Over past decades, research has revealed that young babies are indeed sexy (for wont of a better word at that age) as they fondle their genitals and play with themselves. To acknowledge that fact however seemingly runs counter to prevailing norms around the world where sex is sadly, still shrouded in too much shame and secrecy; moreover, coupled with corruption and vice in international slave trades and paedophilia that perpetrate sex as a commercial commodity that’s worth millions of dollars to the purveyors of this insidious cultural conspiracy. Moreover, I recently watched a live studio discussion about virginity where young people, both male and female, aged under 25 years, mentioned that sex was still regarded too often as “dirty” and girls who participated in intercourse were condemned as “sluts”. This was 2013 and as I reflected backwards, could only remember when sex was similarly tainted during the 60s in Melburbia as I was growing up as a teenager. In 1963, age 13, I attended a party with both boys and girls (no alcohol) dressed in a skimpy, tight, black sweater, clinging black leggings, black boots and a fitted leopard skin vest made by my mother. I felt I looked sensational, even sexy, though at 13 wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. But I was the only girl who wanted to play Spin The Bottle at the party with the boys and the other girls all glared nastily at me as they sat at a distance on the settee. As for some of the boys, I just remember a few of them looking at me with what on reflection, I can only call desire. Of course, we didn’t play with the Bottle or any other kissing games. What’s interesting to me about that night is that I never wore that garb again; not to any other parties at least, and telling a male gay friend about this just recently, I said I thought I got scared of myself, albeit unconsciously. Of what, he posed, your power? I’m sure I didn’t understand anything about my own power, let alone if it was a sexual power at that age, and I can’t articulate consciously why I never dressed like that again, I can only surmise I didn’t enjoy the girls’ disapproval and rejection of me that followed. Was my personal sexual power already an issue; a frightening and alarming jealousy I experienced that I buried in my psyche for many years afterwards. Indeed, instead of celebrating my sexiness and sensual appeal, I developed an adolescent inferiority complex about my looks and I more often than not, wore clothes that didn’t obviously announce my attractiveness. It is a tragic reflection on the way young girls’ sexuality is manipulated by the norms which decry that. I can also remember as I reflect on my young years, kissing my first boy at age 11 at my next door neighbour’s party as we lay embracing on the sitting room floor. The boy was just a year older at 12, but it still lingers on my lips as a truly beautiful moment in my life. Moreover, as a mere nine-year-old, I used to sleep with a stuffed toy and remember very vividly putting the animal’s tail which was hard between my legs to rest on my cunt and it felt fantastic. Sometimes, I do recall putting part of the tail inside me though I have no idea what I was thinking when I did that. It just felt good. After my experience at the party as a 13-year-old, however, something certainly happened to me apart from not wearing that outfit again; I stopped touching myself and sleeping with the stuffed toy. It was also unconscious, I don’t remember deciding to do any of it, but it wasn’t until eight years later, when at 21, I rediscovered the magic of sex with my then boyfriend. I wasn’t a virgin, but the two or three men I had bedded before him left me unsure about my own sexual behaviour in so far as I still didn’t touch myself or engage in masturbation. I had enjoyed the sex, but it was pretty ordinary and not very satisfying. Moreover, I was also confused about the issue of love and where that fitted with my sexual antics. I hadn’t been in love with these men at all, so was love part of experiencing the great joys of sex? I was very confused about all of it, though I had started to wear black again and look pretty sexy when I went out. My repressed teen years were behind me, and I was only too well aware about it all at 21. My then boyfriend urged me to masturbate one night so he could watch me and while I initially was reticent about doing it, I trusted him and did and it too felt wonderful. Yet, as it turned me on to have him watch me while I was enjoying myself, I started to realise as I looked at him that he was getting somewhat ‘scared’ – he started getting very aggro with me, (it’s the only word I can think of) – and it was another incident of my sexual power that remained in my unconscious for a further few years. We were only together for less than two years, but sometimes I believe he saved my life; albeit my sexual life, as we indulged in a sexual relationship that I’ve had with too few men since. Reading many books, including The Female Eunuch at that time, I was unravelling how sex for me as an adolescent was indeed, a very dirty word. The pleasure of sex had been ‘socialised’ out of me as I’d unconsciously allowed the prevailing ‘sex is dirty’ norm to affect my behaviour, albeit even alone in my bedroom. My adolescent diary is full of it; how filthy and immoral sex is (I refer to experiencing “a descent of morals” because I was engaging in some heavy petting with another teenage boy and I was 17 at the time); despite me reading some sexy books much to the disgust of my mother. I both longed for sex (not that I really knew what it involved except for what I read in books) at the same time as succumbing to the sexually deprecating, social mores of those times. Moreover, when I was 14 years old, my mother even opened a letter sent to me by a boyfriend from interstate and told me I could no longer associate with him because he had written about a bed and sex in the letter. She also used to continually talk about waiting till marriage to have sex. My father on the other hand, was the exact opposite; indeed, he had ‘caught’ me enjoying my first kiss at my next door neighbour’s house because it was after my curfew and he arrived to tell me to come home. He never mentioned anything about me kissing the boy; indeed, at 17, he told me over lunch that it was fine to sleep with boys but to ensure I didn’t get pregnant. (However, what is sad for him is that while I was leaving home which he was vehemently against, he believed that I wanted to abandon our family because I wanted to sleep with boys. It was to him, all about sex! (I believe that for far too many men, and sadly too many women too, sex is the biggest issue, be it a problem or joy, it is an obsession in our world as if it explains all our woes and misfortunes. The reality is that for some, it clearly does.) But for my father, our family’s violence, albeit psychological, didn’t enter into it; it was just sex I was after according to his perceptions and understanding. I had never even thought about sex in that context for wanting, even more importantly, needing to leave my very sick family. In order to always remember how our society denigrated sex, especially for females, I kept my diary to remind myself about it all, among other things, and listening to the TV program last year I could only disappointingly ask: what’s really changed?
Indeed, a newspaper story I read recently in Melbourne reported that a 33-year-old single, white, Australian male had just been celibate for 12 months after living to fuck many women but was too often left feeling empty and shallow. What, I could only ponder, did he expect? Hope for? Need? Want? Now, after 12-months without sex, he has changed his life by engaging in charity work to help free young Cambodian girls from the sex slave trade as well as realising he wants a relationship based on companionship not just one night stands that leave him wanting. It was sad for me to read this story; once more, what is it about sex; either not enough of it or too much of it as he detailed, that plays havoc with our well-being? Moreover, it took him a vow of celibacy, extreme in itself as a conscious decision, to do something about the conspiracy cashing in on the cunts of Cambodian young girls! How tragic is that logic? Indeed, there is another tale I will relate about my own experience as before I met my boyfriend at 21, I was telephoned by a very famous football coach I met through work who despite being married, said he wanted to come round to my place and talk. I surmised he really wanted sex (I could be wrong but that’s not the point of this story) and I told him NO, but when I told a 30-year-old woman I was working with just four years ago, she told me he would have respected me for telling him NO. The reality is I thought so too at the time, (it was 1971) but should his respect have been based on whether I agreed to have sex with him or not? The reason I said NO at the time was that I really fancied him and was scared I’d fall in love with him as well as being very aware that he was reputed for playing around and having sex with lots of women. I didn’t want to be just another one of those women! But the young woman I told in 2009 who thought ‘respect’ would have been an issue still evinced the same sullied sexual attitudes of bygone days. Moreover, my boyfriend at 21, who without doubt, allowed me to discover the beautiful and wonderful joys of sex; did reveal himself later to be a very conservative man with all the entrenched and disparaging norms of sex for females (at least) when he called me ‘a fucking whore’ for being unfaithful, as well as telling me I was a sex maniac who was sexually insatiable at the same time. What of him as it wasn’t as if I was having sex without him? (I leave you to work that one out.)
It’s a long time ago of course and I look back for him and feel sad; and for the young man who needed to remain celibate to understand sex in his life and I can only ponder about what confusion too many people have about sex. I too haven’t enjoyed sex with a man for nearly twenty years because I simply got fed up with the dud fucks I met who thought I just wanted a cock up my cunt and nothing else. Sexual ignorance might be just part of it, indeed, selfish self-interest and gratification I believe is far more apt; too often I’ve been a convenient receptacle for them to empty their load. Celibacy is a decision I made too until I meet a man who I can talk to first or at least in bed about what I not only want, but need, too. It just hasn’t happened over the past years. These days, I play with myself and give myself more pleasure than the few men I’ve met over those years. It’s hardly a satisfying way to live in one perspective, but that is the choice I made though in my early 60s now, I don’t meet many men (except more married ones) who are even interested. But the conspiracy of the cunt affected me in my middle twenties as well; albeit as I encountered another equally negative norm of feeling like ‘a sex object’. Sadly, I felt my ex boyfriend had perceived me in this way, too. It was also buried in my unconscious as I put on a lot of weight, stopped caring about my appearance or even looking after my personal hygiene. (There were some other reasons too like I worked 80 hours a week and felt too tired far too often to look after myself but I do believe I was yet again, running away from the sex object label and my own sexual power; still frightened maybe of it all.) It was my way of keeping men away from me, but the irony for some men is that even looking unattractive and smelling of BO and a too-fishy cunt didn’t detract these few males (how desperate were they?), but I was really disgusted and unhappy with myself as I tried to understand why I had changed so drastically at the same time. The sexual issue, however, reared again as many men and probably some women too that I worked with, now thought I was a lesbian. My sexuality was still in the forefront of so many people’s mind that I didn’t know whether to laugh at their insane attitudes or cry at their perspective. The bottom line was it was still all about sex! But demeaning and belittling my sexuality and appearance wasn’t the answer for me, either, I soon realised. Somehow, I had to negotiate my way around it all without losing myself, and after thinking and writing about it all for years in my diary and many nights alone and lonely at home by myself, by my late 20s, it all fell into place for me. Or so I thought, felt and believed. I lost weight, got fit, invested in some new apparel and started looking after myself again as well as working far less. In 1975, in the midst of those years of self analysis, I filled in a questionnaire about my sexuality that was in a British Cosmopolitan magazine I had bought. But it was so wrong, too. I had sex with several men and was intrigued and fascinated by sex, but according to the summary in Cosmo about my score on the questionnaire, sex was my mission in life. I had written it down in my diary; more to remind myself that because of my enjoying it all and being curious about it all as an issue of such significance in our world, it was seen as a mission. It simply wasn’t the case. One thing added at the end of the summary was however, more telling; insecure men will find you alarming, it stated. Remembering how my ex boyfriend had seemed ‘scared’ of me when I was getting off on masturbating in front of him suddenly made sense to me; except that I considered a few years later what ‘alarming’ really meant. Frightened of me? One man I enjoyed great sex with some years later told me I was very aggressive in bed and men would be frightened of me. I still ponder it all. Yet, returning to how men reacted when I returned to looking after myself and appeared well-groomed, clean and sexy, I got the ‘don’t wear your clitoris on your sleeve’ comment from my editor. (see previous blog) Once more, it was all about sex! Shock, horror, some of the men who thought I was a lesbian then couldn’t believe my transformation. Gasps of how glamorous I looked were accompanied by a look of disbelief at the same time. Sadly for them, it was all superficial; sex and appearance were paramount, once more about my cunt and my own conspiracy, so as to speak!
Just a few days ago too I read another story in the newspaper about the incidence of crime for women as compared to men: women rate highly on prostitution and street walking; men on sexual assault and exposing themselves in public. What is the core of these crimes; sex, yet again! Moreover, prostitution is called a crime for women when I contend that probably very few of these women have no other way of making money except selling their cunts on the street. That is the REAL crime as far as I’m concerned. It is indeed tragic that their minds, however they maybe, are devalued and deemed worthless by these men who use their bodies (at least they have to pay for them) for their own gratification, but even more tragic, is the way these women have little other choice. I too, indeed, tragically, now live on a Disability Support Pension because I am deemed ‘fucked in the head’ by my sister (though she wouldn’t use those words of course), Centrelink and assorted shrinks, have been unable to secure employment and have many times thought about becoming a prostitute except I’m sadly, now at 63, too old for that. I was recently incarcerated in St Vincent’s Mental Health Service as an involuntary patient for two months by my sister among others, and found relief and great pleasure by masturbating a lot in bed. I still do it, now at home, and I know people heard me in the hospital (I’d call it a prison) especially the nurses, who I believe probably thought I was manic for my indulgence. (Were they setting my sexual norm of behaviour?) I even told my GP on release from hospital about my sexual appetite to see what he’d say- nothing except he wrote it in a report for the shrink I’m now forced to see as part of a Community Treatment Order I’m on. I can only recoil in horror at how sex, however much we indulge or like the young man, don’t indulge, (this story was on the front page of a supposed ‘quality’ Melbourne newspaper to be, I can only gather, celebrated for the good charity work he is now doing) is still such a pertinent indicator of our health or lack of health, albeit both physical and mental. How often should we indulge? Does it matter except to each of us as individuals? Is it any one else’s business unless we’re hurting others? Who prescribes our norms of sexual behaviour? And should we, as adult independent human beings, care what others think we should or should not be doing as long as we’re causing no harm to others?
The tragic truth from my perspective is that sex is still a ‘dirty word’, a conspiracy against our cunts and the pleasure we seek; albeit alone or with others. Heterosexual or homosexual; if we abandon sex we have a good reason like the young man in the story who’s adopted charity work instead and to be applauded because of it; but if, like me, I indulge myself too often according to the so-called health carers, I am indeed sick in the mind with an hedonistic mania. Furthermore, the tragic irony for many others, is that for the past 25 years or so I have been told, by women as well as men, including my poor, female, misemployed case manager for my supposed sick mind, that I am indeed stylish and elegant as if that’s designed to make me feel better. Indeed, from some people, it’s of course, nice and good to hear, except that when I think back to when I was 13 and how amazingly fantastic I looked, I always knew deep inside me what I could like. Indeed, at that age, I fantasised about being a model. Yet, it all got screwed up for me for many years, over society’s contempt for sex; not just for women, but for the men too who are players in the same conspiratorial lifestyle. I can only say that for many decades now, I have indeed stopped caring what others think of me; it’s their problem and their waste of time, money and energy if they deem me the sick one for looking great and feeling sexy. Here’s to my hedonistic cunt where I can enjoy a conspiracy against all social norms for my own individual pleasure, albeit alone in my bedroom!