I hate when I read yet another woman declaring that she’s asexual. I expect to read a particular narrative, and I’m rarely wrong.
A woman in a long term (ten years or more) relationship with a man (often her husband, sometimes the father of her kids) no longer enjoys (or never much enjoyed) sex with her partner. He was [one of her first five sexual partners | the first man she bedded and liked | her first non-abusive relationship]. He wants a slew of sexual stuff that at best leaves her neutral. Mostly she doesn’t want what he wants or him.
Then she has an epiphany. She’s asexual! Of course she doesn’t want to bang him.
But they don’t have to break up. Because it’s not that she doesn’t like him as a lover. It’s not that he disgusts her (and he does). The issue is she that she’s off all sex. And always was.
Why don’t I celebrate? Why don’t I believe?
I doubt this narrative because I live in a society in which women’s sexual desire is frowned upon. It’s (almost) ok if a woman wants everything and every man. Particular desires though, or changing desires: those are frightening and wrong. Men don’t react well to hearing “Nah, not you.” But “Nah, no one. Ever” is believable. That situates blame correctly: an aberrant woman.
I post in a few places on the internet.
People who frequent those places probably think I go on about everything endlessly.
I post much less than write though. I write some eloquent opinion or brilliant advice. Then I read it again delete at least half of it. Sometimes (about half the time) I just cancel the whole thing.
After all, who wants to read a self-serving anecdote about me?
Many years ago I told my mother I was seeing a woman. “Oh yes,” she said “I have feelings for women too.”
“Ma,” sez I, “I don’t have feelings for J. I fuck her.”
And yeah it’s still true. I don’t have feelings for men or women. I fuck them.
I contacted a childhood acquaintance. She remembered me.
She told me a story about my mother that was clearly important to her and her sibs. I didn’t remember it, but ran it by Mom.
She didn’t remember it either.
So yeah, what else do people remember? What important stuff did I do that entirely dropped out of my history?
Cab stops. I’m still fumbling to pay. A couple surges up to the door. She bleached blond, he pencil beard. He opens the door, “Yo! I’m still in here!” “Oh, sorry.”
Eventually I emerge.
The woman: “He was trying to help you out the door.”
“No, he wasn’t, but nice try.”
The woman: “Are you Jewish?”
Me: “What the fuck has that to do with anything?”
The woman: “I knew it. Fucking Jewish bitch.”
For many years I attributed my lack of a sweet tooth to my health conscious parents who didn’t feed us many sweets.
Recently I’ve realized that this is nonsense.
My brother loves sweets.
No, I mean it. He loves sweets.
But I don’t.
I realized that I have quite limited food loves. Oh yeah, I’ll try anything. I’ll eat anything a friend serves me.
– No saccharine
– No cruciform veg
– No twizzlers
– No black cherry anything
– No chocolate with nuts
– No ham (even when I ate pork)
– No artificial strawberry
Geeze, listing what I like would be easier!
The Times published an op-ed piece on artists who are bad people (actually bad men).
Lots of comments about you can, you should separate the art from the artist. (Easy once they’re dead.)
That’s the context.
I started thinking about Woolfe’s imagined Judith Shakespeare, and how maybe she’d have been an even greater playwright – if only.
And then it hit me. Miriam and Martha have the same endless demands on them. Not Eliezar – not a lick of housework.