female sexuality

We live in an increasingly homogenized, blinkered world. A Big Mac has become so ubiquitous you can usually count on it being the same from Beijing to Buenos Aires. We watch the same blockbuster movies, we aspire to the same objects of desire, whether it’s iPads, Louboutin shoes or Xboxes. We can instantly share whatever grabs our attention on YouTube in seconds of watching it, we can trade any information at any time at the speed of light. Newsfeeds and blogfeeds can be tailored to our personal tastes and interests, so can any kind of advertising.

These days, even the erotic – surely one of the most diverse of human preoccupations – has been standardized to such an extent that even ordinary women are feeling the heat to conform in order to aspire to being desired. There’s room for everyone and something for everyone, too – with a few provisos. Be young. Be blonde, if you can. Make sure your mammary glands are of a pleasing proportion and height. And for the love of dental floss, woman…would you please devastate that rainforest you carry around between your legs?

So you do just that. Stock in Gillette soars, and the lady with just the right deft, torturous touch with that hot wax knows more about you than even your sister can manage. You slather yourself with snake oil in jars to ensure you are as smooth and line-free as a virgin piece of paper. The only hair left on you is the hair you want to be there. You work out or you run or both, you buy other, different kinds of snake oil in many colors to accentuate and present your improved, desirable self.

And disaster strikes. One day you discover a tender spot that means an ingrown hair is making your overstressed life a misery, especially in jeans. But it’s located somewhere you can’t quite see, so you grab your magnifying makeup mirror to have a closer look.

OMG! How could you have lived all these years without knowing this…that you look nothing like those porn movies you have been known to watch? Those images in anatomy books with their clean lines and their perfect snatches – they ain’t you, baby. That…thing, that semi-hidden area of your body you have carried around since birth and had a wary relationship with since puberty, that source of pleasure and pain…is a bit less than perfect, even with a Hollywood wax job. It looks like an alien life form and not at all benign. It needs a face lift. And you need a Xanax at least. If you’re that ugly, that deformed, that hideous, how can anyone ever want you again? That’s just not…normal, is it?

Stop right there. Take a deep breath. Sit down. Calm down. Chill. Your life already sucks hard enough.

We live in an age that does everything to encourage serious body dysmorphia. No matter what we do or how we look, it’s never…good enough, which usually means we’re never good…enough. We constantly compare ourselves to other females in particular, positively convinced that they somehow have it all together, they have their lives, their souls, their traitorous, treacherous bodies under control in a way we can never quite manage ourselves. And it’s only getting worse.

So for the International Women’s Day on March 8th, the Danish Center for Information about Gender, Equality and Ethnicity decided to grab that thorny bush by the roots and instigate something…different. Something that would celebrate womanhood in general and women in particular, something that would quell that ravening industry-fed monster that feeds our perpetual insecurities.

To that end, they created an alternate kind of photo booth. Built and engineered by two female students of engineering design, constructed to look friendly rather than intimidating.

Here’s the deal: You enter a booth with a fully closed door, remove your undergarments and sit down on a specially constructed chair. Immediately below it is a light and a camera that for free and completely anonymously will take a photo of your private parts and upload them to a web page – so you can see for yourself that you’re nowhere such a freak as you think. I’d like to point out that this is completely anonymous, the photos are very tightly shot and really, ladies – who will know it’s you, even?

By taking our private parts completely out of any kind of sexualized contex and presenting them as such, we’re encouraged to talk about ourselves, discuss ourselves and maybe embrace ourselves and appreciate our own diversity.

Celebrate the different! That web page proves without a doubt that women and their parts come in as many shapes, sizes and versions as their owners, and demonstrates how far removed we are from our very selves in that perpetual quest for homogeny – a homogeny defined by a porn industry that’s fully aware of its own entirely artificial ideal – and that’s the point of it to begin with.

You realize of course, that the more you concentrate on looking, acting, embodying that very ideal is the time you’re distracted from how much inequality, how much misogyny still exists, don’t you? And perhaps being motivated to change what you can?

Once upon a time in the Western world, only burlesque dancers would ever dream of waxing. I once came across a French postcard from the Twenties or Thirties, judging by the hemlines and the cloche hats. Seven women – at every age and in several sizes – had lifted their skirts and undergarments to show – and show off – their luxuriant, exuberant bushes. Every single one of those women laughing – not in an artificial, posed manner, either. They were happy to celebrate their differences, happy to show off, happy to be there in that moment with each other, sharing one common secret – that they were all women, but not at all alike.

Once upon a time not quite so long ago, I sat backstage after a show with a dedicated libertine and lead guitar player in a semi-notorious American band. As we worked our way through a bottle of Jack Daniels, we discussed female anatomy, among many other topics. “You know,” drawled the libertine and passed the bottle, “I kinda wish so many women didn’t shave or wax so much. It takes away the mystery, that thrill of discovery – that you can never be sure of what you’ll find until you get there.”

I took my own swig off the JD’s and handed it back. “What about that involuntary dental floss thing?”

That made him laugh. “Battle wound, baby! Women get that, too, ya know. But the thing is…you don’t dare complain about it!”

I liked that guy, I really did.

Just as I like this initiative to celebrate our differences in any way we can.

The truth is, if we were absolutely convinced we were loved and adored for our true selves, we’d go out in to the world barefaced and unadorned. Instead, we rail and rant against headscarves and burqas and female circumcision, and are all too likely to forget that even in the liberated, secular West, we have it in different forms – that porn-star ideal of perfection, that eternal quest for perpetual youth, that constant pain of never being good enough, symmetrical enough, smart enough, pretty – enough.

But life isn’t perfect, the world isn’t perfect and neither are we. And neither is anyone else!

So you can conform at your peril and a not insignificant expense, or you can focus on important things instead – and change the world, or just the world you live in.

What have you got to lose?

Image: Georgia O’ Keeffe, Jack-in-the-Pulpit IV, 1930

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(Dood alert! From time to time, the Dood, who was introduced to the general populace in Sex, Jugs, And Rock and Roll, will make his hirsute appearance. As he did today.)

As a general rule, Mama doesn’t watch too much TV. She sees an awful lot of documentaries, a few select movies, and the running commentary of BBC World and CNN. Lately, though – I’ve been worried about her. She’s had her nose stuck in a book with the ominous title “The Climax of Rome” for days. You wonder what the word “climax” has to do with coin issues and the escalating inflation of the third century AD, but she’s not telling and I sure as hell won’t ask. I can just hear it now. “Aw, fuck. YOU again!”

Yesterday, she was watching a program on the Beeb called “Click”, a user-friendly tech show about everything new and happening in geek paradise, the kind that makes its viewers feel as if they, too can be on top of all the bleeding-edge stuff – for at least the next 20 minutes or so.

Well, wouldn’t you know, she came to find out there was this iPhone app out called Chastity 2.0. It keeps track if you’re one of those poor souls who’ve been hoodwinked into saving your “purity” for marriage. But this one, man – it’s for the iPhone your dad gave in exchange for signing one of those stupid contracts and getting a purity ring, so everyone else knows about it, too. It pays to advertise, right?

That was IT, I’m tellin’ ya. I mean, that was IT! I’ve been languishing in some mental Siberian gulag for months, but a Dood can only take so much, ya know what I’m sayin’?

She’s written about these people before, a long time ago, in the post “A cross to bear“. So if you’ve read it, and even if you haven’t, you might suspect that Mama was never, ever, some goody-two-shoes nice girl, who saved her cherry for her wedding night with Her One and Only. She made sure to lose it at 15 to some lucky guy she never saw again, and considered it a stepping stone to becoming well and truly bad.

In 1978, at the height of punk, this was thought of as cool.

If she had waited until her wedding night, she would have been 37, with a six year old daughter from a previous relationship, which kinda blows the whole purity thing up, wouldn’t you say? Hubby would not have approved, being a slightly shady Gemini who wouldn’t go near Virgos or virgins for love or money.

But now, all these years later, there are things like teenaged daughters to think about. The idea of her tender lookalike daughter waiting for a moment that might never happen makes her Mommy blood run cold.

A moot point anyway, since that teenager is no longer a virgin.

So that got me thinking. The Internet is full of places for the virtuously inclined. They’re even on Facebook, for God’s sake!

But what about the likes of us, who encourage young, impressionable girls wo really, truly want to know ALL there is to know about that phenomenon called womanhood? How do you learn to crack the proverbial whip in a room full of testosterone bombs? Is there an Emily Post etiquette guide for spontaneous orgies? Kate Perry kissed a girl, but what would happen if you did? (Hint – it might be more fun than you could possibly imagine!) Can you find categories like “How to give the perfect blowjob” on eHow? Will Vogue ever run an article in their beauty pages on “Multiple orgasms and mascara – the truth!”?

Maybe when hell freezes over or Anna Wintour retires, but not one second before!

Did you even know that there’s a lipstick out there called “Afterglow”?

Well, here’s another little factoid out there for all you US readers. Of the 50 US states, 49 have opted out of sex education for high school students. Only California refused, on the grounds that it was unconstitutional, given that the higher goal of any school is to prepare their students for adult life.

As for the rest of them, there’s the Purity Pledge 2.0 iPhone app. This will do wonders to ameliorate any confusion over things like contraception, teenaged pregnancy, homosexuality or bisexuality or even the simple, distasteful and – fess up! – indisputable fact that when the Great Beast Libido raises its not altogether pretty head, a kid is dealing with one of the two most powerful biological urges he or she will ever encounter. Then again, an iPhone can vibrate, or so I’ve heard…

I therefore propose an education in debauchery. Call it Debauchery 2.0 Beta. (Debauchery will always be a work in progress!)

Let’s teach those poor girls the really important stuff, all wrapped in a nifty little iPhone app with everything you wanted to know but your Mom would blush to tell you! There would be things like “How to give a blow job without throwing up – and why you should learn”, “Responsible sex and YOU, yes, YOU”, “Etiquette for orgies” and “Out of the closet? Bring it ON!”. “You want me to WHAT?” “Pain and pleasure – a love story!” “Fuck me shoes and how to wield them!” “Not an Irish Airline.” “O solo mio! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

Once you’re past the baby stuff and over the age of 18, we could build on extras. We could call it Depravity Rules! Keep track of your one-knight stands, and which of them you accidentally sent a dirty text message one night you landed in a vat of mojitos. It would feature things like a handy one-stop store for things like Trojans and Astro-Glide, that would be delivered to your door, in discreet packaging, of course.

For the dedicated, there would be the Total Dissipation app. “Perfect perversity”. “Corruption Central” “Erudite Erotica”. Maybe you’re an astrology nut? Virgos too clean for you? Darling, if you really want to surf the Dark SIde of the Force, find a Pisces black metal fan. Scorpios have nothing on them, trust me! I suspect they were taught by a Pisces, in fact. “The Beginner’s Guide to Fetishes.” “Ping-pong to plaited leather – a use and abuse manual.”

That, darlings, would be responsible parenting. To teach your children – boys and girls both! – how to tread the minefield of adulthood and find out for themselves what works for them and what doesn’t – without fear, without shame but with an open mind and an insatiable – curiosity.

Those apps would certainly teach them more than any stupid ring ever could! I rest my case. But I’ll be back.

Just as soon as she gets her nose out of that effing Roman climax!

Image: Hieronymus Bosch, “The Garden of Earthly Delights”, 1503/04 (detail)
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I had a birthday two days ago, the “let’s just say this is an ordinary Thursday like any other Thursday” variety. This particular birthday wasn’t remarkable, not auspicious, not even very ominous as such things go, and yet, I’ve spent the past two months in a peculiar state of dread over – that Thursday.

That Thursday, that April 23rd, that otherwise very unremarkable day that meant I was one year closer to my imminent mortality. That Thursday, that to me seemed suspiciously like a “best before” day, which was a day that happened a long time ago.

My one consolation was that at least I wasn’t the only one. My all-time favorite writer, a long-dead certain Stratford-upon-Avon playwright of untarnished reputation, had probably been feeling rather weighed down by the floor stones of Holy Trinity Church himself for almost 400 years, and so far as we know, the poor man died on his – our – birthday.

It was the “best before” thing that got me. The idea that now – it was almost over. I have almost managed to cross the finish line in the mad, bad, estrogen-fuelled race called sex toward the twilight limbo of menopause and into that Bright New Day of rebirth beyond, where I shall be elevated above such tawdry, pathetic matters and live out the remains of my days in an ethereal glow of self-sufficient bliss. Secure in the knowledge that I’ve Been There, Done Them, Done That and now, thank God – no more.

Oh, no. I shall not go gentle into that good night.

I got the basics out of the way. I have propagated. My immortality is insured. If my chick-magnet four-year-old is anything to go by, a proud line of Viking and Celt heritage will continue down through the ages, perpetuating the red-haired gene he inherited from both sides of the gene pool. He returned from playing yesterday surrounded by a gaggle of very pretty girls aged from about six to twelve, who all cooed good night and waved as I closed the door. As he took off his shoes and dumped his cars on the floor, he looked up at me and said nonchalantly; “Those are my girls.” Sexual charisma starts early, and he’s had that effect since he was a baby of seven months, charming diamond-hard Copenhagen café society ladies from his baby carriage.

So in a sense, I have, by now, fulfilled my purpose. I should just retire.

What I should retire, since you ask, is the notion that it’s all over, that the fun lies behind me, that I can never be wild and wanton again. And apparently, that is a concept that is unique to the last two generations of women, the generation of my own mother, the feminists of the Sixties, and my own generation, which gave us the greatest trailblazer of them all – Madonna.

We shall not age and wither, so long as we can do anything at all to stop the clock. So long as the ultimate sexual currency is youth, so goes the thinking, then we shall forever – or at least as long as we can – remain frozen in some perpetual “woman in her prime” time warp – and to hell and back with convention.

I wonder, though. I wonder whether the problem with women growing older and refusing to give it all up has more to do with male performance anxiety and the unsettling idea that we rapacious, female sexual predators simply know too much – about the masculine mindset, about the tricks and illusions and smoke-and-mirrors they like to hoodwink susceptible twenty-somethings with. We see the bullshit, and refuse to call it roses.

Been there. Done that. You can eradicate crow’s feet, but not experience.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I do not look my age, because I have good bones, I rarely drink alcohol (blame an alcoholic mother), and as a former Goth, I’ve kept out of the sun for well over twenty years, 19 of those buried beneath a very high SPF factor. I agree with Catherine Deneuve who once said that past a certain age, one can have a nice face or a nice ass, but not both, and just as she did, I’ve chosen to go with the face.

The Buttkicker, meanwhile, has no complaints about the other end.

And it’s the other end that’s the problem. Because now, my generation has been dubbed a generation of “cougars” – a particular species of untameable mountain lion. If the media meant it as an insult, then yet again, they’ve failed miserably. Wild, untameable, voracious – and ferocious – predators, on the hunt for man flesh – what’s NOT to love about that description?

Is it because that after all these years of ubiquitous – and often gratuitous – female sexuality in the media, men (who still, by and large, control the media) are now realizing with a start that women can be sexual threats?

C’mon, guys. really. Lesbians have known this for decades. Not only that, men are hard hit that women are gravitating towards – oh, the horror! – younger!!! – men.

It sucks, getting a dose of your own medicine. Really, it does. Pity the forty-something male. Browbeaten by wives to become fully participating dads to a degree and extent that was never demanded by their fathers, and then – unceremoniously dumped in favor of younger flesh.

The bottom line is – we won’t give it up – that bill and coo of sex. It’s been the most – legal – fun we’ve ever had, and we refuse to give it up, because we ladies know that if you don’t give up on sex, it rarely gives up on you.

I lived a split-level existence all my life. My mother was one of the last true courtesans of an age – a courtesan to the marrow of her bones, and her eldest daughter, who never did understand that until Mom was well into her very early grave, stubbornly rejected that particular path, because it wasn’t her own.

“Pretty is good”, as my idolized stepfather used to say, “but smarter is better”. Pretty was my mother’s prerogative, I thought, so it was up to me to prove I had brains.

So I spent a good portion of my life buried in books of many stripes and colors, and then I went out and made my way into the world to apply practice to theory, and some of that included sex. I have done my experiments. I’ve dabbled in many fringes in order to define myself – political, personal and sexual. Some of those fringes have turned into the flypaper of my life and I got stuck by choice and inclination.

And when I finally decided that it was time to roost, and nest, and plant myself somewhere I could truly bloom, I found and married a younger man in the millenium year, because I’ve always been immature for my age.

The Buttkicker knows he married a cougar. He knows – and he appreciates it.

Which might be the reason, after all, why I’m blooming now.

Best not to forget – even after a birthday.

Because I’m not dead yet.

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(The title above this post links to the NY Times article that prompted it.)

It’s the age-old question, isn’t it – what do women want?

Errr, hmm, well. I could answer things like – a shopping spree at the Serge Lutens shop in Paris, or just a shopping spree in Paris, no credit limit. A house in Copenhagen or a medieval priory in Somerset, UK. An eleven-foot long purple IKEA sofa. My novel on the New York Times bestseller list. A searing reputation for filthy wit and razor-sharp perception in the blogosphere, with hundreds of followers and thousands of comments. World peace, the end of hunger and abuse of women. Education for all who want it. Religious tolerance. I want a general mindset where sexual orientation will be about as relevant as saying you prefer Manolos to Jimmy Choos.

Which sounds very worthy and fairly typical of my gender. Mother Theresa, I most emphatically am not.

Or, I could say – I want the body I had at 25, before stretch marks and Caesarian scar and a midsection that will never be flat again no matter how many crunches I do. While I’m at it, add another seven or eight inches to my height. With the personality I have now. Or two weeks on a tropical beach with the Resident Buttkicker. No four-year-olds allowed. Or I could say Peter Steele on a puff pastry bed covered in Cool Whip, with a side order of Johnny Depp.

It would all be true. And yet, and yet – it’s not the whole story.

Men have been trying to figure it out for millenia, and they still have few clues. One famous Arthurian tale came up with an intriguing answer to the question of what women want.

Sovereignty. The power – and the societal permission – to choose for ourselves. We are, so far as I can tell, still working on that one.

And meanwhile, worthy researchers are trying to figure out just what, precisely, triggers a woman’s sexual ignition switch.

There’s a visual gag illustrating the difference between men and women’s lust. The masculine version is a simple “on/off” switch. Guys – you want her, you lust for her (presuming you’re straight, of course) or you don’t. That’s it. End of story. The feninine version is a complex switchboard with hundreds of dials, keypads and voltmeters, that all end up in a “she wants you, or she doesn’t.”

Aha! Confess, already – it got you thinking, right?

Those worthy researchers at equally meritorious institutes of higher learning have come up with some stunning clues. Signposts, rather, pointing in several directions but with no clear road map through the impenetrable thicket of the female brain. This does give me hope. If everything there was to figure out about women had already been discovered, we would have no more mystery to dazzle the unsuspecting with, would we?

For one thing, what arouses a woman physically may have no apparent effect on her brain. We really do have the ability to exist in two dimensions simultaneously. She may say she thinks you’re hotter than a night in August, but her body may be saying something else entirely. Or – a woman may tell you she’s just not into you, and it’s not you, it’s her. She would be right. And she would be wrong, such being the perfidity of women. She’ll turn you down, but what you’ll never know is just how much she slides out the door.

The problem for all those clueless guys out there, is that unlike with men, it’s not immediately apparent when a woman is firing on all 16 cylinders. Not unless you’ve already made it to third base, in which case you can, up to a point, assume that if she weren’t, YOU wouldn’t be there. Love it or loathe it, for all those “how to score” seminars out there, no matter what Maxim tries to tell their male readers, it’s women who choose men, not the other way around.

Anyone who’s ever had a long-term relationship will tell you that it starts out hot and heavy, and sooner or later, that overwhelming urge to tangle in public and private places will wane. Which is to say, men stay fairly constant. It boils down to availability. If she’s there, he’ll want her.

However, as we all know, women are far more perverse. They may start out hot and heavy, all right, but sooner or later, desire will fizzle out like so many sodden fireworks, buried under the laundry basket of life. She really, truly, honestly, isn’t into you any more. “So, do ya wanna?” just doesn’t do it for her. No amount of flowers, dinner dates or Belgian chocolate will magically transform her into an erupting Etna of molten female desire.

You would be surprised – as I was – to find out what does.

All that research – and please remember, it’s not set in concrete or even marble – seems to suggest that female desire – the heterosexual variety, at any rate – is tied up with a certain degree of – narcissism. We ladies like to be wanted. We like to be told that we are towering goddesses of perfection, and that because we are, you guys are not able to control yourselves. You have to have us, or you’ll die. Really. Yes, gentlemen, you will have to kiss the Blarney stone. You will have to convince us that it’s true. You will, in other words, have to convince us fair ladies that no matter how badly damaged our self-image, you don’t care.

It’s that bad.

Considering that there’s a whole billion-dollar industry built around the exploitation of female insecurity, that’s pretty depressing. I once had a boyfriend who told me in no uncertain terms that I did not live up to the Playboy ideal of desirable womanhood. I didn’t, not even at 25. Therefore, so went his reasoning, he didn’t want me.

If female desire is linked with a certain degree of narcissism in the positive sense, then the bottom line is – we want you to get down on your knees and worship us. Faults and all.

At least for as long as it takes to tangle.

Read the article. Argue with me.

Who knows – we might learn something?

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In general, I’m a Pollyanna teddybear who is a diehard believer in live-and-let-live. People do what people do – and – whatever, dude. Just don’t try to ram your brand of bs down my throat.

But sometimes, especially after about 14 hours of sleep in the last 24, something gets my inner goat. Or my inner Id. That is – the Dood bangs his boots down on the floor with a mighty crash and screams louder than even Angus Young could:

“You’ve got to be (insert expletive) KIDDING me!!!”

And here it is, in all its Technicolor glory, the source of my outrage:”>

Apparently, dads in Colorado Springs haul their prepubescent daughters, decked out in virginal white (that’s important) AND gray eyeshadow, off to a fancy ball at the swanky Broadmore Hotel and make a covenant – to protect their daughters’ “purity”, and have them sign a contract that they will remain virgins until their wedding nights.

To top it all off, they do this at an age where those girls have no idea what they’re signing off on. I’m not even sure some of them can spell “virginity.”, never mind explain the concept.

After their moment of virginal glory and adoration, these girls go back home, still confused and elated, and play with their Bratz.

“And remember, sweetheart”, you can almost hear one of these paragon Daddies say a few years down the line, “it’s YOUR job to say no! Men can’t help it! Really, they can’t! But if that gets too hard, you let DADDY know, and I’ll take care of it!”

Damn straight he will, by hauling his errant teenaged daughter off to the toolshed to teach her the true and proper meaning of “virginity”.

Please, somebody, pinch me, hard. I may have slept so much I feel like Rip Van Winkle after last night, but yesterday WAS still the 21st century, right?

I’m the mother of a teenaged daughter. I know, both from personal experience and the curse of a good memory, as well as that jailbait candy I brought into this world, just how hard and how hot those cherries can burn. Cats in heat have nothing on these young ladies, and in an age where sex is seen as The Ultimate Commodity, it’s only getting worse.

But having girls as young as 8 or 10 or 12 sign a non-legal contract stating they’ll save IT for their wedding night, to keep it SACRED, right, so that SEX gets put into its PROPER place – marriage, is beyond outrage. And you will always, but always live happily ever after and your marriage bed will always be a bower of wedded bliss. Personally approved by God, who, lest we forget, is the Biggest, Baddest Daddy of all.

How those poor girls are going to manage that on no experience, presumably being married off to other virgins without experience, is just one of those contradictions these fellas never bother explaining. Just as they never bother explaining business conventiions and national church association meetings that involve prostitutes of both sexes and all sexual persuasions and any manner of debauchery.

But then again, that’s OK – they’re men. They can’t help it. Really, they can’t. It’s all Eve’s fault, anyway. Eve and her countless descendant daughters, whose appealing features, babysoft skin and rampant sexuality turn men into the slavering, drooling dogs they are.

Amazing. In an age where women have made quite a few strides in several right directions, when we bleeding-heart liberal sluts of the world have managed to kid ourselves into thinking that we can explore our sexuality in any way we see fit, Xtian right-wingers hit their daughters over the head with a fact they have no basis for understanding. Their sexuality needs controlling. By their Dads, if they can’t manage it themselves, and how would they know at age 10?

A thought that makes this slut’s blood run ice-cold.

I’ve made a covenant with my own teenaged daughter. Not to save it for her wedding night in exchange for some utopian bliss that will likely never happen. But to realize that she’s going to have to deal with the most important fact of womanhood of all:

We’ve Got It. They Want It.

Therein lies the true source of women’s power, and that’s what you’re going to have to learn, darling. That means you should get yourself out there, once YOU can feel you can handle it, and be as slutty and as sexual as you want or need, but be responsible. Protect yourself against the nasties of sexual consequences. Have fun, because it IS – fun. And extend your middle finger to anyone – male or female – who dares to get in your way.

After all, that’s the very idea at the heart of this whole issue, isn’t it: the threat of the independant-minded, sexually liberated woman. All those Xtian men will be shot in the balls by their own hypocrisy.

Oh, the horror!

Better just to give their daughters their personal cross to bear.