Friday, April 22, 2011

Feathers v Ferocity

A male friend of mine has recently started dating a girl. He is a man of high expectations. For the last few months he has rejected one girl after another due to them being ‘un-fuckable’. I am not sure what reduces women’s ’fuckable-ness’. This is new territory to me. Is it hairy legs or spinach stuck between one’s teeth? I thought all women were fuck-worthy. A juicy bit between the thighs. What more does a man need? Clearly a lot more – at least according to my friend.

My friend’s search for a fuck-able female came to a head the other week. He thought he had hit a home run with a svelte girl who sparked his attention and was sexy enough to stir his libido. Score? Win? Unfortunately, no. The fucking happened yes but it was not what he sought. She didn’t purr as he required her too. She didn’t beg him for more. She was non-committal. She was bored.

This threw my friend. He had been searching for someone who would satisfy his sexual demands and make him think his penis was the new sensation. He failed to think that he might need to put some effort in himself. Clearly, his genetic luck in being endowed with a larger than normal asset was not going to bring the sexual success he expected. He may have to work at it.

In my mind, I praised this girl. In her situation, I may give in and make the man think he was god. Moan, groan, pretend to orgasm 5 times in a row, shake as though I was breaking into a new sexual frontier. Every non-feminist move under the sun to move the situation along quickly so that I could pursue a more interesting activity such as eating cheesecake in a white floaty dress, reading Zadie Smith novels under a sun umbrella. Like most women, I am a damn good actor and can use it to my own benefit. But this girl. Well, she was different. She didn’t pretend. She just was. She just is. Respect, girlfriend, respect.

He did not have the same respect for her. I’m off to get some Philly this weekend he said. I was baffled. Why do you need some Philly? I was unsure how Philadelphia cheese would resolve his dilemma. No. Phillys were actually a pseudonym for young female girls at the racers, blindly drunk and easy prey. He was going to ditch his new found mate for a bit of racecourse action that would probably take place behind a portaloo with feet sliding in the mud and grass with every ramming and a satin dress held high above her head, hiding her from view. Fool, fool, fool.

Once again, I realised that men don’t necessarily understand female sexuality. Penetration is not gold. In fact, it is rarely copper. I prefer the sexy glance while we wait in the IGA queue, the times when I laugh with you til my stomach hurts, when I have a cold and you make me French onion soup, the text message that says ‘ I miss you’ and the cuddle while I cook us spaghetti sauce. It is these elements, combined within a massive bubble of tantric energy, that get me in the mood. Ferocity and macho-mojo wins no brownie points. I need kindness, affection, fun times, compliments and love. I am a person, not a plastic porno puppet.

Fellas.. we need feathers not ferocity.

Love Sierra xx

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