Does Rape Turn You On?

The topic of forced fantasies, often referred to "rape fantasies", came up in a recent conversation with a friend. I have my own ideas about forced fantasies and what they mean, which I'm sure are wholly unoriginal, so please forgive me for having done zero research on the topic.

Does the average woman really fantasize about being raped? Hell no she doesn't. That's because, in my opinion, forced fantasies aren't really tales of rape.

Rape is a touchy subject. Merriam Webster's Dictionary (and I paraphrase here) defines rape as sexual intercourse carried out forcibly and against the will of the victim.

A quick digression: It is a commonly held viewpoint that rape, in fact, has nothing to do with sex but rather domination and power. Though not entirely, I tend to disagree with this perspective. I believe rape often has a lot do with sex. Otherwise, the valid cases we refer to as "date rape" would rarely occur. Date rape, in my opinion, more likely happens because of compromised judgement rather than the offender seeking domination and power.

As I said, regardless of whether it's rape or date rape, forced fantasies aren't really about rape at all. This would imply that one wants to be taken against her will, which in the case of a rape fantasy is a non sequitur. If a woman desires to be taken forcibly, then it's not really against her will now is it?

So why would a woman fantasize about forced sex in the context of rape? While the social idealogy of female sexuality has undoubtedly evolved over the years, there is an undeniable stigma that remains attached to a promiscuous woman: whore. In the case of rape fantasies, a woman is able to explore her sexuality and carnal desires guilt-free. She can have the sexual pleasure she so desires, say when she lusts after a stranger on the street or her handy man, but her reputation and virtue remain in tact if she is taken by him. If she is taken by him as opposed to being a willing party, then she escapes being a whore.

I also believe that forced fantasies may be an extension of gender roleplay. I believe that gender roles are actually quite natural. The problem with them is that, much like religion, we've created our own institution of rules and acceptable behavior that we subscribe to. So it follows that the problem with gender ideaology is that our social constructs disregard a person's right to choose which aspects of gender they identify with and manifest in their daily lives.

I've also observed that women often have a need to be desired by a man as a form of affirmation and acceptance. I'm not trying to say that men don't. Of course men want to be desired by women. However, it's more often the case that if a guy has a girlfriend, his buddies consider her "hands off" whereas women are more likely to be competitive for a man's attention and affection, even when it's her female friend's boyfriend.

It's hard to talk about this subject without all the cases of "but but but". Yes, I get it that I'm making huge generalizations here and there are always exceptions. And I for one am actually fortunate that my girlfriends and I respect each other much more than that to stoop to boyfriend stealing. However, my entire life I've seen it all around me in female-female friendships. So why is it that women tend to have a deeper need to be desired by a man, especially when she can take it away from another woman? For starters it says a lot about female self esteem. When a woman can take a man from another woman, it consciously or subconsciously translates as "I am more desirable".

So what does this have to do with forced fantasies? Well if we look at gender roles relative to men as the pursuer/aggressor, then a man taking a woman - in fantasy land - feeds a notion for a woman of being so desireable that a man will take it from her even if she is resistant.

What's ironic to me about the socially constructed ideas of gender roles is that they sometimes stand in direct opposition to our biology. It's actually women who do the choosing. We all know this. In the framework of men "spreading their seed", it's women who are the selective ones - finding the most suitable, prime sperm donor. But I digress.

With that said, I think forced fantasies are natural. In some way, sure, they perpetuate the gender role ideaology that feminism attempts to overcome, but hey, it's just a fantasy. It could also be said that these types of fantasies are progressive, meaning that by fantasizing about sexual freesom is a step towards breaking out of prescibed gender roles in reality. The next fantasy could be one where she doesn't have to be taken by force, but she actually wants it and can acknowledge it and accept it without feeling guilty for being a whore.

I admit that I've had my own sort of forced fantasy. I had never fleshed out a scene of any sort in my head, but I actually lived out this fantasy a few months ago, though it wasn't purposeful nor was I thinking about it directly when it happened. My experience didn't really have anything to do with the gender role argument I was making, which is ironic I know, but in a sense it does have a connection. In my experience, it was the conflict of my body actually wanting it but my mind telling me to say no.

And really, that's what I think forced fantasies are all about: wanting something that you think you shouldn't want and being absolved of the responsibility by having it taken from you.

~ the lady love

Delirium of Desire

A few years ago there was this girl. I first encountered her when my mom was in town nearly three years earlier. She served our lunch, and as the years went by I never forgot her. I don't know what it was about her, but she had something I wanted.

After that day, I'd see her out sometimes. At a bar one night. Two months later playing pool. Six months later at a restaurant. I'd always think to myself, "There's that cool girl." And she was. She was fucking cool, and I had never even talked to her save for that one time, that one lunch. And even then the exchange wasn't personal.

Then one night we came face to face, and she engaged me. Dare I say even charmed me? And she asked for my number. She called the next day and asked me out. Then she stood me up. Fucked up.

True to form, I couldn't just let that happen. It was wrong. I never got her number, so a couple weeks later I decided to have brunch at her restaurant. As I approached her, she looked up at me with a suprised and fearful look on her face. I greeted her and politely asked, "Why did you ask me out if you were just going to stand me up?" Fumbling around for the words, she nervously said, "I'm sorry. I forgot." With a smirk I replied, "Sure you did. Well, I know you're working, so I won't keep you." I walked back to my table and finished my meal.

Shortly thereafter she came outside to my table and pulled me aside. With her head half lowered she extended an apology.

"You could have called and canceled. I waited on you. I waited on you too long. I don't mind being canceled on, but not showing up was just... not cool."

She asked me if she could have one more chance, and I asked why she thought she deserved one. She said she knew that she didn't deserve anything from me, but please, could she try to make it up to me. I don't know why I said yes. There was just something about her.

"I get off work at 10:00 tonight, and I won't wait on you again. We'll see if you show up."

She did show up. We hung out. Had a few cocktails. Shot some pool. When it was time to go, she asked if I would give her a ride home. Certainly I could. When we got into my car, she stammered for a moment until she finally said, "When I saw you in the restaurant that day and you came up to me, I have never felt so ashamed in my life. I didn't know what to do. I'm sorry I stood you up. I'm sorry for not calling. I'm sorry for not calling later. I just... "

Then she handed me a crumpled up index card. "I wrote this," she said. "I have gone back and forth in my head all night about whether I should give it to you, but here. I wrote it for you."

I still have that beat up index card. It's lived in a drawer for the past three years, but I've always known exactly where it is. It read, "Once you get to know me you'll love to hate me. At least that's what they all eventually say. The look in your eyes tells me to stop and pay attention for once in my life, but my life never stops. It's constant like the pull of gravity - rarely questioned but always there. Apologies handed out at every turn like parking tickets. Can't wait 'til death - I mean rest. Same thing. Yet the power of life keeps on giving. The sanctity of people in my life is my fuel to keep on going - my own gravitational pull to my heart. Without I'm nothing."

I asked her, "So what's so bad about you?"

She hesitated for a moment then told me she was a drug dealer. She told me that's why she stood me up. She was at a party and doing a lot of business and was being completely selfish. She was aware that she was supposed to meet me but didn't call.

I don't know what it was about this moment that stirred me. Maybe it was her candid and genuine confession. She wasn't working me here. She was simply being honest. She had countenance. Perhaps it was forced by my own hand a little bit by confronting her in the restaurant, but here she was sitting in my car - this alcoholic and cocaine addict.

"Do you want to spend the night with me?" I asked. "Yes, I do," she said. So we went back to my house. We stood in my kitchen and I poured us both a shot of whiskey. Then I grabbed her head, pulled her to me and kissed her. It was good. Very good.

I took her upstairs to my bedroom. I kissed her up against the closet doors for a while then we climbed into bed, and she did things to me. She made it happen for me.

She left the next morning to go to work and asked me to come see her for brunch. "I don't think so," I told her. I didn't go to brunch. I went to sleep.

She called me that evening. She seemed strange, fumbling her words a bit like she wanted to tell me something.

"Whatever it is you're trying to say, go ahead and just say it," I said. That's when she told me she had a girlfriend. They were moving to Michigan together the next month.

"Okay," I said. "I would have preferred to have known that before we slept together, but okay."

She seemed really confused, and I was strangely confused myself. Why didn't all this bother me more? The fact that she stood me up. Or that she was a drug dealer. Or that she had a girlfriend. To this day I still am not sure.

We became friends. The last five weeks she was in town, we spent a lot of time together. It was fun. Then she left town, and we kept in touch.

She called me late one night in October, about four months after she moved away. She told me she was in love with me. I told her that I loved her, too, because I did, but with my next breath I told her that I would never be with her. No, I would never be her girl.

One night as I lay thinking about her, I wrote something. A love poem. But I never gave it to her. It was never really hers to have anyway.

Music of the moment : Lifelong Fling


The moon blind-sided the sky again
As we grabbed loose ends of the tide and then
The slippery slide
You know I can't say when
I ever took a ride that could slap me this silly
With roiling joy
Lazy as sin
Lyin' up in heaven with my special friend
And the space he's in
It can make a girl grin
In the beginning of a lifelong fling

I wrote down a dream
Folded the note
Slipped it in the pocket of my tattered coat

I wrote down a dream
In invisible ink
It never was mine I'm beginning to think

I wrote down a dream
What more could I do
I drew myself a picture and the picture was you

I wrote myself a riddle
I said, What I wouldn't do
To give something good
To a love like you

I wrote down a dream
Folded the note
Passed it to you we stepped in our boat

Sailed 'round the world
We were hoping to find
More than the sum of all we left behind

I wrote down a dream
But what was it now
And why does it feel so distant somehow

Did I take too long
Did I get it wrong
You're still the missing line in my favorite song

~ the lady love

Farte - The Smell of a Man

So a buddy of of mine and I were hanging out recently. He came straight from work to pick me up for dinner, and when I got into the car, it smelled like M. had competely deflated in there. I said, "Duuude, have you been rippin' 'em in here?" He goes, "Um, yeah, a little bit. I tried to air it out."

"M.! You must have drilled them into the upholstery. It smells like a mixture of lingering cologne and farts in here."

The next day I got an email from M.:

Dear Ms. Love,

I would like to introduce you to the new fragrance sweeping the nation for "real" men. It is called Farte (pronounced Fart-A) Musk. It is a lovely blend of natural botanicals mixed with the natural smell of a "Man". It is light and breezy and a scent you will not soon forget. What will those French come up with next? It is an irresistible smell and drives everyone wild. You've got to get some Farte today!

Hey, I enjoyed the rub last night and the fun and games. We will have to do that again real soon. Hope you have a good day. And don't forget to place an order for Farte.

Love ya,
M.

fuck the world

ABO Incompatibility

ABO incompatibility disease afflicts newborns whose mothers are blood type O, and who have a baby with type A, B, or AB. Guess what? Little Micah has ABO Incompatibility. He's in the special care unit now and who knows for how long.

With an ABO incompatibility, a mother makes antibodies against her baby's blood type. It doesn't happen if the mother and baby have the same blood type or if the baby is type O, since in that case, there is usually nothing to make antibodies against. These antibodies, if the mother is type O, can cross the placenta and can break down the baby's red blood cells after it is born, which may require phototherapy or even blood exchange transfusion.

Good god man. Coincidentally, my sister Amy had to have an blood exchange transfusion when she was 6 days old. It wasn't ABO Incompatibility, but it was similar and the effects were identical.

I just got the news and I swear my blood pressure just shot the fuck up.

~ the lady love

porking for love

Man, my day just got made. I received an email from a girl I used to know way back when - like 10 years ago. She was a cute and funny little thing and a smashing artist. I have fond memories of Karen, but what is really funny is to find out what fond memories she has of me. So today, I received this communique from Karen:

Subject: porking for love

You know what memory springs foremost to mind for me about you? here it is. valentine's day is approaching. you and i are in the lobby of krannert center [tll: the student center at our college]. we are talking about valentine's day. we make up this hil-AR-ious idea for a valentine. it will have a picture of a pig on the front. inside it will say, "happy valentine's day. let's pork." i am sure i have thought of that every valentine's day since and even some times in between.

some time i will have to visit atlanta. then you & i & grace could get together. i'd like that. i'd laugh my ass off.

word,
karen

Now that she brings it up, it does ring a bell, but man, what a fantastic way to be remembered! Also, it's great because I had forgotten how I used to be obsessed with the word "pork", especially when used as a verb. Seriously, I used to use the word "pork" as a verb as much as possible.

~ the lady love

The Story Of The Lefthanded Rake

When I was about eight or nine years old, I remember watching some documentary on pbs about how lefthanded people were X number of times more likely to be injured or killed using tools. The study asserted that, since 85% of the population was righthanded, tools were essentially made/designed for righthanded users by default, hence the increased chance of injury for lefthanded users.

Well, of course, I tried to use this new found knowledge to its greatest advantage. It just so happened to be autumn, and we had a yard with about 30 trees in it. That's right - time to rake the leaves.

I got on a soapbox about how it was dangerous for me to rake because I might get injured. So when my folks took a little trip down to the hardware store to stock up on yard supplies, they conveniently picked up a special lefthanded rake just for me.

Man, my lefthanded rake worked like a dream! I practically raked the whole yard by myself.

"How's that rake working for you, Love?" my parents would ask.

"Great!" I'd say.

Then, in college, my extended family was sitting at Thanksgiving dinner and telling funny stories of old when somebody said (my sister, I believe), "Hey, remember when you told Love you bought her a lefthanded rake?"

Everybody roared, except for me. I was so confused. I looked around perplexed and said, "What's so funny about my lefthanded rake?"

Once again, everyone roared. And that's about the time I realized that there's no such thing...

... as a lefthanded rake.

~ the lady duped

Baby Has Arrived

My sister had her baby yesterday. 16 hours of non-productive labor resulted in the most horrendous c-section ever. He did not want to come out. It took 4 people pushing and pulling to pull the little guy out. My sister is a champ. Tough as nails.

His name is Micah Benjamin. I call him gloworm.

Sandy

Sandy, the waitress I was seein' lost her desire for me
I spoke with her last night
she said she won't set herself on fire for me anymore

~ the boss

Jealous Not So Much, But Sometimes

Jealousy. An exclusively human characteristic and often a comdemnable one.

Yet I'll admit it. I'm jealous sometimes - usually for the most unsuspecting reasons. I'm never jealous in a relationship. Jealously in a relationship is usually a sign of feeling threatened (a.k.a. insecurity). For me, that's the most absurb time to feel jealous. Like if somebody is flirting with him (or her) when we're out, that doesn't make me jealous. Hell no. Instead, it feeds me. You want him, and he is choosing to go home with me. It's a compliment when I've got what everybody else wants. And that little glance across the bar reminds me that I'm the one that he wants and he's the want that I want. (Ooh ooh ooh, honey)

I experienced it a lot with Jenny. She was a phenomenon. Drop-dead gorgeous. Unique. Interesting. Mysterious. Smart. Different. Fun. Dangerous. Pure. People would meet her and instantly fall in love with her. She was one of those types you only read about: a tomboy who was the the loveliest, most unaffected creature by no effort of her own. Had she been a beast, she would have been a beast. But no. Instead she had perfectly red lips. Long, dark eyeslashes framing striking, wolf-like blue eyes. Flawless skin and silky blond hair. Not to mention a killer body. It became a joke that everyone was in love with my girlfriend. So why would that make me jealous when she chose me over the rest of the world?

It was the same with John. It never bothered me if he was chatting it up with some girl in a bar. Isn't that why we go out: to socialize? Talk is talk, but at the end of the night, he's with me.

When it comes to matters of the heart, I'm only jealous when it's over. When I still want them and that person who is chatting them up may actually be the one that accompanies them home, and not me. That's why I always need a serious sabbatical after a breakup. I have to overcome any lingering feelings of desire to be able to be around them on an 'anything goes' basis. I don't like the way jealousy feels.

Sure, maybe it speaks to my own insecurites - that, on some level, I do derive a slight measure of self worth from the object of my desire. But is that so wrong? I've said it before, and I'll say it again: other people are our reality. So it only makes sense to me that we internalize the way people treat us as a reflection of self. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying that's how it is. We all do it. Otherwise, rejection wouldn't make us feel so, well, rejected.

As far as jealousy goes, that's one of the only times I would ever consider myself a jealous person. Yet this self-awareness serves me well. It prevents me from making a jackass of myself. It keeps my jealousy from rearing its ugly head and manifesting itself into words, actions or behaviors that could ultimately embarrass me. I've got the heads up, and I'm able to reign it in like a champ.



~ the lady green

All I Need Is Everything

I couldn't have said it better myself.

All I Need Is Everything

Slow down. Hold still.
It's not as if it's a matter of will.
Someone's circling. Someone's moving
a little lower than the angels.
And it's got nothing to do with me.
The wind blows through the trees,
but if I look for it, it won't come.
I tense up. My mind goes numb.
There's nothing harder than learning how to receive.

Calm down. Be still.
We've got plenty of time to kill.
No hand writing on the wall:
just the voice that's in us all.
And you're whispering to me,
time to get up off my hands and knees,
'cause if I beg for it, it won't come.
I find nothing but table crumbs.
My hands are empty. God I've been naive.

All I need is everything.
Inside, outside, feel new skin.
All I need is everything.
Feel the slip and the grip of grace again.

Slow down. Hold still.
It's not as if it's a matter of will.
Someone's circling. Someone's moving
a little lower than the angels.
This voice calling me to you:
it's just barely coming through.
Still, I clearly hear my name.
I've been fingering the flame
like tomorrow's martyr.
It gets harder to believe.

All I need is everything.
Inside, outside, feel new skin.
All I need is everything.
Feel the slip and the grip of grace again.

So from now till kingdom come,
taste the words on the tip of my tongue.
'Cause we can't run truth out of town,
only force it underground.
The roots grow deeper
in ways we can't conceive.

All I need is everything.
Inside, outside feel new skin.
All I need is everything.
Feel the slip and the grip of grace again.

All I need is all I need.

~ Over the Rhine

This Week's Blotter

I found Creative Loafing's Blotter this week to be choice. The Blotter is a weekly recap of bizarre crimes from Atlanta police reports.

When I used to say l lived right next door to the cop shop at my old place, I literally lived right next door. So, I particularly like the first blotter report below about the cops responding to a call about a suspected marijuana plant at a gas pump. It just reminded of the time when a boulder came through Steve's (the dead guy) window and landed on his bed, waking him at 3 a.m. Steve was pissed. He and I stood outside in the parking lot staring at some fucking nut case with an armload of rocks pacing outside the gate. We called the cops three times. It took 25 minutes for them to show up. The last time Steve called, he asked the dispatcher (who was coincidentally also in the building next door), "So all the cops and cop cars right next door are there for what? Look, man, I live right across the street. I could spit on your building I'm so close, and the guy who just tried to break into my place is standing right here. I called 20 minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, sir. Someone will be with you shortly." After another five minutes, they showed up. They asked if either of us actually saw the man throw the rock through Steve's window. Since the answer was no, they said they couldn't do anything because we didn't witness it. Steve asked, "So the fact that he's standing right here with a bunch of rocks means nothing? The guy is obviously fucking crazy."

Yep, it meant nothing, and yep, he was crazy. The cops told us after debriefing the man that he had just been released from the psych ward at Grady.

This Week's Blotter:

A MAN was at a gas station on Cleveland Avenue. He went to pump No. 7. When he looked on the ground, he saw a suspected marijuana plant sitting there. He decided to call 911 and report the plant. Police arrived and took the suspected marijuana plant to the police evidence room.

AROUND 2 A.M., an officer saw a suspicious white Toyota pickup truck on Euclid Avenue. The engine was running, but the car was parked. A man and woman were passed out inside. Five open beers were on the ground. The officer knocked on the door, trying to wake up the people. Eventually, the man woke up "in a disarray and unknowing where he was," the officer wrote. Then the officer shook the woman (the driver of the Toyota) several times. Eventually, she woke up. The officer asked for her name and if she knew where she was. The woman answered, "Hi, how are you?" The officer asked the woman to recite the alphabet. "Isn't the snow pretty?" she replied. The officer wrote, "I asked her again, and she wasn't able to complete a sentence due to getting distracted by the snow." The woman, who lives in Alpharetta, was arrested for DUI.

A WOMAN said someone broke into her rental property, a house on Beecher Street. The glass on the front door was broken, but the front door was locked. A rear window was broken and the window was wide open. Nothing was missing from the house. But somehow the woman's refrigerator was moved to the front porch. No suspects.

A WOMAN FROM COLUMBUS said she and some friends went to a nightclub on Auburn Avenue to celebrate her 22nd birthday. A friend of her friends -- a guy nicknamed Dread -- said he left his ID in the woman's car. So she gave her car keys to Dread so he could get his ID. Some time elapsed, yet Dread didn't return to the nightclub. So the woman went outside to look for her car, a 2005 silver Toyota Camry. The car was gone. The woman got a ride to Dread's house and waited for him. Around 7 a.m., Dread returned home. He tossed the car keys at the woman and said he wrecked her car, which was now at a wrecker service. Nothing further.

A NEW JERSEY MAN bid on eBay for a Porsche SUV. He won, with a bid of $48,350. He corresponded with a Jonesboro man about picking up the Porsche. (They talked only via phone and e-mail.) The New Jersey man tried to put a PayPal deposit into the Jonesboro man's bank account, but the deposit did not go through.

So the Jonesboro man told him to meet another guy at Lenox Square, in the Macy's parking lot, to get the Porsche. The New Jersey man went to Lenox Square with three cashier's checks totaling $48,350. He gave the man the checks, and took possession of the Porsche. The New Jersey man failed to notice that the vehicle identification number on this Porsche didn't match the VIN listed on the Porsche on eBay.

Next, the New Jersey man took his Porsche to a dealership on Roswell Road for a maintenance check. There, he was informed that his Porsche was a stolen car. A Roswell police detective arrived and took possession of the Porsche.

The New Jersey man tried to stop payment on his cashier's checks. He managed to get back about $29,000.

A MAN WAS FLAGGING DOWN and blocking cars at the intersection of Rockwell Street and Metropolitan Parkway. Police stopped the man, a known prostitute. The man said he was asking for money from the drivers of passing cars. The man said if drivers would give him a dollar, he would show them "some ass." The man, age 37, was arrested for soliciting rides.

AROUND 3 A.M., a man was swinging a yellow-handled iron pick. He had just broken the window of a house on North Avenue. Seeing this, a police officer approached the man. The man said he was evicted from the house a few days ago and if he couldn't have the house, nobody could. The man, age 44, was arrested for trespassing.

~ the lady love