The Female Gaze

Get right in there. Up close and personal. Then get off, big time.

Jun 18, 2024

Patio table fishnets - not as much fun to take off

Nothing sexier than a guy who calls you on your shit. Like wham – takes it down with clarity and brevity. I had some very sexy interactions this week with just such a man. And I found that by not taking any of his proclamations personally nor wasting precious energy getting pissed off at him, I was able to change trajectory (per his suggestions, I might add), and as a result, have some really spicy sex. Friend and lover, thank you for this week’s bit of wisdom and fun.

FYI, the aforementioned dude’s leitmotif was this: “Why do you care so much what other people think?” He repeated this about 15 times, maybe 16, and only refrained after I threatened to punch him, and right there on the playground. Of course, it was 11:30 p.m., and there we were on the swings, two adults. The playground was dark and deserted—pretty scary, apparently. He only repeated his leitmotif one more time, and that was through his rolled-down window, just as he stepped on the gas pedal and peeled out of town. Lederhosen dude.

The lesson of not giving a shit what other people think is one previously known and adhered to but which obviously warranted a review (and not the CliffsNotes sort): I needed to get over myself, my insecurities, and my vanity and turn my focus to that big, way cool world outside of ME. If great sex was to be the end goal, not validation, my woman gaze needed to be directed not at the mirror, but at the living, breathing, beautiful creature in front of me, the one without a single so-called perfect part, whose colorful flaws and weirdnesses make him irresistible and unforgettable. You know it, and I know it, girlfriends- it’s all those perfect imperfections with men that really get us off. I’ll leave it to you to envision the specifics.

Note: I’m refusing to credit John Legend with that “perfect imperfections” expression, especially when his video for “All of Me” features two individuals without a single flaw. Not fucking real. And not fucking sexy. Blick.

Now imagine this: everything about your man is in perfect order physically, intellectually, and emotionally, as it needs to be - in other words, he’s a hot fucking mess. In my case, my person is supremely himself. The King of Anything. Terribly set in his ways, yet surprisingly flexible when his bluff is called, with physical and emotional battle scars, some wear and tear, and some archaic ideas about how things work with women. As an added bonus, he has what some women might consider challenging personal habits, though to me, they are absolutely endearing (there is likely a better word for this - throw it out there, please).

To be clear… I did not dump the King as might be suggested by this song I love. Just taught him a “hard” lesson. He passed the test with flying colors - an A+.

The King is also brilliant, so there’s that, and a charismatic conversationalist, which means even his bullshit is hella convincing. Fucking A – I admit it. I love all of it. I mean, I really love it, to the point that when I am home alone and thinking of him, I laugh out loud, smile uncontrollably, and then I have to change my underwear. And when I haven’t seen or smelled him for several days, tears are streaming down my face the minute I hear the Adagio from Rachmaninoff Symphony #2, which I set to play on infinite repeat as I take my shower each morning. Super pathetic.

On our days together, there he is, splayed across my bed, in all his glory, with a body that works exactly as one might expect for a man of his age and circumstances. Everything is good on his end; in other words, he is fully himself, and what more can I ask for, really? On my end, it all comes down to getting my head in the right place.

Now, I’m not going to lie – getting to that right place does not always come naturally to me. It usually takes more than a few passes to get “there,” the self-conscious bullshit persistently blocking that fantastic release I am always going for. Unfortunately, until recently, distraction had become my usual, namely worrying what my partner thought of my intelligence and body, my technique, whether my moaning was annoying and I was touching him too much, whether I was asking too much of him in terms of my satisfaction, and a zillion other things. I was bombarded with self-doubt, leaving little room for the possibility of pleasure and connection.

This morning, when I woke up, Sophia Loren popped into my head. I thought to myself, “Would Sophia Loren entertain even one of my dumbass insecurity issues?” Hell, no. Guess who is now my role model for the millenium? Yep. I would bet money, had I any, that Sophia has not one sexual hangup. FYI, great interview with Sophia in the current issue of Vogue, “Sophia Loren Is Not Slowing Down.”

To be clear, my partner arouses me thoroughly (absolutely no problem there, especially when he has that cowboy stank after rounding up cattle), but I nonetheless kept drifting past the ever-elusive O, and none of this had anything to do with him or him. It had everything to do with my dumb-ass brain and all that conditional training that was part and parcel of growing up in the 60s and 70s. The sexual revolution, my ass. Ha. During sex I often find myself thinking, “You do not look like Cheryl Tieg.” For those of you who don’t know Cheryl, you are way too young to be reading this column.

YEAH, THIS GUY. 🔥 His middle initial: E (for Enthusiasm).

I know, I know. There are loads of great ways to get to that other side sexually, and I needed to quit being so fucking lazy and start doing my sex StairMaster: dial down the noise minus, perhaps, some languid music, take some slow, deep breaths, close my eyes and make them gentle, and focus on all things sensual. Tune in to his skin, smell, breathing, his lovely hands, and the rhythms of his body. Add to this his fantastic boy ass and all that nearby junk. And then there is that wonderfully scratchy beard. Fuck me. I just need to quit mentally working on shopping lists and envisioning my caesarian section scar. I mean, really - if he’s got an issue with a c-section scar, he can go fuck himself, right? There’s a thirty-three percent chance the fucker has a child of his own that was born that way, so he damn well better be good with mine. I know, I know… settle down girl!

Girlfriends! The time is now to free yourself from all your beautiful, miserable patterns and behaviors and start getting ugly. You heard me right: GET UGLY. You will be really glad for it. And so will he.