- Let women be priests and bishops, and
- Allow marriage
A sexist institution can never be a champion of human rights.
A sexist institution can never be a champion of human rights.
I flipped through the pictures until I came across the one I saw before.
In all the vividness and splendor of black and white, I peered at a woman on the edge.
There, in a moment, she is nude, rear facing the camera, front facing danger and destruction, turning away from the tantalizing passion and desire of man at the risk of the free fall below.
The girl with her arms stretched above her head; her hands are in the “salute” pose I’d often seen in gymnastics.
Those beautiful, slight, fragile hands are pointed toward the heavens in much the same way as thousands who had been tied to crosses before, but these ropes seem gone, cast away, if just for a moment, and now these two features—the features that give us so much advantage in this world and that cause so much pain—are positioned to cut through the air and thus the water in desperate hope to limit impact.
In a moment, her long hair is wild and free, as is her body.
Free of clothing, free of the concept of nudity, evil, and humiliation. Her mane pours over her shoulders not in an attempt to hide her nakedness but rather to highlight her natural beauty.
I saw her dark wet hair kiss her spine. The two are glued in matrimony of being.
The spine slowly crawls to the buttocks. They are firm, muscular but feminine. I felt elated. I felt good. Looking at her made me love being human, and I think the human body is beautiful. The hips join in to create a beautiful harmony.
I can still recall the diamond-shaped light sifting between her legs, where the buttocks, thighs and crotch meet. Dark skin against the light of the sun; water, the giver of life, running down the flesh; the woman, in the moment, and the viewer moved in time.
There, in a moment, my eyes moved further down to see the form of her legs, her hamstrings, the back of her knees—that are so fun to tickle—and her wonderfully shaped calf muscles.
It finishes with the soles of her feet blinking at me, “dirty” but not so and even so, I would not mind them dirty at all, for all of her is so beautiful in this moment. She brings me into her experience and I forget all about the photograph.
Everything becomes one: I, her, and nature.
Date: July, throughout the years
To: Wretched Wrench-Wielding Wenches
From: Random Patriarchal Interpretations (aka: society)
It has come to my attention that several wenches under our employ are wielding wrenches–some physical and others the virtual equivalent. I personally understand how such desperate and wanton women would desire to forcibly twist and pull the nuts off those that make their lives ever more difficult and fraught with fear, even when, often, for their own good.
As one that has been both on the receiving end of such violence and that has enjoyed his male privilege extensively, I ask our ladies to think back to simpler days and their “lady ancestries.” Be nice to men.
If only she would come to work and look more young and make her bosses coffee when they ask that of her, as well as any other errands or favors that men fancy. Serving is the best way to a promotion for young servant girls, and even if one is not so young, she should try to fool her boss with wantonness for him–not being miserable, base, and mean. Such little-girl behavior will lead to her defamation. I am interpreting Shakespeare’s meaning here, and we all know that he was quite the feminist of the 1600s. Women could not be feminists then, nor could they be tastefully employed. Those were surely better days.
Women, I find, cannot help it. It’s in the nature of a wretched wench. In other words, she should aim to fool us where youth dies but experience lives. She probably won’t fool us for young ladies always take initiative to be noticed and are less self-conscious than the older she. They are less clever too, therein notice men’s advantage? I am giving the plot away!
Don’t you know that for women experience is a demotion not a promotion? Since being young and virgin (and stupid helps) is a poor long-term plan, giving up is the best advantage. So from now on, smile instead of frown, be pleasant instead of mean, and never seem desperate, even with the customer (or your bosses) for you will scare them away, even if you are not wielding a wrench. To be ladylike is to be pleasant and young-looking, at least in spirit. So wrenches are forbidden as no woman should ever defend herself against a man, either physically or psychologically. That is unladylike as is giving into a man and getting caught as a result of her desperation. Desire is never a man’s fault. I believe it says so in great books?
No more twisting off nuts, please, or such a wench might find herself in HR. Let us protect her, but then again we don’t protect violent wenches, do we? Oh, sorry. My bad?
Let me rephrase all of this. In the end, no matter what happens to a “girl,” we reserve the right to enforce the negative connotation over the positive. No matter how she looks at it, it’s her fault and men’s privilege. A man can do no wrong when with the lesser sex.
(From the Author) Actaully, I don’t know what to think of this. I wrote it a while ago. I kind of like and hate it, so I will let you decide.
I cannot even find my picture of you,
Sitting in your favorite chair,
The place you would go
To eat your peanut butter sandwich after your walk.
Damn you for getting old,
For stinking, for dying,
Slopped about the house, black and white,
Licking peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.
You loved to walk, scratching the wall,
The leash hanging above,
Still like death but standing in heartbreaking anticipation.
The restraint that so often muted your collie instincts marks your grave,
hanging on a green stake above.
A small but stunted tree struggles right next to it, above you.
Was it the noose that held you back, or have you finally broken free of stinking, aging,
You were a sweet animal among the cruel human
And the psychopathic nature of Nature.
The sound of your nails tapping the floor,
The sound of you scratching,
And, yes, licking peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.
You, it, had a rhythm that gave predictability to the unpredictability of life.
Your eyes, that of a Border Collie,
Big and brown, full of feeling,
Teared up once, when I
Yelled at you.
You died alone;
I remember patting you on the head,
your labored but soft puffing.
You tried to hang on to the beauty of life,
an oft-stealth flicker in this vast and timeless universe.
I remember the day I got you.
You cried for mom,
and my fleeting-child parenting skills went
A wash when you peed in
My mom put you next to hers,
In a box we got from the dollar store,
And you became her
Fourth son and my third brother.
And I let you die alone;
I couldn’t handle death,
The death of my friend, brother, and of my childhood.
I turned up the radio to block out the sound of the approaching
Reckoning for you and for all of us.
Being denied leave for a dying son,
My mother went to work while I went numb
And blocked out life.
As silence engulfed my room.
I no longer heard breathing from you.
There you lay,
A fragment of the brother you were,
But I summed up courage and mummified you
With the discount plastic garbage bags from the dollar store.
One over your bottom, and a plastic bag over your head—
A head I often kissed and pet;
I taped the middle shut and carried you,
Like a sixty-pound baby into the freezer we call Buffalo.
I moved on the autopilot that abuse and harshness perfects.
We would put you in the ground, when life was awakening.
Oh, I reminisce
Gentle kind of
Bleach-soaked blondes with
And all those
Oh, of Hefner I reminisce
Of reader-less text
But a stuck together
She was my favorite
But forgot to wipe her off
After I explode,
Oh no, but I wear his
And miss him
So much mo.
I’d like to call him dad though
Smothered with his
Gentlemen-ness, fuzzy tails,
And three tight little
Sometimes I like fake shit
Because real is just
And when asked why he was such an
Ass, by a feminist
He said that he’d hope women would
Like his dream as much as
They are every man’s dream.
A dream that came from his broken heart,
When in youth
He was left with nothingness.
R.I.P. to Hefner’s Reminiscence
Now that sexual fantasy is
Oh, yes to sex,
Sacred, first-time mounds,
Never before kissed,
Oh, yes, to sex,
Of what cannot
Because sex’s sin, the snake says, creates life,
By the very desire within,
Good sex from good thoughts?
You’d need some medicine then.
It’s either doc, or
Please come visit me again
With your lewdest