Added: Maresa Eberhard - Date: 03.09.2021 03:22 - Views: 17363 - Clicks: 3365
The other day at the post office, I became aware of how I categorize men.
I instinctively smiled at a white-haired old man wearing a baggy white shirt and an odd-shaped straw hat who held open a door for me. I realized that if he had been young and attractive, I probably would have 1 gazed off cooly into space and brushed past, or 2 smiled back at him self-consciously, lips pressed together.
If he had been middle-aged with a prosperous paunch, I might have frowned at him, even insisted that he go through the door first. I go for men with longer hair and beards. Men can express themselves better when they let those curls dangle, and let their facial hair grow the way it wants to. These sweet-smelling shirt-and-tie types seldom appeal to me esthetically. Yet when a man describes another man to me, I hear his height, build and a vague stab at hair color. Do cultural differences divide the sexes on such a basic level as visualization?
There are still some taboos that give me trouble. Would he raise his eyebrows and laugh lewdly as I walked out? I ended up buying it with no trouble at another bookstore with a woman at the cash register. I felt very unliberated.
One ugly aspect of men is their potential to rape or overpower me. Men honking at me from cars as I walk alone is usually a degrading experience. Men seldom consider this problem, certainly never fearing attack from females. He is short, unathletic, and gay. You see old women walking their dogs at midnight. I was propositioned three times, one man asking me if I was a prostitute, and leered at by nearly every male I passed. I came back frightened, having lost my way at one point, and tried to explain to my friend that it was different for a young woman alone.
It also makes me mad when I am asked to work overtime at an office, and male co-workers jeeringly refuse to walk me to my car or a bus stop. I think that disqualifies me ipso facto.
But I have been belittled, flattered, harassed, squelched and generally manipulated by too many men who held power over me in the form of a paycheck. Even more galling are men who are equal to me in pay or position but assume they can arrogantly order me around. I need men to balance my life. I feel lucky that the men of my generation have questioned traditional sex roles.
But I continually grapple with how this sexist culture not only prevents women from developing their full potential, but locks men into oppressor roles that inhibit their growth. Obviously, Hugh will never ask me. Financial security and independence are important to me. Several months ago I got to know a seventeen-year-old girl who was doing well living on her own after leaving her close-knit, small-town home over a disagreement about sex.
The disagreement was very fundamental. But in society, looks are what really counts, and in that department there was no doubt. She was a girl. And very attractive. Her problems were mostly standard teenage ones: Is that cute guy I met at the pool going to ask me out? What will I do for a car next week?
Will those creeps at work give me a raise? Why do zits show up on weekends? Never mind that she had a thing hanging there. The surgeons would take care of that eventually. Meanwhile, she knew who she was, and the world outside her family seemed to agree. Which was pretty amazing, considering that she had been a functioning female for only a few months. Then, she was an object of ridicule. Now, she turned he. And the old man named her after himself — a junior. Most of the normal ones just blend in. They want to be accepted.
And so they are. And now here comes Dr. John Money of Johns Hopkins University, the surgeon who performed the first sex-change operation in America and a big authority on biology and A women need to be fucked of sex, with another mystery to kill.
Money says that the day is coming when people will be able to change their sex completelyjust by taking a few well-mixed chemicals. Right down to baby-power for ex-men. Some fish do this already, without chemical assistance. What is the real mystery?
Is it the bedrock of yin and yang, the cosmic duality that s for all things that emerge from differences? Or, as some Eastern religions might ask, are there any s other than One? Mystery is a measure of beauty.
Emerson said that if the stars only appeared once every thousand years, their beauty would be legend. The power of beauty, of creation, of being itself, is the power that makes wholes more than sums of parts, that makes nothing into matter and matter into life.
I think women are tight with the power of beauty. Like the universe, before the Big Bang. Like you, before you were born. I submit that women are wholes that exceed the sums of their parts more than men do. Not by much, but enough to for a difference. Sometimes I think they know it. They may not know they know it, because it may be too familiar.
Some women prefer the more trivial powers that men in our culture have more of — like physical strength, political power, corporate influence, and other things that rely more A women need to be fucked force than love. I can look at the works of civilization that men have dominated — the religions, the sciences, the philosophies, the laws — and see an infinity of details that add up to a sum infinitely smaller than what women are born just knowing.
There you have it. The utterly complex yields to the utterly simple. And like up and down, yin and yang, infinite and finite, spiritual and material, one defines the other. We have been living a lie for so many centuries of the patriarchal God. Well, sorry sister, your stereotype does not fit. We do not all believe football is the only important thing to do on Sunday nor scientific method the only way into truth.
Sister, I get weary and resentful of your relentless persecution that denies me my sensitivity and hangs me for my strengths. I am a peace, I am a power that as yet has no definition in our society. Neither religion, nor psychology, nor military, nor business, nor science understands the true nature of male. So on the way towards sexual liberation I must continue. But I keep believing that tantra holds the secrets of that liberation, not that we need to fuck more, but that our energies as masculine and feminine are complementary, and that both participate in a whole that is beyond liberation of one at the expense of the other.
I see Man as a star, a direction, an orientation, the point of origin, and the place where all time ends. I look upon Man as a butterfly surveying a flowerbed, tasting, testing, or as a hawk crouched in the high weeds on a roadbank glaring at automobiles speeding by.A women need to be fucked
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