Egalia, my favorite Guerilla Woman, tapped into an interesting and lively debate currently making the rounds on the ‘net. I would like to give you my perspective, but first, some background.
Pink Kitty likes to dance, and she’s damned good at it. She posted a vid on her blog. Brittney at Nashville is Talking picked up the vid and reposted it on her blog. First comment, from God’s Gift to Women “Wintermute”:
Skip it, dudes. Another blogging whale.
And thus arose a shit storm. I found Aunt B’s post (on her blog, Tiny Cat Pants) particularly intriguing. One of her commenters asked the question,
I’m constantly tempted to write something about the general unf@#$ability of sexist asshats like our friend Wintermute. I’ve yet to see an attractive MRA, for example. The question is whether my doing so would do more harm than good. I’m not sure, honestly, but I remain tempted. Thoughts?
In other words, does it serve the cause of feminism to call an ugly asshat an ugly asshat? I encourage you to read Aunt B’s full post, including the comments, but her bottom line answer is, No, it’s not okay, because it plays into the very thing we’re trying to condemn:
So, it’s true that, not only are there a great many men who think they deserve beautiful girls to fuck; there are a great many women who believe that certain men deserve beautiful girls to fuck and, if those women can prove that they are among those beautiful girls, that they deserve the perks that come with being the arm candy of a man who deserves to fuck beautiful women (usually, a man who has power of some sort).
I think the trick is to realize that we disagree with that whole worldview and to refuse to play into it at any end. Not because it’s more moral, but because we really do want the world to be different than that, and, in some way, the only way to have a different world is to do the difficult work of already living as if that world were here now.
I agree with this, but I also agree with one commenter, Magniloquence:
Anyway, the shortest answer, and the one that keeps coming to me, is that you can’t tell him how butt-ugly he is because that’s rude. Yes, there are feminist implications, but the main reason you don’t do that is because you’re better than that*, and there’s nothing to be gained.
. . . [snip] . . .
* Not inherently more moral, but better trained. Not “women are better than men” or “feminists are better than everyone else,” but you, as a nice person, are better than the troll, who is not being nice.
I keep thinking, Miss Manners would approve of Magniloquence’s reasoning. It’s a bigger issue than feminism — it’s about common decency. You don’t go around making hurtful comments, you know? It violates the Golden Rule, and y’all know how I feel about that.
But, back to this issue of thinking you deserve beautiful women (or men) to fuck. Of requiring some minimal level of physical attractiveness before you’ll ever deign to consider the other person as potential BF or GF material. Bear with me for a moment — I’m going to say some very self-serving things, but when you get right down to it, I’m not as honorable as it will at first seem.
I’ve never chosen a woman on the basis of looks. Never. Personality, wit, a sense that we looked at things the same way — those are my prerequisites. I’m not saying these women aren’t beautiful, though, because to me, they’re gorgeous. But are they among the Beautiful People of the world? Not really. Would I have traded any one of them for someone more conventionally beautiful? Not if it meant settling for someone with a shade less brilliance.
I wonder sometimes if I’ve been just as ruthlessly materialistic in my own way as the guy who has a list of physical requirements — has to be chesty, has to be a redhead, has to be thin, yatta yatta. Because, like that guy, it always has been about my needs. That guy wants to get laid by a beautiful woman. He wants her to be his public arm candy. He wants a certain level of physical/aesthetic satisfaction.
I want mental satisfaction.
I want to be stimulated (mentally. Well, that other stimulation, too, but that’s another issue). I want to be entertained. I want to feel less alone.
Funny, isn’t it, that my demands should meet with public approval, while the Wintermutes of the world are viewed with scorn? (And, by the way, what kind of guy chooses as his online handle the name of a murderous AI? It’s like calling yourself HAL 9000, only more arrogant, since fewer people will catch the reference.) On some level, aren’t we being equally selfish?
Because I really do think people like me can be every bit as piggishly demanding as Wintermute. If a guy never thinks about your needs, never acts selflessly for your benefit, and instead expects you to satisfy his emotional demands, how is that any different from the egocentrist who expects you to satisfy his physical demands?
This kind of thinking can drive a guy nuts. And what about the supposed “selfless acts”? If I scrutinize the things I do which others might consider selfless, I find a whole host of self-centered motivations. For an extreme example, consider this gedanken experiment:
I can do something which benefits another person, but that person will never know it. No one will ever know about it but me. Do I do it?
Yes, because, thanks to self esteem issues, I’m always doing things like that just to feel less worthless. I do it because it gives me temporary internal relief to do it. An idealized example of selfless behavior, and I’m doing it for purely selfish reasons.
See what I mean? A guy could go nuts. Stark raving nuts.
D.
So I figured I’d better write a Smart Bitches Day post or Miss Beth will forget all about me. So here goes.
What do women want?
Ruminations apropos of Outlander
How many of y’all have recommended Outlander to me? And how many have told me how very very much they loooooove Jamie? I’ve lost track. And while I am not in the dating game, I’m still not so dead between the legs as to not obsess over What Women Want.
Trouble is, I’m clueless. I still don’t understand what you gals see in Hugh Jackman, and despite the Paul Newman fans who responded to this old post, in my own informal polling, Robert Redford still has Newman beat 2:1, much to my consternation. What is it about Redford? He’s so . . . so . . . so corrugated.
Growing up, I soon figured out that women wanted guys who were taller, meaner, scummier, taller, and taller than me. In that order. I kept wondering, Why do women fall for scum? but I should have been asking, Why am I attracted to women who fall for scum?
But then I graduated Elementary School and everything changed.
Back to Outlander. (Can you tell this is not going to be one of my more coherent SBDs?) Um . . .
SPOILERS
Which is kind of a ridiculous warning considering how many of you have committed this book to memory. NO, I am not going to trash your precious Outlander. I’m enjoying it. Really, I am. Even if I can’t tell when the characters are having sex because Gabaldon likes to play coy about such things, damn her.
Suck his cock already, wench — oh, whoops. You just did. And now he’s going down on you, or maybe you’re giving each other back rubs because DAMN IT I CAN’T TELL!
I think it’s a guy thing. I don’t do well with understated sex scenes.
So why do women love Jamie so much? Is it the kilt with the badger skin sporran? Of course not. I’m not dense, I know what it is.
He’s gallant. He takes punishment intended for that teenage girl and he has no expectation of reward. He got the skin whipped off his back and he didn’t even whimper about it. And he’s willing to give his life for Claire.
And then there are the physical characteristics. He’s a big motherfucker — I think Claire comes up to his bellybutton — not an effete, hairless, slender dude like her husband-from-the-future (present?), who slips from the reader’s (and Claire’s) memory as soon as she plummets back in time. In contrast, Jamie is a Manly Manâ„¢.
He’s a virgin, too, so Claire doesn’t have to worry about that narsty-assed 17th century syphilis. And he’s kind and considerate, an all-around sweetie.
Okay, that’s what women want in their fictional men; but what about real life? I’m curious about your bare minimum requirements. If the gallantry were there, how much slack would you cut a man with regard to physique? And if he were built like Jamie, how much slack would you cut him for a lack of gallantry?
You know, I’ve changed my mind. Forget gallantry and Manly Manlinessâ„¢. I think it is the kilt.
D.
I’m in San Francisco today, sitting through lots of boring lectures about hospital administration or something. I don’t know. I guess I’ll know on Thursday. In any case, I’ve promised you a Cosmo Thirteen, and who am I to disappoint my readers? Here ya go, folks, thanks to the magic of pre-scheduled posting! But I won’t be commenting until late tomorrow evening. (That also means I won’t be able to give you any linky lurve. Sorry!)
The November 2006 issue of Cosmo decorates our supermarket shelves, and you know what that means: time for me to learn a few things about men, women, and the war between the sexes.
1. Paris Hilton has a new “fragrance” — Heiress — and it doesn’t smell like the hindquarters of a cat in heat!
But, you know, I’m just assuming here. They don’t call this stuff eau de toilette for nothin’.
Elsewhere on the odor front: not to be outdone by La Hilton, Britney Spears has her own fragrance — Curious. As in, What’s that smell, dear? Well . . . isn’t that curious.
2. This woman is clueless:
“I had plans to meet up with a guy I had just started seeing and went to a bar with girlfriends beforehand. We shared a seared tuna appetizer and drinks. Later, I headed to the guy’s house. I was a little tipsy, and as soon as he opened the door, I jumped his bones. I wasn’t planning on spending the night because we weren’t sleeping together yet, but we were both so exhausted, we just cuddled and fell asleep. A few hours later, I woke up feeling sick and couldn’t make it to the bathroom, so I vomited in his hamper. When I tried to crawl back in bed, he made an excuse about having to work early and offered to drive me home. I never heard from him again.”
This gal thinks her crime was throwing up in the hamper. My take is, this guy got the willies because he thinks she has a drinking problem. She concludes:
“The next day, my friends said they’d all been sick too. I guess it was the tuna.”
You go on telling yourself that, darling.
Eleven more below the cut!
Well, Karen liked my post yesterday (Alchemy) but I think I worried her.
“I’m afraid you’re bipolar,” she said last night. I’m waiting for me to fuck up, and she’s waiting for me to plummet from my high. Neither of us have experience with this optimism thing.
One of the best things about our new relationship: I am no longer a sexual predator. (Yet another sentence which will ruin forever my chances to be elected to political office . . . which, hey! gives me an idea for a Thursday Thirteen.) Lemme ‘splain. I have Male Roving Eyes, and in the gym or in grocery stores my brain and my legs tend to wander, too. I don’t exactly stalk these women, but I have to go down that canned vegetables aisle one more time to —
Well, for no good reason, that’s why.
But, now? Beautiful women still show up on my radar but I no longer feel like a missile tracking system locking onto a target. I see them, I appreciate them, and my mind lets them go. It’s nice. I no longer feel like I deserve the adjective creepy.
I look at the fruit but I don’t squeeze it. Well. I haven’t squeezed it for a long, long time, anyway. Back in 10th grade Algebra/Trig, the cheerleader who sat in front of me must have realized those were my knees digging into her ass, but she never said anything about it and never rearranged her furniture so that I couldn’t do that to her. (It took me about twenty years to realize just how easily she could have avoided my knees, which meant, omigod, she liked it. Am I wrong? But at that stage in my life, I was so used to girls ignoring me that I figured she didn’t even realize my knees were there.)
Karen knows about my roving eyes (the spittle hanging off my chin is a good clue) and tolerates it. She’s an ultra-realist, so unless something has a negative effect on her or Jake, she doesn’t mind it. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if either one of us were seriously tested . . . you know, if for example I were out of town and an aroused Russell Crowe walked into her bedroom, or if Jacqueline Kim walked into mine. What would we do? How much can we boast about our 24 years of faithfulness (counting courtship) if we haven’t been tested?
Eh. It’s not likely to happen any time soon. Neither one of us is a knockout and we’re both shy, especially around strangers. We’re not the kind of folks who attract seducers.
But I was talking about looking vs. squeezing. A long time ago, we were on a road trip and had stopped at a gas station to fuel up. Karen went to use the bathroom while I scrubbed the windows and filled up the tank. While working at this, I noticed a small woman with long, dark hair and immediately thought, Nice. My type. I saw her from behind, which is one of my preferred views of a woman, and I watched her for as long as I could, always in that low-key predator mode, a looker but not a squeezer.
Karen turned around.
I had to explain to her why I was laughing so much. Surprise, that’s all it was, but also a measure of delight, since for once I knew I’d be squeezing me some fruit.
I often wonder how she feels about her body — a body which has betrayed her and robbed her of so much. She can’t possibly view it with as much joy as I do.
And now I had better shut up before she accuses me again of being manic.
Now, if only I could get her to pose nude for a few photos. I wonder if nagging would work. Imagine me whining, “But SxKitten poses for Dean!”
D.
Karen and I met and courted while studying in the College of Chemistry at Berkeley. Surprisingly enough, at the wedding we didn’t have to endure any hokey comments about “chemistry.” Thank God. Bad enough getting facial cramps from smiling for hours on end; it would have been far worse if we’d had to laugh at dumb jokes, too.
Our courtship ended far too quickly. My feeling of optimistic satisfaction from being around Karen, our hours-long kissing sessions, our talks into the wee hours, the simple joy from knowing I had finally clicked with someone, like finding something I hadn’t even known was lost — Karen’s illness scoured all of it away, and we hunkered down together, converted over to a wartime mentality, us against disease.
After that, we loved each other, but I don’t know if we were in love. Reality had kicked our asses and (MS being what it is) continued to kick our asses with such regularity that we came to expect the boot. Optimism has no place in such a relationship. Stubbornness, commitment, resolve — all ways of saying the same thing — those were the things that nourished us, all of it thin gruel. Now, I’m not knocking commitment. It has kept us together through things which would have sundered a lot of marriages. Commitment is a good thing, but it’s not necessarily a joyful thing.
I’ve never been a soldier, but I imagine those folks have their share of pleasure mixed with terror. The mere act of surviving together creates a bond. Time on leave together, they must enjoy those precious moments of respite, but the pleasure would always be tempered by the knowledge they must return to battle eventually. Even in the thick of it, humor counts for a lot. The two of you laugh, make a joke out of it as much as you can. You make the best of the good moments and try your best not to get crushed by the bad moments.
All of this is my half-assed way of explaining the rut we had gotten ourselves into. Honestly, I don’t know that either one of us saw any other way of being. We’d been that way for so long — over twenty years. And that whole time, we were there for each other, giving each other strength, doing what was necessary to survive, yet not really finding much joy in one another.
I never would have predicted the odd combination of events that has caused a tectonic shift every bit as profound as Karen’s illness. My birthday, our subsequent heart-to-heart, a friend’s health scare — hopefully no more than a scare, but we’re still waiting — all of that doesn’t sound like much, but I guess you never know what sort of potion will transmute lead to gold.
Now we’re in love, and it’s like courtship all over again. Crazy, huh? I’ve been hesitant to say much, pessimist that I am. I’ve been looking over my shoulder, hoping to catch sight of the boot before it kicks me in the ass; I’ve been watching myself, too, thinking, Okay, Hoffman, what are you going to do to sabotage this? But it hasn’t happened and it isn’t going to happen. I guess that’s optimism.
The only question remaining is whether a happy man can still write humor.
D.
My son has kindly posed for today’s Smart Bitches Day post, but he urges me to tell my readers that he is NOT reading this romance, he is only pretending to do so to make his father happy.
Oh, well. His loss. He’ll miss all the hot sex scenes.
I’m not the kind of guy who obsesses over his past, looking back a week, a month, or twenty years, putting each and every conflict and conversation under a microscope, second-guessing himself, anguishing over mistakes made, paths not taken. That’s just not me.
Much.
Aaack. Who am I kidding? I regret things I did in dreams. When I was five. If I could remember my dirty diapers, I’d probably regret those, too. If only I had held it in a little longer.
When you obsess over the past, sometimes you manage to figure a few things out, but then again, sometimes you spin your wheels for decades. Does any of this help? Maybe. If it keeps you from effing up your life in the present, then yes, it helps.
Recently I had the thought, If only I had read romance in Junior High. Romance could have transformed my adolescence, could have saved me from missed opportunities and botched relationships. But, no. I was reading Robert Heinlein, whose idea of romance went something like this:
Middle-aged male protagonist surrounds himself with beautiful women who hang upon his every word and give him all the sex a man of his brilliance deserves.
Heinlein’s male characters did not model good courting behavior. (I have strong suspicions that most male SF writers of the 60s and 70s were virgins or had to pay for it.) My brother, father, and friends were all atrocious models, too. I needed something different.
I needed Romance.
Smart Bitches Day today, droogs, and I’ve been remiss of late. Call it failure of imagination, call it failure of the normal sleep/wake cycle, but I haven’t had a single bright shiny SBD thought in weeks.
However.
While editing yesterday morning, I listened to a netcast of one of my favorite radio stations, KFJC, and the DJ played “Time Warp” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and my SBD theme came to me in a flash of inspiration:
Loss of innocence.
I know what you’re thinking. “Walnut, you nailed the loss of innocence theme over a year ago, didn’t you?” Or you would be thinking that if you had read my blog as compulsively as I’ve written it.
Still, I might have another miniscule thing or two to say on the subject.
Loss of innocence is such an emotion-laden subject, it surprises me it isn’t tapped more often for fiction and film. It especially surprises me that I haven’t milked it for the novel I recently finished. Here I am writing about two twenty-something-year-old virgins who finally give up that one last trapping of childhood, and I haven’t even scratched the surface.
My problem is, I’ve approached this story as a romantic comedy, and I’ve consciously tried to downplay most of the serious bits. When I first began writing it, I was burnt out by writing my trilogy/tragedy, and my muse wanted cotton candy. That’s my excuse, anyway.
Loss of innocence is a serious bit. I can’t mine humor from something so inherently sad — nor, I suspect, can anyone else. Case in point, any teen sex comedy (including, yes, American Pie). Puerile is not funny.
Although I do dig the band camp girl.
Alyson Hannigan. Mmmm. Guys and girl-lovin’ gals, google that name with SafeSearch OFF. You won’t be sorry. But I digress.
In editing this novel, I feel a strong urge to address this topic. There has to be a reason why these two have held onto their virginity for so long, right? Something beyond, “Oh, we were too busy to have intimate relationships.” A better reason than that. And there should be some emotional cost to finally kissing it (literally) all goodbye.
I worry a bit that any such attempt on my part will kill the comic buzz, but on the other hand, I trust my muse. I think she has a much different ending in mind, and I for one am looking forward to reading it.
D.
To get the taste of Trouble in High Heels out of my mouth, I picked up Jennifer Crusie’s Fast Women at our local used bookstore. I peeled through it in a week, record time for me.
Here’s the set-up: sisters-in-law Nell, Suze, and Margie (related through their marriages to the men of the Dysart family) are the eponymous fast women. Nell, our protag, has been through a rough divorce. Forty-something, cancer thin, and an emotional zombie, she takes a temp job at a detective agency, where she soon tries to run Gabe McKenna’s life and gets her post-divorce cherry popped by Gabe’s cousin Riley.
Despite the early Nell-on-Riley action, this is Gabe’s and Nell’s romance, with Suze + Riley playing a strong supporting role. An embezzling mystery (which soon becomes a murder mystery) provides a good slug of narrative drive, as does the verbal back-and-forth between Gabe and Nell. Margie is the weak link of the team, a bewildering character whom Crusie did little to develop.
For me, the most interesting part of Fast Women was Crusie’s dissection of the reasons why people get married. She seems to be saying that folks get married for the wrong reasons all the time, so it’s not enough to end that romance with a ring — the ring needs to be offered for the right reasons, too. As Nell speculates towards the end,
It should be harder to get married, she thought. You should have to take tests, get a learner’s permit, you should need more than a pulse and twenty bucks to get a license.
For today’s Smart Bitches Day post, I’d like to pose a question: is marriage a necessity for an HEA?
Let’s look at it. Happily ever after. We end up together, we’re bonded, we’ve vowed to be there for one another no matter what crap the fates throw our way. Sure sounds like marriage to me, but that narrowminded opinion shows disrespect to those folks who have bonded for life without license, ring, or ceremony. Alan Rickman and his gal, for example. And what about all the married couples who are living unhappily ever after, or have made a farce of their vows? Surely happily ever after should not require a wedding ring.
Opinions?
D.
PS: There’s even some girl-on-girl action in Fast Women. I shit you not. I would have taken it a good deal farther, but that’s me for you.
Am I brilliant or what? With this photo, I can (A) do some Random Flickr Blogging, (B) segue into my Smart Bitches Day post, and (C) show three hot Asian babes and one Asian guy who is even more sexually non-threatening than yours truly. Booyah!
Back to SBD in a moment. I had a great writing day yesterday: nearly 4000 words, well over that if you count blog posts and my Tangent Online review of Helix SF Issue #1. (I’ll post a link to the review once Eugie puts it up on site.) And the words they did flow. Among other things, I wrote a scene that had been percolating in my mind since the first conception of this novel, namely, Barb teaching Lori how to give the world’s best blow job. Y’all are gonna love it, I hope I hope I hope.
On to the subject of today’s Smart Bitches Day post: opposite-sex-best-buddies in romance.
Demented Michelle and I have been e-pals for about a year, and as we’ve already established, that’s about a decade in blog years. We keep pulling for each other’s literary prospects, which is what writerly e-pals do. I’m hoping the day will soon arrive when Michelle’s blog name (Demented Delusions) will be hopelessly outdated. Not demented, babe, nor delusional. Here’s Michelle.
***
There’s a new TeeVee show set to debut this fall. I have no idea what it’s called, but the commercials feature two couples: Newlyweds and Un-newlyweds. For both couples, the wife is the stereotypical neat freak while the husband is the stereotypical slob. As you can imagine, the Newlywed wife is a bit more tolerant, whereas the Un-newlywed wife, after a decade of picking up dirty socks, feels the need to express her pent-up rage by stuffing them down her sleeping husband’s throat. Well, okay then. That’s a marriage that’s going to last. I’d hate to think what would happen when Un-newlywed husband retires and is home ALL the time. I hope they don’t own a gun.
–more-
So, my husband and I have been watching these commercials and the sock stuffing incident over and over again and we are annoyed. The show is SO not realistic. First, why is it the wife who’s always so uptight about socks on the floor? Is this as far as feminism can take us in Hollywood? Can’t we have equal opportunity slobbery (new word, roll with it)? In my marriage, my husband is the neat freak. If my shoes aren’t lined up, I hear about it. If my socks are on the floor, I hear about it. At length. With wagging fingers to boot. The thing is, I am very much a live-and-let-live kind of person. Your socks are on the floor? I don’t care. I’m not going to bend over and pick them up, I leave sock removal to the dogs who consider smelly socks to be appetizers. There’s more than one dirty dish in the sink? So what? I don’t load the dishwasher until the dishes are higher than the faucet.
This means I actually never do the dishes because my husband can’t tolerate that many opportunities for mold growth in the house. I don’t even do laundry. I tried, but my husband wanted to micromanage how I sorted lights and darks to the point of actually rearranging the dirty clothes piles.
I finally screamed that, if he couldn’t leave me alone and trust my ten years of laundry experience to be sufficient insurance that I wouldn’t accidentally shred his clothes, he could do the (damn) laundry all by himself.
It took him three years of doing laundry before he finally realized ‘Hey, this sucks. If I relax my standards a little bit, my slobbery wife can share some of the work.’ I now have to help sort the clothes. Sometimes I am even forced to do actual laundry. Drat.
Anyway, none of this means, however, that I don’t clean. It’s just that my threshold is a lot lower than my husband’s. To me, if it can be cleaned up in twenty minutes, it’s not a mess. True messes require hired maids and tubs of disinfectant. I know this because my father is the slobberiest slob of them all and I cleaned up after him for years. Think dirty socks on the floor are bad? Try dirty socks plus underwear on the kitchen table next to your breakfast.
Whenever my husband ‘loses it’ over my less-than-neat ways, I remind him of my father. So long as I’m not as bad as my father, I figure I’m doing pretty good. My dirty underwear may be on the floor with my socks, but it’s never on the dining room table and I do pick it up on a weekly-ish basis. My father left stuff sitting so long, it became stiff, like a skidmark statue.
If my husband is still irate after the at-least-I’m-not-my-dad defense, I use my secret weapon-of-mass-distraction to defuse his anger: boobs. Flashing works every time. No, really. Boobs stop marital discord in its tracks. Try it sometime.
Still, despite all my slobbery flaws, I don’t rely on my boobs alone, I actually do get my hands dirty. I vacuum, I steam clean carpet, I clean bathrooms, and constantly try to find the laziest way to organize my closet that doesn’t involve throwing everything on the floor or draping things over a chair, My husband’s anality (another new word) for cleanliness does push me to a higher level of neatness because I love him and putting my shoes in precise rows seems to improve his facial tic.
Even so, I will never be one of those people whose hands are just twitching to throw a vacuum into full throttle. Nor will I be watching the Newlywed/Un-newlywed show, because, as far as I’m concerned, they don’t know anything about marriage and I don’t want to give my husband any more ideas about what he can do with those socks on the floor
— Demented Michelle