(The following article references sexual acts. For mature audiences only.)
Let me make a few things clear first.
This apology will not be docile.
I was raised in a society that made me believe to be a docile woman was to be feminine, to be lovable, to be good.
To be docile is to be docile. I am a good, feminine, lovable woman without being docile. While using the word fuck whenever I fucking please.
This apology is part of a long process; not the end of it.
Just because I am ready to apologize doesn’t mean all women are. Or even that I fully am.
It doesn’t mean that I’m not also angry. It doesn’t mean that I have forgotten. It doesn’t even mean I have forgiven. But it means I am committed to the process of healing, and this is my next step.
So yes, I am taking steps to move beyond the anger, along with many other women I know. But you have to be patient. You have to let us do this our way. At our pace. Let us be angry without telling us it’s wrong. Without trying to shame our anger into silence.
(We’ve lived in shame for so many generations, we’re finally building up a tolerance to that shit.)
Because we aren’t just angry. We are reclaiming our anger.
So yes, I am apologizing (I will get there, I promise) and also angry. I can be both. Women are complicated, it’s true. We can want to forgive, but not be ready yet. We can recognize our role in continuing the patriarchy while also raging against it. We can apologize and still hold you — yes, you — accountable too.
So honor us and our anger by understanding that we need to live it, to feel it, to move through it.
In other words, do not to tell us to “calm down.” Do not tell us how to handle our emotions in general. You have no idea. And honestly, sometimes neither do we.
But it’s part of the process.
Because we aren’t just reclaiming our anger. We are reclaiming our right to feel.
To not suppress our feelings. To not write off our feelings as a PMS symptom. To not judge our feelings, and ourselves, before the world even has the chance.
See, systems of discrimination are sneaky things. They infect values, identities, sense of right and wrong. And not just those of men.
They have turned women against each other. Against ourselves. Against our bodies. Against our sexuality. Against our intuition. Until we are so full of self-loathing and shame we can no longer trust anything inside of us.
Which is the real shame.
Because our bodies, and all their sensations, are our magic. (You recognize this as true, because we have cast spells over you too.)
Generations of women have been taught that our bodies are not to be trusted with their wily and sensual ways. That our bodies are not really ours, but a vessel for men to fill, then toss out.
We have been separated from our bodies for far too long. So never ever tell me to calm down. My body will decide. My body will decide.
(I firmly believe that men could probably use more connection to your bodies as well, but I’ll get into that in a bit.)
Hopefully now you can understand all this as I apologize:
I am just one woman. I am still angry. I am learning to trust and love my body after generations of ancestral trauma. And if you truly care, you will listen.
Not only is it the gentlemanly thing to do, it’s the respectful, compassionate, courageous thing to do.
So here it goes: I am sorry for flirting with you when I had no intention of ever having sex with you.
I am sorry for manipulating you and enjoying the power.
I did because I felt that as soon as we had sex I had lost everything. And you had won it. It was nice to feel powerful for a change. Not that that’s an excuse. Simply an expression of my distorted point of view.
I realize now that for me to reclaim my sexuality, I must acknowledge that I never lost it.
I was led to believe it wasn’t mine, and that was a cruel trick. But now I know it’s mine. And I have to take responsibility for the condition it’s in.
(See how that works? People with power also have responsibility.)
I am also sorry for constantly berating you about how little you understood my pleasure.
When, in fact, I never made it a priority myself.
I was led to believe my body is too complicated to expect another human to understand. Even doctors a fair amount of the time.
Furthermore, I was told in movies and songs growing up that a man’s pleasure matters more than my own. “Otherwise could you ever expect him to stick around?”
I internalized that I am not precious, I am not to be adored or cherished. I am useful, and pleasuring, in very specific ways. And that is all.
It took me a very long time to realize to truth. That I am worthy—of love, of affection, of care and concern, of emotional support, of physical support, of not having to pick up your shit—for no other reason than I exist.
And I do not have to earn love with a body like a hairless prepubescent girl who’s willing to take it in the ass.
If I choose to take it in the ass, it’s not a gift. Because it’s not about you. It’s about me and my pleasure.
(Side note: You see, bodies are built differently. The same variation we see in our faces exists in our nerve endings and the location of our g-spots. For some people, a combination of anal nerve endings and close g-spot (or prostate in men) make anal sex a heaven on earth of sorts. For others, the g-spot is farther forward and more easily accessible through the vagina, in which cases a dick in your butt feels mostly like a dick in your butt. Either way, butt sex isn’t about you… Unless you’re the one taking it.)
I never educated you about my body, about my sensations. It seemed self-centered and slutty. Even when I knew better. Even when I reclaimed slut and bossy and, the most beautiful of all words, cunt.
I was still too scared to be “that feminist girl.” And I sincerely regret the decision to not begin teaching you earlier.
But you never asked.
Speaking of, I do NOT forgive you for making ALL sex about you.
Like when I’m not in the mood.
It’s not because I’m not attracted to you. It’s not because I’m cheating on you. It’s not because I’m holding out on you or trying to get back at you.
It’s because I’m not in the mood. Respect the cycles of my body. And recognize your own. You get cranky when you’re hungry. I don’t want to have sex when I’m stressed. We are creatures, not machines.
Or when I don’t reciprocate oral sex.
Going down on me is your choice. One that I genuinely appreciate. But this isn’t a transaction.
Or when I can’t finish.
My orgasm is not your gold star. It’s my fucking emerald city in the sky and sometimes it’s not open for public visitation.
Or when women want to have sex with each other.
Admittedly I haven’t done this myself, but I can promise you it’s not for, about, to replace, or to hurt you. It’s not about you.
Again for the folks in the back: It’s not about you!
Or when you refuse to listen to my verbal “no” or to my non-verbal “no”.
It’s time you took responsibility for your own fluency in fucking common decency.
Alas. There are so many things we could get into. But I also have other things I need to get into, like tuh-day, so I’ll wrap this up.
I want to call out two men, both archetypes of the toxic masculinity pumping through the American psyche today.
I do not forgive the man who yelled at me across the street, “Hey sexy, come fuck me right here!” Who chased me when I ignored him, shouting, “You’re just a cunt, you’re still gonna fuck me!” until I turned around with a knife.
I do not forgive the other man on that street, who watched it happened, who made eye-contact with me, who hurried away.
MEN.
There are many things women can do as well as you. Being fast and strong is not one of them. That is your super power. Our super power is creating life. There’s a balance here.
It’s time to take some responsibility. Even if it’s not technically “your problem,” the burden of the party in power is calling out and standing up to injustice. Otherwise, you’re as good as the perpetrators.
You are letting it happen when you have the power to change it.
Think of it like the ref refusing to call blatant fouls on one team, while calling out the other. Yeah, it makes us mad too.
But the fouling team is all guys, while the other is all women.
Every time a woman stands up for herself, the ref is throwing flags. But the men keep getting yanking womens’ hair, elbowing them in the face, and grabbing pussies… Silence.
We, for better or for worse, can’t do this without you.
So if you want to ensure the survival of the human race—or at least continue enjoying the act of creating it—it’s time to step the fuck up.
Because, buried deep under all the patriarchal bullshit I have internalized, I still want to have sex with you.
Not because I have to. Because I like to. Because I like you.
I like how you can bend the world to your will.
How you can bring an idea into reality. With power tools specifically.
I like how you can fix my sink and my car and my fridge. (Not that I can’t myself. But honestly, sometimes I just don’t want to.) I like how you make me feel taken care of. Looked after. Protected. Valuable. Cherished.
I like how you can decide.
When I’m wrapped up in the expectations and desires of the 17 people I most recently spoke too, you can decide what’s best for us.
It’s sexy how you get to the point. Like how you take my clothes off in a hurry—after I’ve obviously made it clear I’m super into it. (I hate that I have to clarify that point.)
I like that you expand my world.
Your different perspective challenges me to see beyond myself. You care about different things,and I get to learn all about them from you. Like fishing, mountain biking, and the art of barbecue.
I like how you can remain logical and rational in emotional situations. How you can remind me of the bigger picture when I ready to burn it down/set myself on fire/demand to speak to the manager.
(Nuance, my friend. That is not the same as telling me to “calm down.”)
I like how you can engulf my body with your body.
Making me feel small and safe, like a secret treasure.
I like the weight of you. The density of you. That I can hide behind you during scary movies.
I like that even if I work out way more than you, you’re still stronger than me. (Also frustrating and pretty scary, but super sexy when wielded with compassion, grace, and open communication.)
Next to you I am always soft and a little delicate, until I blow your mind with my power and intelligence.
And then I get to be it all. Powerful, undeniable, sensual, tender, clever.
And that brings me to my final apology.
(For today. It’s a process.)
I am sorry that I raged about your lack of sensitivity without giving you the space to feel something other than arrogance or anger.
Just as I know that society’s portrayal of women is warped almost beyond recognition, I have learned that the masculine stereotype—strong, dumb, aggressive, possessive—is just as inaccurate.
And everyday I promise to do my best to hold space for the universe inside of you.
To wait patiently and lovingly as you begin to excavate layers of trauma that the patriarchy has inflicted upon you too.
To hold you when you don’t know how to be held. To kiss your tears when you don’t know how to cry. To understand that sometimes anger is the only emotion you can access, because that’s what you’ve been led to believe makes you a good man.
As long as you are willing to work through it…
As long as you can hear criticism without collapsing or lashing out…
As long as you take responsibility for your mistakes…
I am willing to, and I will be here with you.
(This article was inspired by this video, made by Authentic Love Berlin: https://youtu.be/vwKLTVCJn6Q)
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