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.

It’s Just a Phase

Recently, my friends are I were talking about crushes from the past and how we have matured in our current, advanced 20-something mindsets. *cough* Bull shit! *cough*  One of my best friends, lets call him Soran, came out of the closet to me when we were 19.  Before he stepped out of the closet (and unfortunately NOT into the role of my sassy gay bestie who I could take shopping and tell me that I was such a spring, not an autumn; you LIE Sex and the City!), I was very much in love and expecting to marry Soran.  Obviously, that plan fell apart on me, but from 13 until I was about 18, Soran was my unrequited love.  I just KNEW that he would eventually look up, see me with my dreads falling gently over my shoulders and my full lips in a perpetual smile (I was in unrequited love, okay?!  I was allowed my sappiness…) and he would know, as I knew, that we were meant to be.  Since my gaydar is practically nonexistent, I saw only one obstacle in our path to happily married bliss: Soran liked the hood rats.

Now let me be clear, I am not equating big bootyness to hood rat probability.  (I am totally doing that.)  I know that this is one of my first posts on my blog, or at least one of the first that I’ll write specifically for Black without Back, but I don’t want to establish an anti-booty bias here; the booty doesn’t make the lady.  Soran just happened to date girls who were a bit lacking in the class, manners, and decorum department but blessed in the posterior one.  I thought that this was a phase that he was going through.  I, musique23, cannot be by your side during that phase.

I am not a hood rat.  I can’t fake the funk; I fuck up the lingo, I am unfamiliar with the typical experiences that go with it, I vacationed in Spain in middle school.  As my cousin says “I’m not about that life.”  You are 90% more likely to find me curled up on the couch on Saturday night than the club.  The last time I went to a night club was in November 2013 I believe, when I went to a bear (furry gay men) bar with my boys.  (I EVENTUALLY got my sassy gay bestie; Sex and the City is real!)  The last time I was at a club that had men hitting on me? 2011, and the men were in their 40s because it was a grown folks club, and everybody was doing hustles and ballrooming (that might just be a Black mid-west thing, I’ll need a reader from California to confirm it).  And that shouldn’t even count because my best friend Josh glared at the [admittedly] middle-aged men who tried to approach me all night under the explanation, “He looks like he’d roofie you.”

So I was talking to my friends about my very calm view during what I now know were Soran’s confused years but at the time viewed as his misguided years with the simple fact that your hood rat period and your musique23 period cannot overlap.  And after they got done laughing and tumblr-ing my comments (due not a little to the fact that I actually named it after one of his exes, which meant that I was calling it a Dar’Queesha Phase) they agreed; you can’t rush a phase.

As I further pondered my hilarity afterwards, I came to one semi-sobering conclusion: Everyone goes through a Dar’Queesha phase.  It may not literally be a phase in which you only date hood women of the rat variety, but everyone goes through a phase in life in which they only have eyes for one particular type of love interest.  I went through one.  I wanted tall, light-skinned, and athletic for years.  My ideal man, Lamman Rucker (sorry baby, but the boy is FINE!), could have been jogging past my house topless and I would’ve missed him.  (We are going to ignore the fact that my Dar’Queesha phase occurred while I was around 16 and Lamman Rucker was already in his 30s.)  When you’re in your phase, your blinders go up and all other contenders kind of fade into the background.

I never was actually successful in acquiring my Dar’Queesha.  (side note: I think my auto correct is going to explode if I type that name one more time.)  Surprisingly, looking longingly across the cafeteria at someone does NOT actually create the air of mystique or even make the object of your affection think of you as anything other than “that tall girl with the dreads”.  Shamefully, the boy who broke my Dar’Queesha phase was so much worse: my school’s only “bad boy,” a drug dealer who made me laugh.  Did I date him?  Hell no, he just made me more aware that there were other guys out there.  Did I want to?  Kind of, but I’ve never really been into that whole “rough” men are attractive thing (a potential post!) so that affair was from afar only.  As, in retrospect, they all were until I was 20 and decided, Fuck it, I’ll just get a friend with benefits so SOMEBODY thinks I’m sexy, dammit!  (I wouldn’t recommend that course of action.)

Luckily, I grew out of my Dar’Queesha phase.  (Yup, my laptop has started smoking.)  It took me some time and another state, but I found guys of all hues who thought that I was funny and dateable and promptly started dating… a tall, light-skinned brotha who was NOT athletic so HA!  He did come out of the closet on my though, so I might lose some points on that…  (Me and my menagerie of gay men; another potential post!)  As most love affairs go, especially when both of the participants are attracted to the same sex but not actually the same sex, we broke up.  But Tony, he REALLY broke my mold.  And when I transferred universities and came back home to Detroit, that open mindedness to find a unique guy with no pre-desired potential characteristics (except funny, tall, and well-read; a girl has to have SOME standards people) eventually led me to my current relationship with Scott; my sweet, funny, and sexy otaku.  (That is his name.  I would give him a “we’ll call him” but honestly, its a pretty common name and if you don’t know me in person (WHO AM I!?), the chances of you finding my actual Scott out of all the masses is pretty damn slim.  And if you’re determined to anyway, well, while you’re doing Matrix-esq things on the internet, could you wipe my student loan balance clean for Sallie Mae?)

In the end, I’m glad Soran and I never hooked up.  Not only would that have made our friendship weird, but the period during which we could’ve dated, his Dar’Queesha phase, well, he deserved that.  Look, every guy I’m interested in isn’t a volunteer for Habitat for Humanity who reads to blind children in their spare time.  Hell, the man I’ve been with for a year isn’t like that.  But Scott, like Dar’Queesha serves a valuable purpose; they make us happy. (Again, confused in Soran’s instance, but you get my point.)  I wouldn’t have found my baby and be in the happy place I am now of watching anime and eating Chinese dumplings with my boyfriend if I hadn’t gone through my phase of utter foolishness when I was young.  My eyes were opened enough after my Dar’Queesha phase that when a totally different yet extremely more awesome guy came into my life, I could see and appreciate him for what he was.

And I still got to this point of self revelation without being a hood rat!  SHE BRINGS IT HOME FOR THE WIN!!