Sex is power?

Note - I am posting this as part of a little journey of self - certain  “issues”, which shall, for now, stay silent, have prompted me to not only look at my past, but to actually question the why of it. Call it growing up - finally.

My first (consensual) sexual encounters were of the typical teenage variety - fumbling around with fellatio and then a furtive, half-dressed consummation in a treehouse. It didn’t rock my word, but it was fun and it opened my eyes to something seemingly important: sex is power.

Thanks to a past history of abuse, my views of sexuality, and my personal sexual development did not follow the “norm” - to me, this discovery that sex equaled power was momentous. It gave me something I had previously lacked: control. It gave me a sense of being in charge, of making my own choices, of having power over someone else without them controlling me.

I dove into this discovery head first, never realizing that it did not offer the freedom I believed it did, but instead wove an intricate cage to form my prison.

Girls of my own age hated me. They sensed this awakening in me, they knew it was different than their own early explorations, and they were intimidated by a fully sexually aware peer, even though they did not realize that was the source of the problem. I remember one girl saying to me, “I hate the way you walk.” That baffled me for years.

Guys of my own age were intimidated by me. They wanted a girl who quietly acquiesced to their teenage desires after much coercion on their part; one who “let them” do things. They didn’t know what was different about me, only that there was something there that was beyond them. On the one hand, they wanted, on the other, they were afraid. Guys don’t like that feeling.

During high school, I wasn’t called a slut, or thought of as “easy” - I never dated boys in my school, I rarely dated school-age guys anyway. None of my peers were aware of my sexual activities, but like the pack animals that teenagers are, they sensed something - I had some knowledge they did not and they resented it.

Those attitudes actually persisted into college, where I found people of my own age still fumbling in the dark and unaware of their own sexuality. They were still dabbling on the edges of the pool, dipping their toes in, perhaps even wading, where as I had swum out into the depths, and had dove fully to the bottom.

I don’t claim to be proud of my youthful activities - it is simply a part of who I am. And I don’t claim to have been better than my peers - in fact, quite the opposite, I believe my early sexual awakening kept me from understanding deeper and more important issues.

I learned, through the years, that I could get what I wanted through sex. My few girlfriends joked that the “good” guys were all either taken, gay or head over heels for me. It’s not that I was prettier than they, or smarter, or anything else. It was that I understood male sexuality and desire and could, would and did satisfy it - to a degree that had my partners completely and utterly at my feet - even if I had not “slept with” them. It was the potential promise, the flirtatious awareness, the desire and willingness they felt.

I happily used sex to get what I wanted. And there is the dark side of this picture. Thanks to that history, I felt I had no value aside from what I could provide through sex. I could not feel loved except through sex. When I did not have a sexual relationship with a man, I didn’t understand him, I couldn’t control him, and I didn’t feel loved by him.

My entire image of myself was wrapped up in, and warped by, my sexuality.

There it was, what seemed at first to be power and freedom was actually a cage built by my own actions. I didn’t understand how to define myself outside of my sexuality. I didn’t have any sense of self without that.

There is no point in describing chapter and verse of my life and mistakes. But I learned lessons over the years, slowly coming to the understanding that sex was indeed powerful, and did equal power, true - but it could also warp and twist, it was power that consumed rather than fulfilled.

Now, many years and some hard life lessons later, I am finally understanding myself, finally no longer defined by my sexuality, but fully embracing it, no longer controlled by it, or controlling with it - but instead reveling in the full confidence of a woman for whom sex is an expression of love, not a means to attain it.

And that, I believe, is the true “power” in sex.

Tags: Sex, sexuality, self discovery

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Educating Roxy…

The process of divorce has taught me some rather significant lessons about myself - some of them, I’m still not too sure how to process and fully integrate into my life while others felt like putting on an old comfortable shoe - it just fits. Learning about myself as a "feminist" is one of those things that I don’t yet understand…

All my life I grew up with the dichotomy of strong, independent women who were never-the-less still incredibly feminine and who treated the men in their lives like gods. I was encouraged to be both brainy and beautiful.

As I got older and began to understand a bit more of the world, I took "equality" for granted. I didn’t see the strides women had made, because to me there was no inequality anymore. I didn’t see the struggle women had, because in my world, those who caused the struggles were thought of as backward, ignorant and old-fashioned. I was outraged at any continued evidence of the "old school" but still assumed it was, in fact, old and on its way out.

I took auto, print, metal and wood shop instead of "home ec." I reasoned that I already knew how to sew and cook, so I should learn something new and different, and besides, I had grown up helping my grandfather out - I knew my way around a tool box, and around a car. I saw a host of different reactions when I ventured into that male-dominated world.

The wood shop teacher delighted in treating me as stupid, loudly pointing out any minor mistake I made before sending me unaided to fix my own error, while worse mistakes made by boys were calmly addressed and repaired with teacher assistance. My classmates took the cue, and treated me accordingly. I was an interloper, a second-class student. I deserved neither help nor recognition. I deserved only derision.

The print shop teacher thought it was more fun to haul out every border-line dirty joke he could recall and make anything and everything into sexual innuendo. All the while, however, he still treated me as if I could do the same job as the guys, it’s just that I had to be subjected to his sexualized humor. Once again, classmates took note and I had soon heard every sophomoric penis joke that existed.

Metal and auto shop were significantly different, however. Aside from an initial, and brief, period where it was assumed by all that I was taking the class in order to meet guys and some mild teasing, it quickly settled down to me being treated just as everyone else. The teachers of both classes quickly squashed any and all inappropriate behaviors. My fellow students soon did the same, allowing no one to cross that line ever again.

Such was my life experience when I trekked off to college, electing to enter the field of "technical" theater - meaning, I wanted to design the stages, run the shows and be "in charge". I had minimal interest in makeup, though I loved the FX and gore makeups (unlike the other girls in those classes, who endured them with an attitude of "if I must… but this is gross"). I endured costuming because I had to, especially since most of the time, we were relegated to hand washing smelly old vintage pieces, sewing trim onto oft-reused articles and designing imaginary wardrobes for shows we were not doing. I can’t draw - so I sucked at that part. But I digress.

My Stage Craft instructor actually told the girls in his 101 class (mandatory for all theater majors) that he did not expect them to learn to use power tools, but the guys had to. Ask me if I qualified on the power tools… Of course I did. And I continued on in Stage Craft, eventually changing the way the instructor dealt with 101 students.

I also learned that most girls weren’t too interested in the "management" positions, and that when a female was in a leadership role, it was very hard to get others to listen. Other women resent a woman in charge and men feel threatened by her. This was more of an education to me than the actual class work, since in my life, women were no different than men when it came to being "in charge".

I spent a year trying to make a go of "professional theater" at a time when women in my chosen field were a rarity. I earned less money than my male counterparts, but often worked harder and longer, and frequently turned out better results. Still, when it came time to staff a show, I was "second string" called only if the guys weren’t available. Men with less experience, less ability and less knowledge than I would be hired first.

Thus came a career change, but I did not step blithely into the world of the office. Nope. I elected to attend classes to become an EMT, and firefighter. The classes themselves were of interest, as I immediately noticed the male instructors sought to thin the class ranks by the telling of gross stories. At first, it seemed specifically geared to get rid of the women, but soon I realized it was just aimed at the well intentioned but squeamish.

At no point during my classes did the instructors treat any of the women differently than the guys. We were held to the same standards, we passed the same tests - no modified or reduced physical requirements for us. In fact, I strongly disagree with reduced physical requirements. Bottom line - if you can’t do what the job requires, find another job. Period. Fellow students could be a pain and the females in class had a lot more to "prove" than the guys.

Classes over, tests passed, I went to work and again discovered myself as a woman in a man’s world. The jokes flew: "That little ‘R’ on the steering column? It stands for ‘REALLY FAST’ you can use it when you have to go code." How many times my boots were stolen and hung from rearview mirrors I cannot count.

The guys in crew quarters seemed to assume I would do the cleaning. They were wrong.

They also made it their solemn duty to attempt to gross me out. Then I realized that I could simply utter two words that sent nearly any male running for cover: "Bloody tampon." It soon became a game - them trying to give me the willies, and me proving that I could out gross them all.

Once again I learned that women had to work harder than the men in order to get the same results. And it was all just considered "part of the job." It was the price you paid. You could also just forget about getting any supervisory position other than perhaps the shift supervisor on graveyard. It just didn’t happen. The guys got the choice assignments and didn’t like being partnered with a girl, not because she couldn’t do the work, but because it meant they were less likely to get the "good" stuff.

In the years there, putting up with all the garbage, dealing with the male-based favoritism and all of that, I only filed one charge of harassment. A male coworker made it his habit to barge into the bathroom (which couldn’t be locked) when he knew it was occupied. He would deliberately try to catch peeks while the girls were showering or changing in the crew quarters. He thought sexualized jokes were the best conversation starters.

All of that we all took with a grain of salt and blew him off as an asshole. But the day he took a gander down my uniform shirt while I was bent over cleaning my rig and commented on my choice of underwear, I’d had enough. I reported him.

His defense? He said, "She shouldn’t be wearing sexy underwear on the job. It’s distracting. I’m not harassing her, she’s harassing me by wearing that stuff." No joke. Yep. That was his claim. It’s not as if I paraded around in my personals. Nope - to get a glimpse, he had to either barge in while I was changing, or take a good long look while I was busy working.

Somehow, I came through all of that still unconvinced of the "need" for "feminism" and certain that modern feminism was actually hurting women more than helping them. Don’t ask. I don’t know. I still thought the battle was over, already won, and we were just in the rebuilding stages, trying to learn and define roles in the modern view of things.

OK, I was naive. What can I say?

Now, years later, I feel I am poised on an edge of some discovery, or perhaps rediscovery, of myself as a woman.

I’ve spent a lot of time surfing around, reading blogs and books, and I’ve discovered that to define the words "feminism" or "feminist" is nearly impossible. What one person considers "feminist" another thinks is mere pap. I’ve stumbled across those who make me truly wonder if they even understand the point, and equally, I’ve come across those "radical" ones who cause me to cringe at their man-hating ways.

You see, in my eyes, "feminism" doesn’t mean visiting every misogynistic practice back upon the patriarchal perpetrators. Sorry, today’s man is not responsible for yesterday’s stupidity and error.

I don’t hate men, and I don’t truly understand those who do - though I may understand the reasons behind the hatred in some cases. Nor am I out to "get back" at men, or feel the need to remove all use of the word "man" from the lexicon. All of that seems not only silly, but ultimately detrimental. I don’t think reversing the order and creating a matriarchal society where men are the subjugated ones is the answer to the woes of the world, or women.

I recognize there is a glass ceiling over my head - it is very real, and it exists for one simple reason: that I was born a woman. Is it fair, is it right? No, but it is reality. And changing that reality - without hatred - is closer to my "ideal" than anything else.

I think feminism is about choice - whether a woman decides to be a CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation or a Domestic Goddess, caring for home, hearth and heart; whether she decides to have children, or not, to marry or not - all are equally valid choices, all should be honored, respected and admired.

In short, I don’t believe feminism is a one-size-fits-all shoe. There is no such thing.

And so this journey continues, my journey of heart, mind and soul. There is already a long list of bright and wonderful people who have helped me along the way - men who have proven that not all men think like Neanderthals; women who have been little shining lights along the path.

Tags: women, feminist, feminism, journey, self

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The Golden Years - aging parents…

It’s something most of us will have to deal with at some point in our lives – to one degree or another. For some, it will simply mean listening to the litany of aches and pains and the hassles of Medi-Care (a quagmire in itself.) For others, it may mean taking on the role of caregiver and “parenting” your elderly parent.

Whatever the degree, whatever the role – it’s a tough thing. No one likes to think of their parents as “old” – admitting the aging of your parents means admitting your own aging. No, most would rather hold to an image from when their parents were reasonably young and healthy – still vibrant, vital.

I’ve always been exceptionally close to my mother, and never knew my father – divorce and his death a year later sort of got in the way of that (and probably a good thing, but that’s another story). My grandparents played a big role in my life, but they were always “old” to me. I am the “baby” of the family and Mom was 31 when I was born. My images of her are those of a woman essentially in the prime of her life – youthful uncertainty replaced with the wisdom of age, a woman who knew who she was and comfortable with it, and one who had blossomed beyond the fresh girlish “pretty” of youth and had matured into a truly beautiful woman.

Those are the images I have of my mom. Sure, there were health problems, sure there were times when those images were not true, but by and large, she always appeared younger than her years.

Maybe it would have been easier if we still lived close by and the transformation had slowly unfolded before my eyes. But it didn’t. Several years ago, Mom and her hubby moved across the country – the first time in my life I had ever lived more than a few hours from Mom. For most of my life, aside from times in school, I had been within 30 minutes of her house.

Mom visited in 2005, and she was still looking pretty good – still not seeming “old” to me. Then illness stuck and in 2006 when I visited, for the first time I saw the shadows of age creeping up on Mom – but still she seemed herself. The picture is from that 2006 trip…

It wasn’t until April 2007 that I had that real shock. Coming into Mom’s house and seeing a frail old lady – I was stunned to realize that was my mother. The faded, tissue thin skin lacking her usual “peaches and cream” glow, the washed out hair, no longer gleaming bright auburn, but instead tinged with a little grey and turned drab were hard enough. Seeing her hunched over a walker, shuffling along and looking like a stiff wind would knock her over then carry her away was equally bad.

The worst part, however? The part that hit home the hardest?

Mom has always and forever been a woman who made sure she looked her best – at all times. She didn’t leave the house without at least lipstick, her hair was never less than perfectly coifed, her clothes always neat, always stylish – even when she would garden, she looked good.

And yet, there she stood wearing a housecoat – something I had never, ever in my entire life seen her wear. She may have in private, but certainly never where anyone could see her.

Mom is 69 now, not old by today’s standards, but she looks older. She looks frail and sickly. She looks like an old woman. How, in just a few short years, did she go from looking still vibrant, still beautiful to this tiny crone?

The answer? Illness. It plays a part. Age is part of it as well, and the two combined have dealt a blow from which I believe there is no recovery. She will never regain that which is lost. And I have to accept the fact that Mom is “old”.

My siblings and I are planning a trip to visit her next year for her 70th birthday, and for the first time, I really have begun to wonder if she will still be around for it, and if so, will she be well enough to enjoy it? I have to believe, no matter how frail, no matter how ill, that having her kids at her side for her birthday would be a good thing. For the first time in my life, I have truly accepted my mother’s mortality.

That sounds silly, I know. But it’s just not something that had ever truly hit home before. Now, I can’t avoid it.

And so I start digging, searching for old photos, suddenly realizing these memories, these snapshots will all too soon be very, very precious to me.

A view from a fat woman…

OK, I weigh too much. That’s no shocker. No big surprise. And in the view of most of America, I’m what would politely be termed “pleasingly plump” or if you’re into being more poetic, “Rubenesque”.

I spent most of my younger life very, very thin - yes, I admit it, I was a tiny thing who regularly wore a 6 or below, shuddered to even imagine wearing anything larger than a 22″ belt, and obsessed about the imagined cellulite on my then svelte thighs. Scarlet O’Hara had nothing on me, baby!

Yes, that’s me at the end of high school - I’d already gained weight and at that time, I thought I was “fat” and needed to lose a good 10 pounds. Yes, you read that right. I thought I needed to lose TEN pounds, or more.

Do I ever want to be that thin again? Realistically, no. I prefer to reach a realistic, healthy weight - one that feels comfortable and looks comfortable and one that doesn’t require Herculean efforts to achieve or maintain.

Let’s be honest here, I like food and I hate “structured” exercise. I love to dance, I love to swim, hike and other “active” pursuits, but I can’t bring myself to live solely off rabbit food or liquid “shakes” for the rest of my life.

No thanks.

After gaining considerable weight post car accident (hey, I lost all my baby weight after the kids, dammit!) I developed a pretty bad image of myself… I looked in the mirror and saw fat, dumpy and unattractive… Which led to behaving like a fat, dumpy, unattractive woman. I didn’t care what I looked like anymore. I accepted being “matronly” (ugh) and then embraced “plump” and all the other “nice” terms for “fat.”

On a good day, my image of self was something like this:

Not horrendously overweight, but by no means the svelte creature I had been. (and by the way - no that’s not my backside - and though it does bear distinct resemblance… Even at my fattest, my butt is shapelier than that.)

These days, I see myself a little differently, I’ve learned to look through different eyes, and though I still am not thrilled with what I see, I do see something worthy.

I also see much more realistically, and much more kindly.

I think most women have a very skewed body image. Blame it on marketing, blame it on clothing manufacturers, TV shows, ridiculously thin models, etc. But the fact is, we’ve been taught that “skinny” = “sexy”. How wrong is that?

Before you disagree, tell me, how many would expect to see this woman modeling at a French fashion show?

Shocking? She did. That is at the Gaultier show back in 2006. She is 5′8″ tall and weighs about 290 pounds. Which means she’s at least three of the typical waif-like models. Is she sexy? Or grotesque?

First off, I’m surprised a designer even made clothing for anything above a positively zaftig (in fashionista eyes) size 12 (which seems to be the magic number above which no one wants to even think).

However, I digress.

Back to my reasons for this entry. It is my inspiration, my shout out to myself and the world that I will not continue to accept this state that I am in. The last few years have seen my weight bounce up and down like a yo-yo toy, but it’s time to stop all that insanity.

It’s time to take a realistic look at where I am, and at where I want to be.

You see, I don’t like where I’m at, but I like me, and I’m worth doing something to fix that “where I’m at” problem.

Oh, where am I at? Well… Right about… here…

It’s not a place I’m particularly fond of… But it’s not so bad, either…

And if I look at it with my new eyes, I see a lot to like. I also see a lot to not like so much, but I realize I can do something about those things.

I am not powerless.

I am not weak.

I have a realistic view of self, a realistic goal to achieve and I believe a realistic way to achieve it.

This, then, is my inspiration and my motivation - that thing that drives me on, that helps me to remember to walk more, eat less, drink more water, etc.

Can I do it? Yes, in baby steps.

My first goal? This isn’t a diet, this isn’t a crash course, this is a lifestyle change of going back to the way I was when younger…

That younger self automatically made the right choices, automatically ate according to hunger and fullness, and according to how active she was. That younger self knew something this older self has forgotten, but is slowly relearning:

I am important to me. I matter to me. I count for something.

Tags: weight, fat, weight loss, diet, inspiration, motivation

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