Tonight I gave you pleasure with all of my love, attention and willingness. I enjoyed every minute of it, guided by the subtle movements of your body, feeling deep pleasure of my own from hearing your telling exhales. As I held and calmed you in the afterglow we both delighted in the moment that had just passed.
You soon noticed I wasn’t quite ready for sleep, and I admit though silent and still I made it quite obvious. You took a deep breath as you sat up, and began approaching my thighs with a half smile and every modal verb of obligation. “I should, must, have to, need to…” until finally coming to an unconvincing “want”. I denied access.
You surrendered with ease, and gave me grateful love and attention with touch instead. Deep, soft, passionate caresses began to melt away the layers of protection I carry. And as I lost myself in your love, still feeling the burning excitement of what had just taken place, the flow of energy from your fingertips went cold. You quickly fell out of consciousness. And there I lie again, with the longing to be pleased, held, adored to fulfillment. A deep sense of sadness and loneliness overtook me and the doubts flooded in with them. I wondered what it could be that makes my pleasure so dismissable, a burden even, time and time again.
As I roll out of bed you wake up in a panic, you realize you’ve done it again. You follow me out of the room and it’s clear, I’m lost in thought and I can no longer look at you. The satisfied look in your eyes quickly shifts to panic; uh-oh, you think you’re in trouble (talk about boring!). As you struggle in silence to figure out what you’re supposed to say, I wonder what it is I need to do in order to be penetrated with courage and patience. What is it about me that’s so terrifying or unworthy of exploring? If only you would answer that question from the depths of your heart, only then could we end this vicious cycle.
My disappointment settles and I remember our past sexual traumas. I remember your fear of women. I remember how you were raised to perceive masculinity. I remember most other men I’ve encountered, and the countless stories of mediocrity my girlfriends have shared with me. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence. Tired of our own victimization, tonight I finally realized that this isn’t about me, it isn’t about us, and these unmet needs aren’t new.
You are merely a soldier in the Machista Army, the troop that’s been conquering the world to compensate for their penile shortcomings. And I am merely a daughter of complying victims, generations of women who allowed fear to silence them. But despite a half a lifetime of legs divided and yoni conquered, I’ve never allowed myself to believe I deserved it.
Tonight my heart weeps for the oceans of unsatisfied women. Those who never knew the depths that lie within them because there was never a man patient enough to explore with her. My heart weeps for the troops of men who could only dream of peacetime. Those who never pondered their own potential because their victims conceded with such ease.
My body screams for a revolution. It pleases me to know there are adventurous men who avoid the draft. There are men who much prefer to ride the mysterious waves of a woman than to carry on the tradition of punishment and destruction. And it excites me to know there are brave women who refuse to go unfelt any longer. There are women who prefer to take their power back and demand an awakening. Together these men and women are creating a tidal wave that will wash out this massacre with a grace that only the Divine can conceive.
Sweet boyfriend, let’s join them, what have we got to lose? United let’s heal this, it’s up to us to make that wave seen.