I recently saw a Subway interview. Embarrassment is an unexplored emotion.
Thinking.
If the warm choke of embarrassment caresses the jugular of your rationality, do you also feel a spark of curiosity?
I don’t, but my mind was tickled.
In the social construct of the present culture, we are accustomed to thinking that certain states of being shall be avoided at all costs.
And if the state of my human consciousness connected to the tangible form I am manifested in, experiences these sensations so acutely, who am I to shun?
So the tale goes, I fuck around.
Call me promiscuous, shame me for my witchery, for I indulge in the sensations of sexual affairs quite frequently. And as much as I like to believe that I am a super ultra modern woman, I still felt the dreadful defeat of an ever-shameful STI. The redness flushed my cheeks, so to speak, when I had to endure the conversation with another. Two, to be precise, just for balance, of course. I can have my cake and eat it too.
But there it was, the shame wizard.
Bbibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo.
And I could hear it whisper in my ear as it leisurely lounged on my shoulder pads of anxiety, “whore”
How do I indulge?
How do I explore the never-ending hallways of generational suppression of sexual freedom?
How do I break the spell society spews from religion?
How do I claim my space of sexuality if males seem to think it is something they so rightfully own?
How do I withstand the pressures weighing down on me by the is-ness of it all?
I ponder, I probe, and occasionally I wish it would all explode.
And sometimes I rub my clit till it hurts.
Or I might write something and post it on the internet for all to see, for what is shame if it is not shared?
The wizard knows no shame; it is relentless in its pursuit of my morally corrupt mind.
Moral? Moral, who?
The ideas I shaped based on the environment I was cultivated in? The environment that would not only tell young teenage girls to wear shorts under dresses to protect the male gaze, but also encourage us to marry before 25. I feel no judgment towards your conservative, backwards beliefs, but I feel anger. I feel the anger of the collective female, as we had to curb our sexuality to make others feel more comfortable, for they would not act as raping beasts. I feel rage for all the women who said no. I feel furious for the females who never got the chance to say no.
And here I go, feminist rage, seeping out as I discuss the emotions better left suppressed.
In every which way I choose to wander, I will reach obstacles along the way.
Reddit never fails to support my promiscuous concubine ways by reminding me that a STI is someone else’s genitals sneezing on mine.
Would I beat myself up over a cold for my cunt?
What sort of tale would it be if I had no evil witch cursing me with a sti?
It builds character (I think?)
And as I unfold the labia of this shame, it seems more familiar than ever.
As we stigmatise, we limit the freedom of individual choice, as can be said for all that involves sex, especially with a baby maker inside your body. We shame into submission, we control the sack of birth.
I have been feeling particularly vulnerable regarding my identification as a woman in this world. Finding the balance between my feminine energy and actually acknowledging my own ability to claim space within this role-oriented society. I feel exposed. And I feel ashamed to claim certain elements of my sexual being. Oddly, I feel out of place when taking the position most occupied by males, as I feel inadequate. I guess people still believe pink is for girls and blue is for boys. And if I like it or not, I was conditioned in this compartmentalised way. Even I need to uncomfortably pry these cave people’s ideologies out of the grips of my mind.
And as I make the effort to leave the prejudice behind, there is always a creature from the opposite gender that likes to remind me of my patriarchal position.
Either it is sex shame, because how can a pure, godfearing female fuck freely?
Or it is my other favourite fucker that throws his tantrum when I practise my HUMAN right by saying NO. Then I also have to reiterate the definition of NO, as his incompetent brain cannot seem to memorise it.
And it all comes back to the fairy tale end, your moral construct or your sex shaming schemes are pissing on my pride.
Let me rephrase: fuck off.
And to the cunt that got angry when I said NO and called me: The chick that fucks everyone but not poor old pathetic me.
Go suck your mother’s tit.
And my cunt dries right up.
So I have concluded, for females to freely move within the space of sexuality, we will be shamed, shunned, sexploited, scorned and sometimes, if you are lucky, sensually seduced by self-love or by someone sensational.
I shall not succumb to the shame wizard.
I shall uncomfortably claim space, and say no or say yes when I feel succubunt.
My fairytale does not have a prince riding on a white horse to save me; mine has batteries, boundaries and a slut that does it herself.
Be safe, wrap it up.
But be free, fuck a lot.
Especially when fucking oneself.