Consent — Part One
I came of age immediately after the advent of the pill, and the ensuing twenty-five years — until AIDS spoiled the party — were the halcyon days of low-risk, no commitment sex. Venereal diseases were relatively rare in my social circles, and in any case were readily treatable with antibiotics, as no drug-resistant strains had yet emerged. By the late 1960s, the post-Haight Ashbury Summer of Love phenomenon had eviscerated any lingering stigma or inhibition from my generation and we wasted no time capitalizing on our new-found liberation. Upon graduation, I was already running with the fastest crowd in Chicago, taking full advantage of a cornucopia of hedonistic delights. Not surprisingly in hindsight, women led the charge, wasting no time embracing the freedom from unwanted pregnancy. This was also the time of the Stonewall Riots in New York, which led to a forced societal normalization and acceptance of homosexuality. While our elders watched in horror, my generation simply refused to be schooled or restrained. We discarded their stifling morality and rewrote the rules as we experienced life — on our own terms, uninhibited and promiscuous to an astonishing degree — literally spawning numerous orgies and multi-partner spontaneous events. The scourge of identity politics was decades in the future; hence, my partners included women of multiple races: White, Black, Asian, Latina. Not during that time nor since have I ever experienced an iota of regret. It was an unabashedly wonderful era. In the process I lost count of how many women I had been with sometime in the early-to-mid-1970s, but I would hazard that by the time the hedonistic party came to an end in the mid-1980s, it might have aggregated to one hundred and twenty over many hundreds of individual encounters. After that time, I added roughly thirty sexual partners for a grand total of approximately one hundred fifty.
What’s the point of this exposé? Simply that it’s a large enough sample size over a long enough time period and in geographically diverse areas of the country, including both coasts, such that I can draw a few conclusions, anecdotal as they may be.
Or more accurately, the lack thereof. I’ve been involved with only two women who had genuinely, by clinical definition, been raped. The first, a lovely young woman I had dated in the mid-1980s, was some years later raped and murdered on her way to a drug store one evening, a truly tragic, heartrending event. The second, in the mid-1990s was raped by her boyfriend after a break-up. It was a devastating experience for her. She had her attacker charged, but he was acquitted. The trauma left her unable to initiate or respond to sexual intimacy of any kind. I’ve always been known as a gentle, slow hand, bringing women to a heightened state of arousal long before coitus, but this did not ameliorate the psychological damage she suffered. After making no headway for fourteen frustrating months, and unable to convince her to seek professional help, I gave up.
Anyway, 2:150 translates to 1.3% — above, as it turns out, the actual incidence of rape according to the FBI (3.2 per 1000, or 0.03%). Notwithstanding that the federal Bureau of Justice Statistics reported that from 2006 to 2011, 65% of sexual assaults went unreported, do the math and the revised figure would be just over 0.05%. Feminist propaganda would have one believe that one in four or one in five women are sexually assaulted in college, but this is a perfect example of a fabricated lie that won’t die or mutate despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, because one of the rules of propaganda is to repeat lies ad nauseam on the presumption — probably correct — that they will eventually be accepted as gospel by unquestioning masses. As we know, feminism is a spiritual, some would say Procrustean, movement insulated by unassailable scripture utterly impervious to logic or factual evidence. The study their lie is based on was a designed to ‘prove’ an outcome decided upon in advance, as so many — if not all — of these gender and women’s studies researchers are incentivized to produce in order to legitimize their ideology, achieve elevated status in the sisterhood, and pay the rent. If one defines sexual assault as men approaching women innocently to request a date, or the execrably absurd notion of the ‘toxic’ male gaze, it becomes easy to game any desired result.
It Ain’t All That
The eighty-twenty rule applies here. Fully four fifths of my sexual encounters were eminently forgettable. In that context, even now, decades later, a dim memory occasionally flashes across my consciousness, and I think, “Oh yeah, I did fuck her”. These encounters were a waste of time, money and “bodily fluids”, to borrow a line from the seminal film Doctor Strangelove.
There were numerous reasons for this, including plain old deceit. In around ten percent of these rejects, I would get a woman home and her concealing garments would reveal a roll of fat around her midriff. Priapism is rather essential for a man, and that for me was enough to make a strap-on go limp. Others had more padding than a linebacker. By the time they stripped down they were barely recognizable as female. In one such case, when I zipped up and asked the offender to leave, she assaulted me physically. I literally had to throw her out.
Another automatic rejection occurred — twenty to thirty percent of the time — if a woman did not permit oral sex (not fellatio, women almost universally ‘suck’ at that — pun resolutely intended), but cunnilingus and anilingus. These were not negotiable for me. I had fantasized about this virtually in lockstep with the advent of wet dreams at age eleven. Imposition of such a prohibition absolutely was a boner killer if a woman had a nice ass that I couldn’t visit.
In another ten percent of cases, women had a singularly ugly vagina. Explanation needed here: I am speaking only for myself and my esthetic sensibilities; what repels me undoubtedly turns other men on. For me, the only worthwhile view of a woman’s pudenda is from the rear and below, especially while she is ‘gaping’. Gaping refers to the spreading of the buttocks to reveal the full spectrum of her labia major and perineum, from clitoris to the anus and beyond to the expression of the coccyx, including surrounding musculature. When the labia minor hangs like a curtain and has the texture of cauliflower, it is for me a turn-off, as is a pronounced perineal raphe, an external extension of the fourchette that appears to crawl into the anus. If women have similar prohibitions, I’ve never heard them expressed. In my experience, women mostly fixate on the length and girth of the erect penis.
Thirty or forty percent of women exhibited what I called ‘halibut’ behavior, referring to the fish that lies on the bottom of the ocean with both eyes on one side of its body. They would sprawl motionless, expecting to be pleasured, but not lift a figurative finger to provide pleasure — or for that matter even express interest as to whether the man experienced anything resembling pleasure.
There were other anomalies, not common, but in the aggregate contributed to my rejection rate. It may be a high rate, but I have no idea how other men felt on these subjects, or if they even had the courage to voice their assessments. For example, I never had a problem with pubic hair until it invaded the area around the anus. I remember one young woman, a reporter with the local newspaper in a downstate city, who had so much fur on her back and buttocks she belonged in a zoo. I couldn’t even find her pudenda in the thickets. There were other issues on that occasion. She claimed not to be a lesbian, but had a roommate that expressed psychotic behavior at our sexual intimacy behind a closed bedroom door. There was something unnerving going on that I really did not care to explore.
So out of the one hundred fifty, that left thirty women even worth being with more than once, and half that number again that satisfied over a longer period of time. Ten percent. Pathetic! I could easily write a book on this topic, but I need to move on with this post.
Addendum: After reading this post, a friend called to boast in jest that my vaunted legendary status was at risk because he could count over two hundred sexual partners in his similarly dissipated youth. I responded with a joke I heard half a century ago, germane to his observation:
An Indian chief called his tribe together late one season and gravely said, I have some good news and some bad news. First the bad news. As we all know, the hunt was poor this year and we only have buffalo shit to eat this winter. The good news is we have lots of buffalo shit.
The most common myth is that men seduce women. It’s actually the other way around. It’s not called a siren song for nothing. As any self-possessed alpha male will tell you, no success is possible in mating without a ‘come hither’ look or gesture inviting approach. If it’s not there, the man is wasting his time. The aware man can easily recognize desire in a woman’s eyes. Other signals include a flushing of the skin, a turning of the head to reveal her neck, or her hand caressing her face. I believe — although I have no hard evidence — that women emit a pheromonal signal. It’s not physical in the strict sense of an olfactory trail, but rides on an emotional wave of intent. If the desired man is interested and likes what he sees, this will reel him in like a shiny lure draws a hapless pike.
As social anthropologist Robert Briffault accurately observed, “The female, not the male, determines all the conditions of the animal family. Where the female can derive no benefit from association with the male, no such association takes place.” (The Mothers, Vol. I p. 191) If anyone thinks we as a species have transcended our animal origins, they need merely to observe mating dynamics in the natural world. Take any primate colony, for example, and it becomes clear that the female presents her buttocks in a ‘gaping’ mode to invite a particular male. Generally, the dominant alpha will couple with half the females. Lesser males in the pecking order will fall off quickly, and roughly half the males receive no invitation.
Women initiated the sexual revolution in the 1960s, augmenting a pair bonding dynamic already well established throughout human history. This was unequivocally my experience from the front lines of the counterculture. Although I and many of my male friends were understandably willing ‘stud horses’ for the rapacious sexual appetites of women suddenly released from cultural incarceration, we were never confused as to who ran the show. They chose; we consented. It’s that simple. Patriarchy theory, had it even been voiced by anyone in my extensive sexual circles would have been met with incredulity. In the West, such a ridiculous notion was then and is to this day totally antithetical to men’s actual “lived experience”, to expropriate a phrase from feminist orthodoxy.
The party ended with the specter of AIDS and to a lesser extent, genital herpes, during the lesbian sex wars following Second Wave Feminism. In my circles, we had card-carrying members of sex-positive feminists, and they tended to be sensuous and good-looking, sometimes downright beautiful, in marked contrast to hideous roadkill like Andrea Dworkin, who anchored (literally and figuratively), the anti-pornography opposition. The sex-positive feminists, whom we fully embraced, tended to view the anti-pornography crowd as pushing sexual puritanism, promoting moral authoritarianism and suppressing free speech.
During the ensuing decades, feminism promulgated outright falsehoods and quasi-religious junk science to establish its legitimacy in the academic arena as well as its endless claims to victim status, garnering a disproportionate share of public funds in the process. Serious degradation to equity in law followed, distorting the social contract in favor of women by vilifying all things masculine. This will be the subject of the second part of this exposition. Stay tuned.