To preface much background for this post: In my phone call with Beloved this morning we discussed sexuality. She asked how I knew I was bisexual and I explained to her the different aspects between my approach to men and my approach to women. She specifically wanted to know how it felt. I explained to her that while I find women attractive and have my fantasies about them, women intimidate me. Flirting with a woman requires me to walk on egg shells, that is to be on my best behavior, and excepting only one single incident in recent memory I have never been direct about my desires with women. Then the conversation drifted toward men and I explained to her that with men I can misbehave and that led to this confession:
I am a sex kitten.
It’s true. In this climate of sexual upheaval with women complaining about being treated as sex objects, I absolutely love being a sex object. I know, it’s not the same. I am coming from a position of heretofore unrecognized male privilege, but it doesn’t change how I feel. I absolutely love being gawked at, looked up and down, appraised, and groped by strangers. At work I love it when I catch a woman looking at my torso or my legs when we are talking. She need not be interested in anything else; the conversation probably wasn’t that important to begin with. Some of my fondest memories are dancing at gay clubs in my twenties, pressed against sweaty male bodies, and feeling the hands. Plural. On my ass, on my crotch, on my midriff, running through my hair, and on more than one occasion down my jeans, all at the same time.
I could say unless this is something that already turns you on then it isn’t something I can explain, but that’d be a cop out. I know for more than one woman in my orbit the preceding would be a nightmare scenario and comparisons would be completely out of bounds, but for me being a sex object–that is, a thing kept for nothing more than sexual gratification–arouses me. It’s a positive feedback loop. Being objectified sexually arouses me, causing me to behave sexually, which invites more objectification. Before long I’m just gone. My body is present, yes, but my mind is in that hyper-corporeal space between my skin and completely uninvited touch. I’ve written a little about this before, about being in that space where what I think doesn’t matter, what I know doesn’t matter, who I am doesn’t matter, because in that space I’m merely a toy. Or, is it the other way around? Either way the proviso is that after I am done being used I will be left to my own devices with no strings attached. Pinocchio comes to mind.
I make no qualms about the dangerous nature of this game and how it impacts the lives of others trying to combat this libertine free-for-all of men taking whatever they want, but this is not something I am in full control of. There have been times when I needed to tear myself away and it is like falling from heaven. I recognize a dangerous situation and my mind stamps its feet and crosses its arms screaming, “NO! I dun wanna go!” and believe it or not it is my body saying, “No, it’s time to go.” How’s that for a role reversal? Take that Descartes.
I suppose the fundamental take-away is that I live in my body, not my mind, and my body loves to be touched and inspected.