Kiss My Tiara Part 3

I told him the real problem is that we women don't exploit PMS nearly enough.

I've always thought it was pretty funny that, for years, we gals were told that PMS was "all in our heads" by a medical profession that tended to view every other ailment that plagued us as the product of our uteruses. And now that PMS is taken seriously, men use it to question our ability to think rationally. This from a gender that regularly attends Monster Truck Expos.

Of course, if a guy has raging hormones, no one considers it a threat to his competency. But for centuries, those of us who have a womb for rent have been deemed naturally "hysterical." Our reproductive organs have been considered our sole source of ident.i.ty and destiny-despite the fact that men can, if permitted, talk nonstop about nicknames for their p.e.n.i.ses for an average of twenty-seven years.

So here's what I think we should do when it's That Time of the Month. Rather than ride our hormonal upheavals like a mechanical bull, or even try to a.s.suage them, I think we should exploit the h.e.l.l out of them to combat s.e.xual discrimination. Practice some "directed PMS." Some Estrogen Activism. Some Progesterone Power. Let's harness those mood swings, milk those menstrual cramps, let our ovaries, ahem, egg us on, and focus our frustrations for all that they're worth.

Every day, we chicks are subtly pressured into being seen and not heard, into denying what we want, into tempering our rage, ambition, s.e.xuality, and appet.i.tes. Yet each month Mother Nature turns up the thermostat in our own little incubator until we can't help but behave like a force of nature ourselves. We're chemically compelled to weep, b.i.t.c.h, emote, scream, laugh, eat, and make love with abandon. We devour that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels; we curse out the guy who tries to cut in front of us at the line at the Jiffy Lube; we pull our lover into the bedroom as if our libido has just declared a national state of emergency.

Despite whatever social constraints have been placed on us, we're hormonally programmed to defy them anyway.

Talk about a natural resource!

So I say we SmartMouth G.o.ddesses use this to the Max.

Whenever our b.r.e.a.s.t.s get achy, let's use it as a time to really get something off our chests. Let's direct our frustration, rage, and pa.s.sion toward a greater end; let's use them constructively, productively, and politically. Next time our hormones heat up and we feel like chewing out our roommate because he bought the wrong kind of f.u.c.king mayonnaise, here's what I say we do instead: Take it out on the federal government.

I mean, why harangue our loved ones when we can harangue our legislators? After all, that's what we pay them for: It's their job to listen to our concerns.

The White House actually has its own "public complaint line," (202) 456-1000, plus e-mail addresses for the Prez, the Veep, and the Grand Dame herself (they're at, respectively: [email protected]; [email protected]; and ).

Or, better yet, let's contact the folks in Congress (for your representative, go to www.house.gov; for your senators, go to www.senate.gov). They don't hear from us hot menstrual mamas nearly enough, and they need to know that we're upset and paying very close attention.

Let's let 'em feel the full bulk of our fury about something that's legitimately bothering us about the world at large-say, gender inequities in health-care research, the pathetic amounts of parental leave in this country, or the fact that many American-based multinational corporations pay fewer taxes than our aunt Marie.

And why stop there? For those five days each month when we've been hormonally hijacked, there are women's health clinics to be defended, underpaid amigas at Mickey D's to be organized, and redwood trees to be protected. I mean, which is ultimately more satisfying: picking a fight with our S.O. or telling some Focus on the Family lunatic just where he can stick his giant plastic fetus?

Besides, lots of us gals today feel kind of blah about activism: Either we're cynical or sick of all the "k.u.mbaya" singing or we simply have too many other things on our plate. But PMS provides us with a regular, ready-made desire to vent. So if we set aside That Time of the Month to routinely engage in our own little, ahem, political bloodletting, we can collectively become a force to be reckoned with-with minimal effort on our part. Speaking out just becomes part of our once-a-month to-do list. You know: Buy Tampax. Take Motrin. Contact Congress with Complaint of the Month. Eat half pound of M&M's and some pickle slices...

If we've got to endure a so-called curse, then let's inflict one on the very folks whose salaries we pay and whose job it is to represent our interests and improve this crazy world.

No doubt some dimwits like my friend Jerome will tell us that such ideas are irrational. So be it. Just remember: As women, we have the G.o.ddess-given gift of getting good and p.i.s.sed off every month-and we're not about to squander it.

Then we can tell them to shut the f.u.c.k up and pa.s.s us those chocolate-covered pretzels.

Chapter 7.

Your c.l.i.toris as Disneyland.

If G.o.d hadn't wanted us to touch ourselves, he would've made our arms shorter.

-GRANDMA.

You know, men rarely get more creative than when it comes to devising euphemisms for playing with themselves. Ask Joe Sixpack to describe masturbating and suddenly he's a poet. He's William Shake-the-spear. "Jerking off?" he says. "Oh, that's easy. How about flogging the bishop? Choking the chicken. Boxing Goofy till he pukes. Polis.h.i.+ng the k.n.o.b. Stroking the salami. Doing the one-fisted tango. Glad-handing with Mr. Happy. Hoo boy," he gasps. "Just talking about it is giving me a doggie b.o.n.e.r. Time to go slap the dachshund."

But women, what do we say? "Playing the skin flute" isn't exactly a term of self-endearment for us. Ditto for "spanking the monkey." I mean, really. We don't have pet phrases for masturbating because, as we all know, it's not something we're supposed to do, let alone talk about.

When I was in high school, two guys from my cla.s.s used to shout across the hallway to each other: "Hey, Mark, what're you doing tonight?"

"I dunno, Biff. Watching the playoffs and jerking off, I guess."

The fact that I still remember this charming little exchange shows how much it astonished me. I mean, would you ever hear two sixteen-year-old girls joke: "Hey, Gabi, what're you up to this afternoon?"

"I don't know, Suze. I thought I'd go home, watch General Hospital, and switch on the electric boyfriend for a little while."

Don't think so.

In high school, most of us gals would sooner suffer the humiliation of going to the prom with our parents than admit to masturbating. Even the word sounded low-life to us. Ironically, while sticking our fingers down our throats was considered perfectly acceptable (even a badge of honor among some) sticking our fingers down our pants was certainly not. I mean, Eeeww. That was just gross. You might as well be sticking your fingers up your nose.

Never mind that we were constantly and eagerly exchanging graphic details about our s.e.xual escapades with other people. I went to one sweet sixteen where a bunch of us, drunk on (what else?) pink Champale, compared flavored condoms as if they were Bonne Bell Lipsmackers. We thought nothing about discussing b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs or t.i.ttering about how some guy's p.e.n.i.s was shaped like a croissant. ("I mean, it looked like it should come with a cup of coffee and a packet of jelly!") But self-stimulation? That we equated with being "dirty," overs.e.xed, and pathetic. Go figure.

For all our s.e.xual hipper-than-thouness, none of us ever stopped to examine our Orwellian, so-called logic. Like everyone else our age, we a.s.sumed if you satisfied yourself, you were "desperate." If you got off without a guy, you were "s.l.u.tty." And if you understood and enjoyed your own anatomy, you were a "pervert."

The s.e.xual revolution didn't do much to stem the tide of messages we received about self-contained s.e.xuality: We still believed that girls aren't supposed to "do it" with ourselves. Our bodies are to remain "hands-off"-even if the hands are our own. o.r.g.a.s.m and s.e.x are things that are "done" to us, that "happen" to us, that we "surrender" to. On our own, we're divorced from s.e.xuality; we're "allowed" to marry it only through a man.

We accepted these contradictions unquestioningly, the same way we accepted all those ridiculous advertis.e.m.e.nts instructing us to make sure we had that "fresh all day, feminine feeling." (Whatever the h.e.l.l that meant. One of my friends once actually used feminine-deodorant spray on her armpits.) And if we had a fair dose of traditional religion growing up, well, that just complicated things even further. As a friend of mine put it: There's nothing quite like the possibility of burning in h.e.l.l to put the kabash on enthusiastic self-love.

It was only after we got to college that the women I knew began to discuss "petting the kitty." And then it was only at late-night rap sessions with a lot of Kahlua and chocolate plying our tongues: "Oh, my G.o.d, I just discovered the joys of a hand-held shower ma.s.sage," my roommate confessed one night, and all of us started giggling, half knowingly, half with relief.

Then the floodgates were open. The veil of embarra.s.sment lifted-and there was no stopping us. Once it was clear we were all members of Autoerotics Anonymous, we couldn't shut up. We began trading "recipes."

"Read a book called For Yourself. Or My Secret Garden."

"Forget the books. Get yourself a vibrator. I borrowed my aunt Mathilda's one night. I came so many times, I almost blacked out."

"I'm having a love affair with my bathtub. Just lie under the faucet and let the water do all the work. You can come two or three times without lifting a finger. It's like, Look, Ma! No hands!"

Recently, pop-culture references to women masturbating have started to come out from under the covers, so to speak-especially when there's been a cigar and a president involved. And every time I've caught one-whether it's a rap song by the righteous T-Boz, or an episode of s.e.x and the City in which one of Carrie's crew gets addicted to a Hitachi Magic Wand, or Nastasha Lyonne dancing with a vibrator in the movie The Slums of Beverly Hills-I've felt a little thrill and relief. Finally it's being acknowledged!

For, G.o.ddess knows, we gals could benefit from a little less cultural shame. Despite the commercial raciness of Cosmo or the dreary honesty of Our Bodies, Ourselves, a lot of us still feel a glint of embarra.s.sment about masturbation, even in the privacy of our own bedrooms, let alone in conversation.

Yet, ironically, there's one group who's dying to hear women talk about jerking off: straight guys. I am not kidding. Tell a straight guy that you gave yourself an o.r.g.a.s.m and it's almost as good as telling him that you and your gorgeous twin sister used to play doctor together. Tell a straight guy that you're happy to make yourself happy, and he's transported to Fantasy Island. He can't hear enough about it. He wants all the p.o.r.nographic details. He is awed. He is reverent. He is grateful. He actually shuts up and listens.

Stunningly, it never seems to dawn on him that, just like with the lesbians he fantasizes about, the fact that you can be satisfied without him actually decreases his chances of joining in the fun. Oh, please, tell me more, he begs. Do you do it like in the movies, wearing high heels and a garter belt?

A few years ago, I had a surreal conversation with three nineteen-year-old guys at the University of Michigan.

"We're all dying to date this one girl on our hall," they told me. "She told us she m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es."

"And this makes her attractive how?" I asked.

"Because!" they practically shouted. "Don't you get it? Any girl who m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es has got to be a total hottie."

Well, hey. If this is all it takes to get boys excited and interested, it sure beats plucking our eyebrows or wearing a "body slimmer." But more to the point, I think, is the fact that taking matters in our own hands, ahem, gives us more power in the long run-and not because it gets the guys' knickers in a twist.

It's certainly the only time-honored pleasure that won't get us pregnant, give us STDs, clog our arteries, land us in jail, become addictive, raise our blood pressure, or run up our credit-card bills. Talk about good clean fun.

It's also a great way to get rid of menstrual cramps, tension headaches, and insomnia. (Though in college, a lot of us found it really reenergized us if we had to pull an all-nighter, too.) h.e.l.l, it even burns calories. And if we like to use a toy or two when we play, why, we're even helping the economy.

One could argue that it's good for the old mental health. Back in the nineteenth century, vibrators were actually prescribed for women suffering from "hysteria." Granted, I'm not one to put much stock into the theories of Victorian medicine. But if a woman is getting all bent out of shape because the world is pus.h.i.+ng her b.u.t.tons, telling her to lie back and push her own for a while certainly ain't a bad idea.

True, the Catholic Church, among others, does think we'll burn in h.e.l.l for it. But look at it this way: In the Middle Ages, the Church also opposed using forks.

But beyond all that, treating our c.l.i.toris as Disneyland is also a form of self-education.

Recently I spoke with psychologist Harriet Lerner, author of the book The Dance of Anger. For two decades, Lerner has been trying to "raise v.u.l.v.a consciousness." Why?

"Most parents still raise their kids with some variation of 'boys have a p.e.n.i.s and girls have a v.a.g.i.n.a,' " she says. "To this day, most parents continue to say 'v.a.g.i.n.a' when they mean 'v.u.l.v.a.' Many educated parents report that they have never heard the word 'v.u.l.v.a'-including a large number who think the term refers to a Swedish automobile."

(Oh, great.) Such misinformation breeds confusion, to say the least. As Lerner notes, "It's extremely disorienting and shaming to girls to discover a major source of pleasure on the outside for which there is no name, which doesn't exist."

It's no surprise then that a friend of mine who worked on a women's health project found that women who don't touch their bodies are often clueless about them. Some women don't even know that the urethra-where we pee from-is separate from the v.a.g.i.n.a. Some girls are going through the Kama Sutra page by page with their boyfriend but don't have the slightest idea about how to have an o.r.g.a.s.m. Some aren't using tampons or birth control because they're too squeamish. Given the epidemics of teen pregnancy, chlymidia, and AIDS, their lack of self-knowledge is dangerous.

And so, masturbating is also a way of de-alienating ourselves from our bodies, of literally taking our s.e.xuality into our own hands and figuring out for ourselves Which Way is Up.

Which is a good thing. For we really can't feel comfortable s.e.xually with other people if we don't feel comfortable with ourselves first. And if we don't know the way around our own private theme park, how is anybody else supposed to?

It we're not familiar with our own bodies and pa.s.sions, every touch can leave us feeling vulnerable, threatened, or bewildered. And every lover who makes us feel good has power over us, holding a monopoly on our own pleasure. The more we're literally in touch with ourselves, the more informed and in control we are. It makes it just that much easier for us to say either yes or no with self-a.s.surance. Talk about "self-help."

Besides, as Woody Allen once said, "Don't knock masturbation. It's s.e.x with someone I love." And self-love, for women, is particularly crucial and hard won.

So why shouldn't sisters be doin' it for ourselves? My grandma used to say, "If G.o.d hadn't wanted us to touch ourselves, he would've made our arms shorter." Now there's a thought, coming from a ninety-one-year-old.

The challenge now, of course, is to find some good, female-centric slang that allows us to rap about it.

Obviously, there's "letting your fingers do the walking," "self-servicing," and "petting the kitty."

"Strumming the happy banjo" has a certain folksy appeal, though it does sound a little like having Gomer Pyle in your pants. "Visiting Disneyland" has a wholesome, family-friendly ring to it-and it would certainly give new meaning to those "I'm going to Disneyland!" commercials.

"Having a Calgon moment" has a certain je ne sais quoi. "Gettin' happy with yourself" is pretty much to the point, though still oblique enough to qualify as a euphemism. Ditto for "engaging in a hot-b.u.t.ton issue."

"Surfing the Net" is well suited to our generation (and, h.e.l.l, who needs a Pentium processor to operate the software?).

"Pus.h.i.+ng your b.u.t.ton," "taking care of yourself," and "giving lip service," all give the boys a run for their thesaurus.

My personal favorite, however, is "voting Republican."

While "voting Republican" might not strike a lot of people as being in any way synonymous with masturbation, when you consider how self-serving a lot of the party's right wing is, voting for them and jerking off really aren't that dissimilar, are they? So, that one gets my l.u.s.ty, liberal vote. Next time you go to a store to purchase a vibrator, make sure you hold it up and announce as loudly as possible, "I'm gettin' ready to go vote Republican!"

That should give you a fine, cheap thrill even before you get home with the goodies.

Part II.

Playing Well with Others.

Chapter 8.

Our Booty, Ourselves.

He said he liked to do it backwards.

I said that's just fine with me- that way we can f.u.c.k and watch TV.

-LIZ PHAIR.

Okay, is there anything that hasn't been said publicly about s.e.x yet?

Well, actually, yes. Never mind that people regularly say p.u.s.s.y on HBO now, or that it's now possible to use the words b.l.o.w. .j.o.b and House subcommittee in the same sentence. For all the t.i.tillation in the media today, our nation's understanding about women's s.e.xuality is still about as flimsy as a thong from Victoria's Secret.

I mean, for starters: What is it with s.e.x in the movies? First, there's not nearly enough of it. Second, how is it that screenwriters can master the intricacies of computer hacking or thermonuclear warfare, yet have no clue about foreplay? I can't tell you how many scenes I've watched in which a guy (usually thirty years older than his leading lady) hikes up a woman's skirt and brings her to o.r.g.a.s.m in the same amount of time it takes to thaw an Eggo waffle in the microwave. Or in which a couple reaches mutual o.r.g.a.s.m in perfect synch. Or in which the woman comes gasping demurely instead of clawing her lover's back and screaming like an auctioneer. Hel-lo, but do people really think this is realistic, let alone technically possible? According to Shere Hite, only one-third of us gals ever come from straight intercourse, and we certainly don't just cruise around like a well-lubed convertible all the time. We need our motors warmed up, our spark plugs sparked, and someone's head under our hood for a good long while, please, before they take us out for a ride.

Second, what's up with all the women's magazines? The way they write about s.e.x, you'd think it was a la.s.so-something mostly to help us rope a guy and reel him in. "His G-Spot: Find It, Touch It, Watch Him Wors.h.i.+p the Ground You Walk On," says Cosmo, in a typical coverline.

His G-spot? Excuse me, but last time I checked, it wasn't the girls who needed a road map to find their way around someone's genitals. And, frankly, why should we worry about a guy's G-spot? With only two-thirds of us capable of o.r.g.a.s.m at all, shouldn't we be more concerned with our own little Chipwich?

Yet worst of all is the s.e.xual sanctimony that lurks just beneath the surface. s.e.x is so fundamental, any primate can do it. Cole Porter wrote a song cataloging all the boinking that goes on in the animal kingdom. But let a girl have a little party in her panties and our culture goes bats.h.i.+t. When all the soft-core fantasies and commercialism are stripped way, Americans still tend to view women's s.e.xual activity as slightly pathological.

Watch a little Jerry, Jenny, or Ricki, and you'll hear so many people calling s.e.xually active women "b.i.t.c.hes," "ho's," and "s.l.u.ts," you'll think you're back in seventh grade, putting on Lipsmackers in the bathroom.

Or read the recent backlash books: A Return to Modesty, by Wendy Shalit; or What Our Mothers Didn't Tell Us, by Danielle Crittenden.

Both argue that we gals should "regain" our "power" by reviving a long-lost art: c.o.c.k teasing. According to the authors, men are s.e.xual pigs; the only real reason we gals roll around with them in the mud is because we've been tricked by feminists into believing that we're s.e.xual free agents who can f.u.c.k just like guys. (This must be news to the feminists, who are usually accused of prudery.) And because we roll around with men in the mud, the books argue, men no longer respect us or want to marry us. (Which must be news to the thirty-two-billion-dollar wedding industry.) For true, lasting intimacy and love, the authors contend, women are better off demurely dangling our s.e.xuality in front of men like a doggie biscuit until they salivate, roll over, and beg-with an engagement ring in hand, of course.

Now, c'mon: Does s.e.xual blackmail really seem like a good recipe for true love and intimacy?

What's missing from all of this blather is an understanding about what truly motivates women s.e.xually. Clearly, the world still doesn't get it. In the wake of the new millennium, our culture still a.s.sumes that women have s.e.x for really only one of four reasons: (1) to have babies, (2) because we're "in love," (3) because we're s.l.u.ts, (4) because we're only semiconscious-that is, we've been influenced by peer pressure, have low self-esteem, don't know any better. Or, oh yeah, we've been tricked by feminists into thinking we can boink like boys.

Yeah. Well. We gals have s.e.x for all sorts of reasons that are often very nuanced, complex, or even ba.n.a.l. We have s.e.x because we're h.o.r.n.y. We have s.e.x because we're bored. We have s.e.x because we're pa.s.sionate and insecure and curious and needy. We have s.e.x because our hormones are so turbo-charged that we feel as if pheromones are boiling off our skin in a vapor. We have s.e.x for n.o.ble reasons and stupid reasons.

Since I don't want to betray any of my friends' trust, I'll offer myself up as an unspectacular example. (I'll probably regret confessing to this in print, but okay): I once slept with a guy because he looked like Jon Bon Jovi, he knew how to read tarot cards, and we had almost identical record collections. Now, does this sound to you like a particularly brilliant reason to sleep with someone? Nuh-uh, not to me either. Not now. But when I was eighteen, it seemed like an act of genius. I'd been reading a lot of Rimbaud and I guess something about the situation struck me as daring and fantastically romantic and sophisticated. I was very cavalier about it. And it made me feel great. So: Was I a victim or a vixen? Was I forfeiting my "power" or abusing it? My reasoning might have been silly, but was it "immoral"?

To a.s.sume that women sleep with people simply because we're "promiscuous" or "have low self-esteem" is as ridiculous as a.s.suming that the only reason we don't sleep with people is because we're "responsible," "pure," or "prudish."