"But it is sex, it turned out, that engages us in society, and keeps us on our toes, and persuades us to retract our rough edges, so we can mix in. Without the sensual need to negotiate, there is little to curb neurotic crankiness," John Updike in The Widows of Eastwick.
This week also I have heard from some very cranky men: smug, self-righteous, judgmental, proud standard bearers for the Christian right, the branch who nurture pedophile pastors--who seem to believe that the way to convert us pagans is to insult us. Both admonished me for not being married and faithful. ("My wife would never cheat on me," one wrote. Yeah. The other side of that line is: "I'm writing to tell you that my wife/husband cheated one me; and I never thought that would happen."--a staple of letters to sexperts.)
Both told me I am "too old" for the "silly" pleasures of vibes and large dicks.
If I weren't in their "too old" category, they would chastise me for having vibes around the house where children live--or chastise me for not having children yet--or for whatever they thought would push my guilt/shame button. No such luck, old patriarchal grumps. No guilt/shame sex buttons here. You couldn't find my pleasure buttons if I drew you a diagram.
And what are you doing lurking on SexyPrime, a blog that supports, celebrates and empowers female sexuality when you clearly don't? I have many wonderful male readers who do love us and revel in our sexuality. But you guys do not belong here.
I imagine you have tiny little penises, like white worms, maybe garden slugs, coiled inside the folds of your briefs. Go play with them.
The rest of us will take a moment to appreciate Updike.
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