funny, but I couldn’t think of any other way to word it.)  It affects so many things.  Let us be honest here, men are what make people uncomfortable in the LGBT rights struggle.  (Side note: people should not be uncomfortable; people are stupid.)  Girl-on-girl porn is widely and openly watched, but put two penis together and suddenly the frat boy has a moral obligation to announce that he doesn’t like that gay shit.  You just put a jello shot in my hand and cheered when I smooched my sorority sister; yes, you apparently do.

Why the stupidity?  Calling someone a pussy (especially a man; actually, I’ve never  heard a woman call another woman a pussy) is supposed to be a deep insult, saying that they are weak or something stupid.  My official resort to seeing/hearing that phrase is now proclaiming loudly, “You WISH you were that strong.”  Because I saw my sister give birth.  Like, I saw my niece before my sister did because I saw when she came into this world and my sister was still pushing.  And then hold the whole HUMAN BEING she had pushed out her body and smile.  And then smile at her husband, who had kinda helped put the whole human being into her body but just had to hold her fracking hand through contractions.  And then, like, live her life and just continue being awesome.  And THAT is what a pussy is.  But also not at all because I hate that phrase.

Look, I’m a heterosexual woman.  I have come into consensual contact with a penis.  Inversely, as a heterosexual man, my boyfriend has come into consensual contact with a vagina.  But when’s the last time you heard about grandfathers whispering that they couldn’t believe the groom had the nerve to wear a certain color on his wedding day?  Never!

So let us put an end to this devaluing dong concept.  My value as a woman, partner, and human has NOTHING to do with what/who/how many penises I’ve entertained any more than any of my male coworkers are somehow better men due to how many ladies they’ve had sex with.  I realize it is all tied up in Christian, hetero-normative nonsense, but being aware of it is that first step of fighting it, and I don’t want anybody to be able to say “Well nobody has ever put it that way before…”

And just to be more direct, think of it this way:  There are still areas in the world, in 2018, where the belief that a woman is less than worthy due to contact with a penis, even if it isn’t consensual.  And there are still countries where it is not a crime to harass or hurt a man for being gay.  And people DIE.  The devaluing dong KILLS people.  And I can quip about it safe in my bedroom in Detroit, and I can offer up witty observations that blanket a secure plea to do better, but honestly, think about this shit.

Oh, right, positive closing note.  Keep fighting the patriarchal bullshit?  Yeah!  Keep fighting the patriarchal bullshit!

Because seriously, this is some bullshit.

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

December 2, 2014

Posted under

Big Wide World, Deep, Politics, Rattling Around Musique23's Head

Comments

2 Comments

Terrified

This is going to be a somber piece.  I might try to inject a little humor into it, but this has been rattling around my head (mayhaps my soul) for a while and I felt like I needed to say my piece.

Darren Wilson was found not guilty.  I’m not surprised.  I actually would’ve been really shocked if the grand jury had decided to indict him for the simple fact that they almost never charge police officers in cases such as this and they really never charge White officers.  Not being [openly] cynical, merely reporting a fact of life in these United States: our police officers are underpaid, under-trained, and overworked, but we don’t let them get charged with murder.  Ferguson went wild.  Fires were set, stores were looted, police made their semi-ominous appearance in riot gear, the streets were packed with angry and upset people.  However, most importantly, a mother felt crushed that the death of her son would go unpunished.

Now let me inject this: I don’t know enough about the Ferguson Incident/Michael Brown shooting to have a well-thought out, decisive opinion on the matter.  I have worked really hard to stay out of it with my friends and family.  I neither approve nor disapprove of the actions that have been taken in Ferguson, Missouri as a result of this incident and the loss of life.  I stand on the sidelines, watching these events with a heavy heart and a hope that we can learn from this.

And I wish I could stop there, because my post isn’t about Darren Wilson/Michael Brown.  This post is about me.

I’m afraid.  I am scared of many things in this world (spiders, sickness, and failure among them), but I am usually afraid for me.   Even if its about my parents, like when my mother was in and out the ER a couple of years ago and we still don’t know why, it’s ultimately selfish.  It’s how the tragedy will affect me, my family, my world.  But now, it’s a deeper, primal fear that I am not really equipped to deal with at this time in my life and there is nothing I can do to lessen it.

I am terrified for my son.

He doesn’t even exist.  I’m not in a place to raise anyone but me at the moment.  He is at least 5 years away from conception, and I’m terrified for him.  Because no matter what race his father is, no matter how much money I/we make, how he is educated, where he is raised, the fact remains that he will be a Black man in America.  And that terrifies me.

I realize that this seems strange.  I just got done stating that this wasn’t about Michael Brown.  But the fact remains that it is hard to be a Black man in this country, and I am scared for my baby before he is even a possibility.  Look, I’m not blind to the faults and problems within my community.  My sister is right, black-on-black crime is such a bigger problem than police brutality yet we’re up in arms when we feel that someone else has hurt us.  Like most forms of abuse, you are much more likely to be hurt by the ones you know and see and are the same color as than a stranger.  And that’s why I’m afraid.

While I don’t have an opinion on the Darren Wilson/Michael Brown case and while I have never had anything but helpful, courteous service from police officers, I am not naive about the relationship between the police and the Black community.  But I’m a woman.  When I had a flat at night in the suburbs, where you have to be careful DWB at high noon, when a police officer saw a car at an empty gas station and a strange Black person peering through the windows for a clerk, when he asked what was happening, I whirled around, flashed a smile, and clutching my coat around my curves, proclaimed that I was so happy to see him because I needed quarters for the air pump and the gas station that I thought was manned was actually closed.  At which time he shut off the flashlight that had moved to my face, got out of his car, and offered to escort me to 7/11.  Do I think that would have gone differently if instead of being female, I had been male?  Hell yes.  And I’m not a small girl.  If a 6 foot, statuesque Black man had turned around and said that he was looking for the clerk cause he needed some change, there would have been some friction.  And that’s the problem.  I will have to teach my son not to be afraid of cops, but to always be actively non-threatening to a population that will often view him as thus.  No matter how educated he is or what his reasons may be, I will have to teach him a whole set of rules that he will have to follow or risk the grave consequences.

I will have to teach him to not antagonize his fellow brothas if he doesn’t know them well enough.  I will have to make sure that he doesn’t go out at night in dark colors that make him look like a suspect.  I will have to drill into him to never run down the street if not in obvious running clothes after the age of 10, and that he should probably find a closed track or treadmill to be safe.  I will have to teach him how to make sure that his footsteps are heard so that he won’t inadvertently sneak up on someone.  And I will have to comfort him and prepare him for the shock, surprise, assumptions, and fear that he will inevitably eventually encounter, from members of other races and his own.  For not getting angry when a woman clutches her purse when she sees him.  For being amused and not insulted when people think he’s in college because he plays a sport and not for a career (for any son of mine WILL go to college and earn a good education through academia, even if he might also be on the basketball team).  For forgiving people like me, who will judge him against their will.

Because I have.  I do.  And it is a horrible thing, that at 25, I am afraid that my eventual son will face some of the shame I carry.  How I froze when a Black man all in black ran toward me, and the anger I felt towards myself when his valet uniform was revealed and he plucked keys from the person standing behind me.  The way I clutched my backpack tighter on campus when a Black male student with his scarf covering half of his face walked toward me a few weeks ago during an especially vicious MI cold spell and stopped as we passed to compliment my dreads.

I am afraid that he will be treated the way Black men in my life have already been treated.  I am afraid that he will be arrested for driving erratically within his lane like my father.  I am afraid he will be ticketed for loitering while sitting on a bench outside his apartment like my cousin.  I am afraid he will have a gun drawn on him by cops while reaching for his wallet like my boyfriend.  And I am afraid that I will be a heartbroken mother like Sabrina Fulton, Sam Rice, Wanda Johnson, Alice Faye Williams, and so many others.  I am afraid of the pressures he will face, of the judgments made concerning him before knowing him, of the struggle he must overcome.  I am afraid of him being afraid to ask for help, I am afraid of him befriending those who might lead him down a bad path, I am afraid of him succumbing to the stereotypes and I am afraid of being so scared that I separate him from the community that could help and hinder him, but a community that he will need nonetheless.

I am terrified for my son.