Politics of Sex by Jan Austen: Sexual Discourse on the Arts for Captivation
Ins and Outs on the Ups and Downs that include some Notes on the Cut, Thrust and Parry that is part of the Great Game--Sexual Politics. And encompassing too Single Men and Women and the Pleasures of Youth.
A Las Vegas hooker catering to the casino's high rollers was telling him about what women felt about sex. Apparently she liked and trusted him enough to share this.
Sexually speaking, P told him, a woman generally and permanently felt like a man who has just had an orgasm. Near as P could make out, okay? With all her experience and knowledge, that was pretty close to what a woman felt. And she was pretty knowledgeable, and experienced, wouldn't he agree?
So, as a man who had just had an orgasm, did he feel like sex any time soon? No, she wanted the truth, okay? He felt a little flat, right? Right. Needed lots of tender foreplay to get him up again, wouldn't he agree? And time, time too. Exceptions to the ordinary existed, of course, P said. But that's what it was generally like, being a woman. You feel a little flat, sexually speaking—all the time.
Thinking about how he felt, after his orgasm, how flat flat was, he found the concept unappealing. It was going to take much tender foreplay to get him up again, even more than what was usually the case. In fact, he felt like going to dinner instead.
She claimed she had very, very easy orgasms.
Omigawd, how this made other women intensely mad with envy, most jealous of all the things about her. Her easy, peasy, great orgasms!
Orgasms were a breeze...for her.
Best sensation ever for anybody, she claimed.
And after, she was totally relaxed, completely beautiful, fully fulfilled.
Glowing all over. MMMmmmm...she liked her very, very easy orgasms!
Made other women who knew her totally crazy with jealousy, so they called her bad names.
Slut was only one such name she was called. Other such names were easy lay, everybody’s fuck, bitch, big cunt and total whore. And more.
Sometimes she was even double cursed, called, You bitch whore. Or similar double things, and so on.
She claimed she didn't care. She had her easy orgasms, and they could keep their curses. All the curses they wanted, every bitch, slut, fuck and whore.
She was finding it harder and harder.
Couldn't even talk about it without, kind of, running away...
Here was beautiful little her. The perfect little ho', okay?
Know what she meant? Ho'...hole.
And her, talking like this... Here she was, one of the beautiful women, blonde and blue-eyed—and she didn't have anybody to go with to a stupid movie on Saturday night. Everyone thought because she was so beautiful she had to be sexy. Like, Beautiful = Must Want Sex.
Drove her crazy. Crazy!
'It's okay,' she had said in the middle, suddenly thinking about something, 'We don't need rubbers.'
But he knew that already. Someone told him that she never used rubbers. She looked after herself. Like that, she was a great girl in every way. For first time.
For first time, she was great. Really great.
Maybe for second too. Then he'd pass her on to somebody else.
Even happier than at Lindy's, when he first proposed, or so it seemed to him, was the day they left his Wall Street attorney's offices with a few papers signed. This even happier day, it seemed to him, she finally believed the thing would happen: They would be married, a marriage there would be.
And that night after that happy day was a very good binge with her....Very, very good. She had about three fits. And she almost craved being bounced and pounded into some kind of oblivion—or craved riding him into some sort of breakdown. Like it was a sexual rodeo, and she had to break something unbroken, his flawless prick. A miracle she didn't.
She said a woman who went after a man, and made it her business to marry him, was never ridiculous in the eyes of other women. But the woman had to succeed. Face it, she had to succeed. Only in failure might she be seen as such. Ridiculous. Success excused all.
To successfully pursue an eligible man—the wealthier, the better—unto marriage was something basic and admirable. Look what marrying a multi-millionaire had brought her. She gestured by opening her arms. Presumably he was meant to note her highly visible and expensive jewelry, her couture dress, her exquisitely styled hair and make up.
Conceded... He conceded she'd made a couple of valid points.
She was pleased.
Penis envy...in her thoughts.
Lately, she'd had this terrible, terrible thought: Was sex made for men—and not women?!
She means plain, simple, everyday vanilla-sex...
Five minutes, even less, was often what it took. In the case of the biker she'd recently picked up, been with, done that—less than a minute. He'd come, she hadn't.
And he'd come in under one stupid minute!
She couldn't have stopped him. Even had she tried.
She could have put a gun to that prick...
And she probably couldn't have come with this particular stupid male in an hour, and even with a gun up...
She'd like to perish, vanish this horrible thought. This horrible thought of every dumb male prick finding its stupid way—to easy, simple, everyday orgasm.
While she had to move herself, mood herself, move her world...Move ass, to get anything done. Anything!
How unfair! And many women gave up! Why would they not?
She was pretty angry, pretty wild, thinking this.
He felt sad. Not her fault. Once she was beautiful and young, and now it was sad.
Once she had so many men to fuck her, spend money on her, give her roles in movies...Buy her diamonds, even for a leather halter for a roof cat, say she wanted one. A diamond studded halter/tether for her cat that liked to walk on the roof.
Once she was beautiful and young and somebody bought her cat diamonds. Diamonds, once, for her and her cat too. She’d been that young, that beautiful. Once…
Girls kindled to him easily. Perfectly strange girls did.
Talking about a recent encounter with a cocktail waitress, he said all it would have taken were a few more little words. See, he'd already got a hand up in the semi-dark. Already. She just stood by his table, quite still, cocktail tray tucked under her arm.
He was, he said, weirdly minded to even shake a little salt on her pussy, and she'd have been his for the taking.
Idly, he was almost minded to pick up an actual salt cellar off the bar counter, and do it. Salt her, like she was a bird of some kind.
He'd already felt some telltale damp behind rough, bouncy bush. He could have probably shaken salt on her tail in a minute...and tagged her like some kind of bird.
See, she was also bored.
S was explaining one of his theories of male/female attraction… Strange thing is, he finds, the more genuinely bored you are, the more women like it. How strange, you might think. But not at all, not in the least. The hell if it ain’t so… The more bored you are, or the more you ignore them—the more they like it. True—oh absolutely, damnably, livingly true.
Amazing, yes, but true. According to S.
He looks at you with conviction. Now suppose you are, in fact, not bored—but, let us say, interested instead? Well, then, my friend, for God's Sake, pretend to be bored. Very bored. For God’s sake…pretend you must!
Can you win like this, pretending to be bored? According to S, you bet you can win.
If you can pretend to be truly and genuinely bored, the world of fucking is yours and all the pussy in it. Take this from S, take his personal guarantee.
If you can fake sincerity, if you are able to fake lack of interest—non-interest—in a woman who in fact very much has your attention, then you will have it made. Meaning you have a straight—practically a Bee-—line into and up her pussy.
Faking boredom sincerely is all it takes. S is completely, totally convinced. And the fact is he is highly successful with women. Very, very successful. And you can't ignore success.
He liked the idea that she was a virgin. He liked this very much. This idea appealed greatly to something in him, some primitive, deep down, instinctual, male thing. Nobody had ever been there before, you see, not in that pussy. Supposedly, anyway.
He wanted to believe, and he tried to believe...But he decided that what would have to do, instead, was the security of being the one inside her, at that moment, then.
As it happened, he was right to lower his expectations. When he found out later that she hadn't been a virgin after all it wasn't so bad. He said it helped. Lowering expectations…helped.
She wakes up…
She gets ready…
She goes to a party…
She parties all night…
She finds somebody to fuck.
She goes to sleep.
She wakes up...
In certain ways, these were—and continue to be—the best times of her life. Single, beautiful, wild L. So she says. The best...
And D is authorized to use his Canon camera anytime, anywhere, anyhow. And with L being in whatever altered state his lens records. Call this photojournalism. Art realite. And verite.
L has always wanted to be a superb model.
Famous and superb. Superb...her word.
But so far...this has not happened. And it is hard to think anything other than L must end badly. And probably without becoming a superb model either.
Why won't she?
She explained that once she started, she never stopped faking.
So to speak, never looked back. Why make trouble...?
She didn't want to put anybody down, not even jerks she went with on stupid, absurd, sickening one-night stands in Manhattan...
Not in her nature, see. Seemed only polite. Maybe she always tried too hard to please.
When she thought on it, one of them would have gone on forever—if he'd had to. Maybe she faked that one out of self defense. He was the biggest jerk of them all, and guess what, she found him at the Museum of Modern Art in front of the big Jackson Pollock.
He chewed her up so much she was sore for a week. Coming was obviously compulsory, his ego couldn't—would not—take no. You vill come, ja? With him you probably came or you died. When she spoke, she put on a pseudo German accent. She wanted to know whatever possessed her, in the first place?
She had a pretty face, what a pretty face, and her pretty face had been half the trouble. But still she preferred to have such a face and not an ugly one, okay? That was half her success. She was desired by all men.
And she knew they would help, most of these men. But...she would have to put out.
'Oh, poor, poor you...' Her voice very low, sympathetic.
He was describing what had happened.
Her hand brushed his hand away, reached down to him, moved over his shameful erection. 'You've been so good to me, haven't you? And surely, surely can't let you go on like this, can I...? Even if I am a virgin. Can't be that cruel, can I...? You will be gentle with me, your virgin girl, won't you? Be real nice to your virgin girl?'
Of course, as he discovered later, she wasn't a virgin at all. Not by a long way.
She holds fast onto him, giving him a little leg and hip crush, but nothing pelvic. Not the kind of pelvic crush she has in mind before the trip is over, given as part of her package, part of giving him the business end: one where she will walk into his arms and grind into him, breasts and Mount Venus and all, all in one big squinch.
Get him up, hard, fast.
Make some lead pipe again.
Maybe what he’d have loved while they slow fox trotted, a big pelvic crush rather than a ladylike, delayed backing off, with her spine curving.
But that depends on how everything goes, over the next few days, in this game being played between one man and one woman. A game she has thus far not particularly excelled in, nor greatly enjoyed. Why can’t it be that they just get married—without all this? Be nice, be really nice say they could. But it can’t… And even she knows that.
She feels not the least lessened, not the tiniest teensiest diminished. Not dishonored—nor dishonorable. Not at all, not any of that, kiddo.
Why in hell’s name for? Why should she?
She is, in fact, proud to have accomplished what she has accomplished.
Proud, proud, triumphant and proud! Who among women would not envy her what she has pulled off? Her triumph?
All that a woman has in the war with brutish, sex-driven men is what she has. Sex...
What else has a poor girl got?
Mrs Wallis Warfield Simpson, so the rumor goes, learned almost mystical ways of Chinese sex torture at the hands and sides of an ancient Chinese Madame.
These mystical Chinese sex tortures she practiced on the Prince of Wales so well that ever after he never wavered in his devotion to her, even giving up the Throne and Crown of England to be with her—and her alone.
Hell, since the Garden of Eden, in a line that stretched through Cleopatra of Egypt all the way to Mae West herself, all that a woman had, really and truly had, was what every woman had: the only thing men desired of them, madly, deeply and completely. If briefly...
Crazy not to use it. Crazy...
She lets him fool around with her in the half-light, she even grabs her ankles for him for him to see everything, every rounded curve, every crack, cranny and angle of her neatly shaven patch.
She has come so far, even so far as this.
He, apparently, is fixated on her—from behind.
She picked this up at the Newport Casino, and her sister too noticed his tennis shorts bulging away.
So she has to keep herself from toppling over into buckets of fresh paint.
But she will hold the thin line between her genitalia and her anus.
She will not allow that thin strip of smooth skin between to be crossed.
And this kind of thing won’t last forever.
God, will it all be so easy? All she has to do, to get away from all of this, is snag and land, him, finally?
Is that all? Snag, land…then go live in peace at his place.
They wait for Japanese Airlines in a darkened, empty airport coffee shop which is being redone. Ladders, buckets of paint, canvas on the floor and empty tables.
He fools around in the half-light with her in her loose, wide skirt, making her grab her ankles, showing her all the ways.
He piles her skirt over her back, pulls down her panties, and takes a little time to survey all the sensational bun she ever promised when she bent over—all the bun promised all that time ago back at the tennis.
In the half-light, his eyes fill to overflowing with firm round stirring curving sensational, wonder buns and pussy.
Hardening him into steel rod.
He makes his insertion into a slick, gauzy crack in the half-light. He keeps themselves from falling on fresh paint, and the smell of fresh paint is everywhere. They are having all the fun of their lives in Lima. God, why can’t they just keep repeating the last three days, forever.
‘Christ...’ But this doesn’t stop Ross, Christ.
‘You remind me of my father. A lot.’
‘Jesus...Yes, you are a passionate spirit, a free lover of men, and the salt of this earth too...But I think you’ll come to a bad end.’
Yes, he means it. It is probably true.
She shifts herself, trying to hold him, asks, ‘Oh, well...don’t we all? You ever been on speed, Ross?’
‘Uh huh, speed. See, I belong to the Fast Generation and we were raised on speed…Speed gets you back real fast. Great for fucking.’
‘Is that right?’
What sick, sick mania—what sexual phases of the moon—seemingly require a man to sleep in a different bed every night?
Is he already bored?
The hard, rasping kind of gasp that once rattled around his throat at Machu Picchu was by Hong Kong an easy, honey smooth sigh of sheerest satisfaction. And he was back in control.
But, God, could it have been as early as the Lima Sheraton?
God, God, surely not!
No...Nature surely cannot be that cruel, so unfeeling, that ruthless. Is pitiable man cursed and condemned to this? Pitiable, pitiable man.
This involves a trick with her husband’s cat.
She has trained the cat to approach men in a sweet and charming way by brushing itself around their legs, twisting itself against their preferably bare shins and ankles in a gentle and pleasantly sensual manner. The cat is well known in the building, and this action signals that it wishes to be taken home in the elevator. Accompanying the cat in the elevator, the man gets out on her apartment floor—and the cat leads whoever it is to her front door. Here the cat starts to meow repeatedly, in increasing volume until she appears to open the door.
This she does with a shy, thankful smile, and often in a state of undress, having ‘just showered.’
She is an artist, is imaginative, and somewhat unstable.
The cat appears to select men in some kind of random process, which possibly adds to the piquancy of the whole thing.The great irony is that the husband dotes totally on the cat, treating it more like a son than a mere animal.
You know, he went on, in the month before we married, we had more sex in that time than in a year these days. Sex had been freely given, with what looked like enthusiasm too, practically anytime and anywhere.
Now all it did was cost. Cost him time, money, and doing things. And all that still was not enough. More cost, less sex. He ended up, he said, doing it by hand.
He seemed to be looking for sympathy, empathy, something. His eyes got distant.
Yeah well, he went on, thank God for Molly Palm and her five daughters. And the fact that he never left home without them, being joined at the wrist, so to speak. Ha! Ha! He never had to look for them either, when the time came, see. And cost him nothing. His laugh, when it came, was small.
A Little Fever goes a long, long way, though. Long enough for him. And he has Two.
They both seem to want a piece of little him, so why not?
Let them work out who gets what, when and who sleeps where. He doesn’t mind.
All life is about...easy orgasms, many as possible. And, if you are fortunate, a gentle death in the night.
And how does he know this? In mid-orgasm he does not ask where he is, or where he is going, or why. He knows. He is, just is. Jolted into pleasurably being, knowing this is where he wants to be.
Life is as many easy orgasms as you can have, and then you die—and if you are very fortunate, you die fucking.
Among the rawest, sweetest, most powerful is this: A candid, matte blow up of a young woman fitting a tampon. Totally innocent, wholly honest, fully female, summing up what it is...to be a Young Woman with Tampon.
Summing up A Would-be Model. Disturbing, memorable, without guile, and without question original. No question.Her old Swiss art teacher would be proud.
Unposed pictures—genuine, truly unposed pictures—of her, say, rising from a water closet seat from behind the unclosed door; her, riding a pillow, to plain, simple everyday fantastical masturbatory orgasm; and her heaped on her bed, collapsed under a handful of mellow yellows.
Her…candid, unposed, kneeling on a carpet, legs slightly apart in a Y, her short party dress riding above sheer white panties, her face stretching into a yawn—Is this end of a late night or start of an early morning?—and tugging at her thin shoulder strap with one hand, with the other searching her exposed crotch.
French women were extremely sour, and they were constipated at the most inconvenient times. This often made sex unpredictable.
Chinese women, in particular, he said, found oral sex unclean and distasteful.
Asian men, in general, he said, came with smaller ‘packages.’ So that during the Vietnam War era Afro-American men enjoyed high demand.
How he knew all this was not clear, but knew it he did. He spoke with great authority.
His most politically incorrect statement he saved for last…Jewish women, he said, were great in bed but monsters anywhere else. Except for his mother, they were all hookers. And looking around for his wife as he spoke—looking out of the corner of his eye, and with his mouth twisted towards his listener—he added, more softly, ‘They can also hear things at great distances.’
When he heard her say this, far from being envious, all he could feel was involuntary, sharp pain. And he could not bump into her again without feeling discomfort.
She murmurs softly to him, in her slightly insane musical tones. He will listen well.
‘I don’t know why I am going to tell you this. But I suppose it is because I know you will go away soon, accustomed as I have grown to you. You will go away soon, and I will leave you with something of me.’
‘You have already. You have given me everything.’ True, no longer was he a boy. She has made him something...something more.
‘No, no, no.’ She shakes her head, remonstrating with him. ‘Not everything. And this...’ She points at the two of them in the mirror overhead, lying naked in the sun, on her bed of black satin sheets, ‘...is not everything. For a woman. Even for me.’
Fucking for her, it seems, is not everything. He nods his head, waiting for her to continue…
She doesn’t. The great secret is out. Has been told.
God, how much prompting does he need? Looking down, like some country boy…at a country fair. She says, ‘What would you have done? Say I’d been one of your daughters’ friends...And you ran across me in Paris...And I was drinking cocktails alone, looking out of everything. Lonely little damsel...’
Gaaawd, must she start flashing green lights, all over, like some road sign…Lonely little damsel, in distress. Gaaawd’s Sake!
‘I’d say, Listen, aren’t you...? You’d say, Yes I am, and then I’d say, Why don’t you have dinner with me? Anyway, coffee. Madge, or maybe Jenny, will never forgive us...’
Congratulations! ‘So why don’t we play act?’ Like Madge or Jenny will never forgive them, right?
Say she doesn’t fuck their father.
The Woman tends to hint at having an unusually strong libido.
The Man tends to hint that a long term commitment is feasible.
Men decide the issue by asking themselves: ‘Is a one night stand possible tonight?’
Women decide the issue by asking themselves: ‘Can I see myself with this man for the rest of our lives?’
Very first impressions—whether conscious or not—made within three seconds on meeting, decide everything, it is said.
Once he creates an orgasm by gently tugging—finally sharply—her pubic hairs.
He plays her pubic hairs like they are harp strings while he makes her watch Sixty Minutes in full.
All he does, he plays her pubic hairs, gently, from A minor through K major to Z flat. And then, finally, sharply...Very.
And when she screams her way around that particular mountain, oboy how she does. Something rattles so hard in her throat—some choking, strangled cry—he is startled into minor panic.
She had wanted to move in, he didn't let her. She'd wanted him to meet her folks, he wouldn't. She had asked if they could fit in a quick trip together to Paris, France—maybe even Madrid on the way back. Found it on the Net. Practically cost nothing. Pleeease. Liked to have seen the Prado with him. He couldn't make it, no time see. You see, ABC, CDE...MBA. You see, you know, the Course. He had to finish Harvard. Why was he in Boston?
She had wanted just a week end in Newport, Rhode Island. All I ask. You work too hard. Should relax a little. See Cliff Walk. Maybe walk on Cliff Walk. Cliff Walk was not Paris, nor the Prado, but it was something. He couldn't do that either.
So what was there for her?
And he'd had to agree.
Pieces of the relationship were falling down all around her.
He'd had to agree.
You know the relationship is breaking up when pieces of what you have invested yourself in keep falling down all around you—and on your head and heart. And he'd had to agree.
Damn Post Menstrual Torment, as opposed to damn Pre Menstrual Terror. Damn, damn, damn. Triple damn.
Strokes are fine, give her the morning jolt. A steady strum on her yum yum.
She does not truly wake up, does she? Not without her clit calling, talking, saying...Hand, in hell you been, I need you down here.
Gets her big, sleepy eyes open, okay. But all the same, she likes fucking better. Yes, just the same, she does. Fucking older guys.
For some reason or the other. Some weird reason. What can that mystic reason be?
All because daddy didn't love his itty bitty wittle princess into teeny weeny pieces—or just love her to the moon and back? Is this all?
Daddy dearest didn't love her. Naughty, naughty daddy.
Not that he doesn't get bored too. He is bored, right now. Sense failure, call it failure of his bright red-blooded, American-male senses. His senses fail him sometimes, they are so overloaded, especially with the Same One, over and over again. Fail him like almost happened tonight, before alighting in this bar, sitting down, drinking.
True, he has lived—and lives—on, off, by and for pussy. What red-blooded... Still does.
The sight, taste, smell, feel—and—sound of pussy.
What is life, after all?
It's pussy, stupid.
But sometimes even his senses fail him. Even he can get bored, can't always get it up. Happens.
She was not happy that she had none, but neither was she especially unhappy.
She was handling not having orgasms...but then she edged into feeling guilty. She felt guilty about him feeling guilty.
She began to feel guilty, and after that, guilty and ashamed.
It seemed to her everybody in the world had great, shattering, overwhelming orgasms—except her. Even her mother did.
The twist in her psychology began...
And then still run off with somebody else the next morning.
Men had short memories. What turned a man on even more—much more—than a good woman who listened to his sports or war time exploits...was sex. Actual sex.
And she'll say this again, see, her mother would say, because this was the truth...Even if she, her daughter, didn't like hearing her mother say this again and again, which she didn't.
Given the choice between sex and even the most wonderful one-sided conversation about sports and war time exploits, a man took sex every time. And he also took sex ahead of flower arrangements, painting and glazing Easter eggs, making beds with crisp, sharp corners or ironing sharp, crisp shirt collars. Every time.
And she, her daughter, better know it.
Has her wondering, that—a little.
It stayed up all night at the party.
But he has not been focused. He has not been himself. His mind is elsewhere. And she doesn't press him. She guesses that buying banks, whatever, isn't always a breeze.
And Cosmo said, Nothing to worry about...Happens.
The survey he read has this more or less correct. Jeez, Einstein too.
Same survey had black guys thinking about sex every twenty one seconds.
Jeez! Can this be so?
Even though he asked a black guy in the office, and the black guy said he thought about sex not every twenty one seconds but all the time.
Can't be, though, can it?
Good, clean, guaranteed fun.
God, will any man ever come up to her vibrator?
Relationships are like this, so too with relationships. He has himself blown more than a few.
And he sees with a sad clarity the tragic side to this inbuilt obsolescence in nature.
Anyway, tragic side or not, the attraction, a place to stay, whatever his cocktail waitress once had for him at the start of summer is over with the very first turning leaves of fall.
With the end of that summer, whatever had been was and is no more, and never will be again. Kind of, a light bulb fused. He heard the ping one morning, lying in bed, she by his side, trying. A bad moment to blow, like it usually was.
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