The hippies wanted peace and love. We wanted Ferraris, blondes, and switchblades.
Being an American woman is like being a Ferrari on the Autobahn. How can you not peg the accelerator just to see how it feels, find how far you can go and how fast?
The simile also applies to American men; vulnerability and the binds of societal norms are not limited to she-who-holds-the-womb. The pressure of millions of years of inbred expectation, assumption and obligation are as driving a force on the male psyche as a throbbing hard penis. If you don’t think so, you have never seen a man unable to attain erection-instant identity deflation.
And freedom is not limited to America-evolution and enlightenment have and can occur in even the most legally restrictive environments. In fact nirvana may be easier to attain while chains physically wear into our flesh rather than while thoughts enslave our minds; the definition of our oppression is clearer. The Holocaust birthed more Buddhas than Woodstock.
For the sake of argument and to get me to my point I simply state that as many things are “wrong” with our United States, we are the Nation of the Individual. And few if any places in the world allow – legally and culturally – more potential for my -the female individual’s- experience.
The Army states it better than the entire Declaration of Independence: Here you can “Be all that you can be”. The Flying Spaghetti Monster bless America.
So I look at myself and ask the question, “What is the “all” that I can be?” And this blog, the book, my parenting, what I do with my body, my time, what I eat, what I do with my money… all of these things are my attempts at an answer.
I imagine I am maximizing the potential of my specific, completely individual DNA within the life experience which I am physically placed. And I imagine that my DNA is relatively bad-ass and I’m in the best place in the world to push it to its limits.
And THAT’S how I ended up posting naked selfies on the internet.
I’m in a secret FaceBook group of intelligent, sexually open and/or sexually actualized people of varying orientations. I imagine the subject of our posts are, in order of frequency: funny, overtly sexual/erotic, smart, any combination of the above, or mundane.
Philosophical and intellectual text streams occur often amongst positive good spirited “conversation”. Occasionally a sext stream will spontaneously commence, like a threesome, foursome, or moresome in a virtual swingers’ club hallway.
Things like that.
One day there was a pic of a stocking clad woman with a cup of coffee and a Mac, who had hands that I imagined looked like mine and small breasts. I posted that I was wondering if there was a camera in my living room, to which the admin- a 6’2″ dripping in sexy goodness Alpha of a man with a HUGE…wait this is my blog not the group… anyway this man (who of course might actually be a withered purple haired net-savvy grandmother in Kansas named Matilda, this is the internet after all) responds:
“Pics or it didn’t happen.”
Well. I’m kind of an exhibitionist.
You may have picked up on that.
Having recently had long distance boyfriends I have become adept at the tasteful semi-nude selfie. I like to believe photos of me-the woman he adores and is occasionally sleeping with-are more meaningful and helpful to my lover’s sensual energy than Plastic Porno Patty’s. I will imagine this even when I am 80 so your efforts to tell me otherwise are fruitless.
Taking these pics is much harder than you can imagine; I have nearly pulled muscles in my attempts.
Well why not put me on the web? My face isn’t shown, I can blur my body to hide that adorable identifying freckle that sits just above the waistband of my jeans, and these “friends” are in fact… total strangers.
And I look at this road not commonly taken, and find it interesting. Because I’m not simply a Ferrari. I’m the fucking Batmobile.
I want to switch from flight to scuba mode then go off-road on independent axles and throw mud tree-top high.
In my own way.
For me this means emotionally, psychologically, and sexually. I’m not going to be the woman who climbs Mt. Everest in record time or drops psychedelics in the Alaskan tundra. I’m a suburban mom taking and posting a naked selfie on the internet.
We all have different types of mountains we can climb just because they’re there.
So I located some stockings. Well I located ONE stocking and cut the leg off of a pair of hose to make another, found my best small-breast amplifying bra and matching thong, posed with my legs crossed and hand hovering on the touch pad as in the original pic, edited it to the same black and white, and sent it. It was FUN. And mine was amongst other brave souls’ selfies: Men with average, above average, and below average penises and bellies, women with boobs of all shapes and sizes. Tight, pretty vaginas and vaginas where… well honestly I can’t tell what is what sometimes (tilts head to side with perplexed expression-we sure can get fold-y can’t we?).
This group of virtual people is wonderful – whatever judgments we might have we address within ourselves. How can you stand in judgment knowing that your turn in the seat of exhibitionism is next? What is shared is cheerleading levels of support for one another’s bravery and, no matter the body type, there are always those whose genuine appreciation is expressed.
Everyone is beautiful to someone.
So last weekend I climbed another mountain just because it was there. I attended a second training facilitated by Perzan Irani, this one linked partially to Brad Blanton’s “Radical Honesty” material and mostly to Perzan’s own research and vision. I’m not ready to write on that retreat just yet. I’m not certain I ever will; how does one describe the full meaning of the gate that opened you to a path you didn’t know existed?
I had a difficult way home with many flights and unfair, costly, and inconvenient circumstances.
After the final injury – my IPhone being stolen – I met a man at a Milwaukee airport bar.
It seemed the right place to be at the time.
He had pleasantly symmetrical features and full head of natural-looking brown hair. He was tall enough but not tall, fit enough but not fit. I would have deemed him average had he been in a wife-beater and out of style jeans, or handsome in clean cargo pants and a cotton T. In his impeccably tailored expensive suit and silk tie he was, I imagine to most women of the world… highly desirable.
He happened to be sitting near the outlet that I needed for my computer since my phone… *sigh… what a trip that was. Somehow we got into a deeply personal conversation quickly. (Sometimes I pretend I think “somehow” when in fact I imagine people feel very comfortable with me very quickly and I inspire and enjoy such conversations.)
He is in fact a corporate lawyer, who by confession feeds on power, greed, and predatory prowess. By admission he hurts people. And enjoys doing so. He hinted that this characteristic drives not only his professional accomplishments but also his sexual and personal endeavors.
I winced inwardly at his bravado, wanting to judge that his overtly selfish outlook was not as lofty as my own idea that I am trying to become the best expression of my DNA and circumstances as possible.
And then I realized…
He’s not an off-roading batmobile or a Ferrari on the autobahn. He’s a Formula One car at Daytona and is specifically built to do one single thing, two maybe – drive in a circle at break neck speeds, and win. He is doing what he wants, no matter the fiery carnage in his wake as the competitors, after all, had entered his arena. And there he was being honest about it, at least in the moment that we crossed on another’s paths.
Aren’t we the same, him and I?
God, or whatever, bless America.
I wonder what he’s doing to evolve and progress himself today (shudders at the thought).
As for me I’m posting this blog, mommying baby goddesses, skyping with one or several of the men I met last weekend to discuss the male/female dynamic in light of Dave DeAngelo’s “pick-up artist” theories combined with Nicole Daedone’s writings on being and connecting with a sexually liberated woman.
After that I might step into my secret group and post a pic. Or, if it “comes up” (hehe) give virtual fellatio so effectively that I inspire an adorable guy in Colorado to post his own “money shot” video of him reading my story, which inspires a nice 20-something mom in North Carolina to post a close-up “squirting” video… which inspires… ? (That may or may not have actually happened.)
And what are you doing today?
*sticks key in ignition. thrills at the sound of the engine. VROOOOOMMMMM……!!!