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10.22.04 + 1:08 a.m.
On my way down Michigan Avenue, I passed some lobbyists from Minneapolis, trying to raise money to fund their operation, which informs voters of Bush's crappy environmental policies. I wish I could expand on that, but I'm sort of ignorant.
Anyway, when I stopped to give them five dollars and sign their thingy, the young woman who took my donation went off on a tirade that she had apparently been keeping lidded all day long.
"I am so disappointed in the women in this city! Everyone who passes is a big Bush supporter, and they've all got southern accents and big hair. If they spent, like, one-twentieth of their husbands' money on us that they spend in Saks', we'd be on our way back to Minnesota."
Um, okay. A little harsh, and that hasn't been my experience in this city at all. But then I realized that they were smack in the middle of downtown Chicago's Magnificent Mile, blocks from the Drake Hotel, the Sears Tower, and a million high-end retail shops... In short, the Mag Mile is like the "Botox Advocates for Bush" heart of the city.
So I just told her that she and her cronies should take the train south to Belmont, where the overwhelmingly liberal population is comprised mostly of punk kids who are poor but politically involved, and gay men with formidable savings accounts and condos in Michigan. She seemed happy for that information.
Offensive generalizations can help.
JUST YOU WAIT!
Last night, I rearranged the furniture in my apartment, and now my back and ass hurt. That shit is heavy.
As much as I like knowing that I can do it myself, that I need an outside party like a fish needs a bicycle and all that shit, that I’m a Wonder Woman who is at once pliant like silly putty and fully able to kick your ass, it’s not so nice to know that I don’t really have a choice in the matter.
Okay, that’s not really true. I have a number of friends who would have been more than willing to come over and help me shimmy my entertainment unit and stereo system into another part of the apartment, alleviating not only the strain on my back, but the worry that I was going to drop my television and somehow cause an electrical fire.
From what I hear, though, this is the kind of thing that lots of women call their boyfriends to help them with. Because, physically, while I might be quite strong, I’m still strong “for a girl.” That’s just plain old biology.
Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never taken the active stance that INDEPENDENCE IS BEST or anything, that’s just how I am. I don’t consciously push people away from helping me with tasks; I just first tend to think of tackling them on my own. But, if I did have a boyfriend, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask him to help me.
It’s making me a little sad to think that I might be a confirmed bachelor.
I refuse to refer to myself as a “bachelorette” with an –ette, until “spinstor” with an –or is incorporated into English vernacular. (In that case, to be fair, I suppose I should say I’m a “bacheler.”) They’re just words, but bachelors are not generally pitied, whereas spinsters, apparently, are.
So, what do bachelors do? A bachelor is someone content with his independence, and that’s cool. But, everyone has “needs.” If it is to be believed what we hear about the unreignable male libido, they have to take care of it some way beyond masturbation. This is when it might come in handy to be a male bachelor, especially as one gets old. I’ll bet that many men who remain single have purchased sex; but that’s just not something anyone talks about. Instead, we talk about the dates and the smoking jackets, the dirty dishes and the autonomy.
Men have strip clubs and porn, which is mostly geared towards males. They also have hookers, which is, absurdly, a gender specific term. We women have to hunt. And that is bullshit.
There are hookers, and there are “male hookers.” There’s porn, and there’s “gay porn.” From my own experience, and from what I’m told by the women I know, after the age of 15, women crave sex just as much as men do. We may be a little more concerned about acquiring it because we can get knocked up, but otherwise, I’d wager that generally, we think about it just as constantly.
So, why are women a special interest market when it comes to the sex industry? Please, if someone can give me a reason that it’s not due to some patriarchal crap, I’m all ears.
(The following is mostly a breeder-based argument, for which I apologize. Anyway, ONWARDS!)
There is the contention that women are more aesthetically pleasing, and if that’s true, then men and lesbians really luck out. But … um … in that case, as an appreciator of art, myself, why am I even attracted to men? For example, I think David, as in “The David,” is fucking hot. Not only that, but he’s just nice to look at.
Seriously, it’s all societal. We all have bodies with lumps and divots, they’re all funky, and they all fart.
We’re animals. Who knows why we’re attracted to what we are, on an individual basis? At any rate, it’s not because of some amazing, universal, artistic hard-on. If it was, then fetishes never would have developed, which make some people say “Ew,” and others say “Right on.” But, aside from that, for some reason, it’s generally accepted that men are the target audience for All Things Sexual.
When I talk about hookers freely, it’s not necessarily because I’m longing for a call boy. But the imbalance in availability of such things for women, (for example, the fact that the term “call girl” exists, whereas I had to pull “call boy” out of my ass,) makes you wonder.
And, beyond the gender issue, why is sex so verboten?
I don’t know where I stand on legalized prostitution, but really, like all things illegal, it’s going to keep happening whatever the law says. Prostitution is practically billboard material in hooker-friendly places like Amsterdam, (where naked women, not men, stand advertising themselves like Burberry ensembles in Red Light District windows,) but here, even though it’s illegal, it seems like people still know where to go or whom to ask if he/she wants to find a hooker. That’s why it’s considered a part of the industry.
Legality, as far as I’m concerned, should come into play when the “crime” deserves punishment. Assault, murder, those are punishable by law, as well they should be. Rape, definitely. Stealing, in most cases. Drugs are quite dicey, not only because of the consequences of using certain narcotics, but also because the drug industry seems to spawn tons of other terror-based crime. But, consensual sex between two people who are of age? Why is that so harmful? And, if it was legalized, wouldn’t it be safer, overall?
There are MANY reasons why one might consider it harmful. especially in the casual sense, because unless complete trust is involved you never know your partner’s physical/emotional sexual history. But aside from that, while we’re talking about sex in the casual sense, if the question is whether or not sex should be available to folks who are willing to pay for it, why is full-on sex badbadbad, but stripping is okay?
Stripping is sex-fodder between two (or more) consensual, of-age, parties. The difference is the insertion of an organ after the foreplay. If a stripper goes home with one of his/her audience members, who has been paying for the act all night, the two of them have consensual sex, how is that terribly different from paying by the hour or by the favor? (I don’t mean to offend by any analogies between strippers and prostitutes. For the sake of my current argument, neither stripping nor hooking is demeaning.) For strippers, lap dances cost more than table dances. For prostitutes, blow-jobs cost less than, say, SM stuff, which some women just won’t agree to do, regardless of price.
Lord. When I was moving furniture last night, I never thought it would lead to an argument for legalized prostitution.
But think: how stupid is it that “whore” is an insult? And I don’t say that because prostitution is the world’s oldest occupation, because that’s not really a valid argument, precisely because it’s the world’s oldest occupation. Standards, ideas, principles have changes, and so have women’s roles in most parts of the world. That is, it’s no longer one of the only ways we can procure fiscal/personal independence.
Still, as a Western woman, (like, western hemisphere Western, not “yee-haw” western,) it seems silly to use that as an insult. Gender-specific pejorative terms include “bitch,” as well as “whore,” “’ho,” “slut,” and various derivatives thereof. I can’t think of any insults that apply specifically to men, except maybe for “schmuck” and “schmendrick.” (And, for that, I’d like to thank the Yids. THANKS, YIDS!)
Wouldn’t it be great if a woman, when someone called her a “whore” in attempt belittle her character, could pull out a business card and say, “Damned right. And I’m in the Union, too. I get kick-ass health care.”
This got me way off-topic.
Sum up: Sex is given way too much moral importance. Life is not about sex, but it’s certainly nice when it comes along, so why is it so bad to seek it out or provide it?
Anyway, but potential celibacy (GAH!) is not what makes me sad about possible bachelordom. Honestly, I think the only people who are TRULY “all about sex” might be sociopaths. I don’t mean that in a flip way. For us humans, it’s nice to affect someone, and be effected by someone, on a more than base level. It’s necessary in order to feel human, and while romantic love isn’t the only way to receive that validation, and certainly not the easiest, it gets a lot of really great lip service which I tend to believe.
If there was someone to help me move my furniture, I wouldn’t expect him to rock my world after a full night of hard labor, and that’s not why I would have asked him to help, in the first place. I’d just expect a kiss on the forehead, and maybe a nap. You can’t buy those things, and they can’t be roped in by an invisible Wonder Woman lasso. Nobody is superhero enough that they can’t be weakened by a well-placed kiss on the forehead from someone dear.
And there you have the tender underbelly, after words and words of being annoying, and, maybe, a bit terrifying. Sorry.
Good night. Forehead-kisses for all.
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