life and love and dreams.

One of my favorite songs is “I Wonder” by Kanye West. It came out my junior year of high school, and at the time I was still in the process of “finding myself” and rejecting so many things I’d been taught to be true by society. Even then a particular verse in the song stood out to me, even though at the time I didn’t realize why and I just thought the song rang true for so many people in this world, not necessarily relating to me. Now that I’m a little bit older, I’ve been listening to the song a lot lately because the entire song seems to parallel so much of what’s going on in my life right now, my thoughts, my feelings. Instead of copy and pasting the lyrics (because, really, that’s what I’d be doing to highlight how much of it is on point) I’ll just link. However, I want to revisit the lines that always struck me, because in the last year it has come to fruition to me why I find them so to be so true. These lines are actually from the last verse in the song, which I think helps to intensify their impact and significance:

What you about?

On that independent shit

Trade it all for a husband and some kids

You ever wonder what it all really mean?

You ever wonder if you'll find your dreams

When I first heard these words I was instantly in love. At the time I’d just started to learn about womanism (I skipped the whole feminist stage and went straight to womanism thanks to my mentors Alice Walker and Nikki Giovanni) after being vaguely into “women’s rights.” Actually now that I think about it, growing up feminist ideals were always omnipresent in my household—from the things my mother said, to my parents divorce when I was 9 and seeing my mother be independent and tell me to never depend on a man, but also seeing her struggle and the loneliness that came with it. At the time I saw those things as my mother being “strong”, when in reality and now that I’m older, I know that was probably not the case. However, at the time I thought only of dreams of the future—I didn’t date, I didn’t want to date, I had plans to not even think about dating until I graduated college. Education and being successful would come first; anything else could and would wait. I’d planned out my life and in it there was no sign of a relationship, and children? Ha, definitely not that. I saw all of these things as a hindrance—as something that would get in the way of my dreams and ruin them (which is how women are taught to think: either career or family, happy in-betweens are more than likely not plausible. I’d like to think this idea is complete bullshit, but that may not be entirely true).

I think subconsciously those lyrics were trying to tell me something when I was sixteen. I think deep down I knew that that’s the road I was heading down, and that one day I would realize that everything cannot wait, and sometimes you have to make room for the things that seem “weak” and realize there is nothing wrong wanting those things. I didn’t understand that until I was 18 and a freshman at university. I’d made it to college, yet I was lonelier and more miserable than ever. There weren’t too many couples on campus to rub this in my face, yet it was this deep feeling of unhappiness. I would have these intense bouts of depression that all seemed to stem back to be alone. One night over the summer my mother put is so plainly for me. She said, “When you fall in love your sadness will go away—think about it. You are completely happy in every other way, but in that one way you are so alone, and it can effect so many things even if you wish it didn’t or want to find another cause for the sadness.” And she was right.

I realized that no amount of success could replace loneliness. There are so many songs and films and books about how awful it is to be alone when you don’t want to be. People spend years of their lives trying to find some semblance of happiness, someone to share their lives with. There are plenty of people who really do enjoy being alone, but I am just not wired to be one them. Someone down the line my priorities changed, I realized I want someone to see me through, to share my success with, to love me and hold my hand and kiss me just because. I realized that someday I want kids and to have someone by my side to watch them grow, that I want all of the things I once worked so hard to reject. And you know what else I realized? There’s nothing wrong with that, there’s nothing inherently weak in wanting those things, and it won’t hinder anything—it just such a wonderful enhancement.

That was made all the more obvious to me when I met T, and how much I want to make this work with him because I know guys like him don’t come around too often, and I know that I am lucky to have found him. But my paranoia and fears and insecurities might be the death of us—although I’m really trying—and that’ another blog altogether (which it just might be very soon). I guess what I’m trying to say is that in the end, nothing matters if you aren’t happy. And that is the simple answer.

she is a slut but x thinks it's sexy.

Sluts.

Men have a secret desire for, obsession with, them. “Why do you have “sluts” listed as a fetish of yours?” he asks me. “Oh” I respond casually, “I mean I like being called one in bed…” A look of understanding washes over his face and he nods before grinning, “you mean the private kind. The slut you are for your lover.” And I nod enthusiastically, giggling a little, before the conversation continues on down a path of discussing our mutual likes and dislikes about television shows.

It is another time with another man. A few weeks later. Yesterday. We are discussing the path we want our relationship to go down—talking about the big date we have planned for next Thursday, the charm bracelet he has bought me. He is speaking in a quiet, sweet tone with a hint of edge to it—he is horny. “You know I am all yours, right? I don’t ever want anyone else, just you.” I amused by this because we haven’t even had sex yet, and for that reason alone I know that he also probably means it. “I know” I answer, quietly. “And are you my little slut?” He asks. I giggle then, “yes. Your own private dirty little slut.” He is delighted by this answer; he tells me it is a very good answer, the best answer.

These encounters—as well as others—have led me to believe that most men harbor a secret desire for the “slutty girl.” You know what kind of girl I am talking about, which stereotype I am referring to. But there are also certain stipulations that come along with it, a certain kind of slut they want. Most men it seems want the kind of girl who is sweet and “normal” doing the day. For instance, the second guy I mentioned likes to spend hours in bookstores while we wander around trying to find books we are both interested in, a kind of game. He talks sweetly to me and suggests that I bake dessert if he gets took cook dinner, he wants to know my hopes and dreams, what my definition of “happiness” is. We bond over our mutual nerdiness and fear of people leaving us, we bond over knowing we will never do that to other unless it is mutual. We both have the same ideas of “fun”, which is a date spent exploring the city and ending with cuddling in bed. That is to say, we have very vanilla interests.

But in private—or even sometimes discreetly in public—things are different. He is less inhibited, and I as well. We have not had sex yet, but we have talked about it and I have learned a lot about him as person. The very core of him, the things he keeps hidden from hi friends and sometimes even himself; when we talk about these things, he stops calling me “sweetie” or “baby” and it is replaced by that word, “slut.” Lots of women object to this kind of talk, see it as degrading in some way, and that is there right. I however love it, it is a way of getting away from who I am, it makes me less inhibited.

But guys like this don’t want actual “sluts”—whatever that is. They want to have their cake and eat it too. It is why they ask the question, “why do you like being a slut” (answer: “because I know I am not one, because it is just for you”); it is why they ask over and over, “you’re my slut aren’t you? Just for me, yes?” They want to believe that it has been no one before them and will be no one after them. They want to believe that you have never gave these same responses to any other man, that he is the only one who you have played this game with. It is why they buy you tokens of affection, call you pet names, kiss you gently on the forehead or on the side of your lips while looking at museum displays, it is why they stare at you in that funny way when you’re twirling pasta on your fork. Because they believe that they are the only ones who have ever been privy to that other side of you; the only ones who has ever felt your hand lightly on them while you examine the mummy display, or browsed albums in a music store.

I know I should believe that it’s terribly unfair and misogynistic to live up to being the Good Bad Girl. Lots of women don’t—they pick a side and wave the flag proudly, ignoring or shaming the other. I don’t blame them, nor do I judge them. However, there is something so fun—so utterly delightful—in choosing to be both at once. In talking dirty to him in my favorite Spider-man t-shirt, the coyness of it all that drives him wild; to be sweet and tangy at the same time.

And that is the true power. I do it as much for my own joy, my own secret desire and obsession, as his.