PUSSY: A Think Piece.
Why?
Why in God’s green and vast and beautiful earth, would you want to
murder pussy?
Like, the textbook definition of what murder includes, besides doing extensive time in the penal system — unless ya’ money long like Diddy or you’re white — is not for games or play play. But, yet, here we are, as the uncivilized, and sometimes archaic cavemen we is, telling women we gonna murder their pussies.
Like, kill.
In fact, a lot of the terminology used for coital relation between gents and the opposite sex sounds downright abusive:
“Hit that.”
“Smash that.”
“Fuck that.”
“Bang that.”
That, in a very distant 3rd person noun tense; that as in, I have no connection to this object, this thing, which goes along with the notion that this thing, which is a body part attached to another human being, has no real importance besides being something we can use for our pleasure and enjoyment, much like one plays a video game, or eats a sanmich.
Yeah, sanmich. Bruh Man from the fif’ flo’ would agree.
Language is power. Words are power. The choices we make with those words, with this language, can dictate how we approach life and the people in our lives and how they are affected by them. Growing up in a neighborhood where a woman’s vagina wasn’t really classified as hers; it was something to be controlled, mastered…dominated, shapes how you think and interact with said population. Corner and barbershop conversations normally described conquests that could have been torn from the pages of Iceberg Slim lore. And one-upmanship is the phrase that plays in these parts; the more lewd and disrespectful, the better.
I wasn’t immune to it. As early as grade school, it was all about getting your dick sucked, and having sex with all the pretty girls while ya’ momma wasn’t home. This from the boy who barely even knew what his dick could do until like 9th grade, and damn near cried when his pee landed everywhere but the toilet bowl after the first time he masturbated, and ain’t lose his virginity until 19-20 years of age.
We traded tales of fucking that were unbelievable in theory, but felt real and needed, because what is more important than the frail thing that is the male ego?
Answer:
Everything, in case you was wondering.
The shit starts early. And the music I was listening to didn’t help. Far be it for us to forget the tale of Dee Barnes, the once very popular journalist who hosted one of my favorite shows Pump It Up on Fox 5, way before we had the luxury of cable in our household, who was the victim of a verbal and physical beat down by the likes of a Mr. Andre Young aka Dr. Dre, multi-millionaire former member of NWA and Death Row fame, who can now be seen being played by a very talented young man in a NWA biopic. I can recall very accurately how Dee’s account of the story got swept under the rug that is the history of hip-hop misogyny; and also me at a young age not really giving two flying fucks because, hey, who cares as long as they give us the art we be asking for, right? Plus it fit the narrative of bitches ain’t shit and the now popular these hoes ain’t loyal that gets sung in playgrounds way before the wheels on the bus…
So a fuck a bitch there, and a fuck a bitch here and here a bitch, there a bitch, everywhere a bitch ain’t seem too flagrant of a cause. I mean, R. Kelly peeing on underage girls in a video that we saw, as in, was available for public consumption, still ain’t stop dude from wearing a mask, trapping motherfuckers in a closet, and calling himself The Pied Piper. It sure ‘nuff hasn’t stopped Chris Brown from almost beating the shit out of his lady in broad daylight and jet skiing with Usher the next day like he’d just won a Grammy. Ain’t stop Ray Rice from hitting his wife with a closed fist like it was 4th and 1, and proceeding to drag her lifeless body around on camera, as if he had practiced the routine in the mirror before they left the house.
There are a slew of entertainers, professionals, blue-collar 9-to-5’ing brothers who have gotten their thrills from the mistreatment and harm of the opposite sex.
Heck, the motherfuckin’ dude selling Subway sanmiches was out here tryna’ tell prostitutes to find him young girls to have sex with…
The dude selling sanmiches, my G! Like, what the fuck is wrong with the male species?
I only mess with Blimpie’s, anyway.
Don’t be fooled. We’ve been groomed for this:
“Own that pussy.”
“Beat the pussy up.”
“Whose pussy is this??”Hers.
It’s hers, I would imagine, and assume. We are literal slaves to the pussy. Even the word pussy, like a kitten, to be stroked; like a pet to be owned.
This is what, as men, as a society, we’ve been taught:
That a woman’s body is to be of service to the person who is requesting the service of it.
Sometimes, the service isn’t requested, but taken. Taken because, as the genius that is Nasir Jones once suggested with pride ‘You owe me’. Nah, shun. She doesn’t.
We gotta do, and be, better. We gotta deconstruct how we talk and view our conversation about women and their placement in the world; frankly by acknowledging that their place and our place are equal…
And a majority of the time we, as men, would do ourselves a big favor by shutting the entire fuckety fuck up about what women decide they want to, or not want to, do with their bodies.
Because it’s theirs.
Bodies, much like feelings, are not meant to be policed. You see what the actual police do to us? Yeah, that’s what you do as a man when you decide you have the authority and moral right to tell a woman, another human being, what she can, can’t, should, and shouldn’t do with herself and her body, champ.
A young lady carried a bed around her campus for an entire school year to send a message. Message received. Let’s stop being fuckboys, myself included. This ain’t soapbox dishing here. I’ve had some real backwards, backwoods ass ways of thinking and speaking when it came to the opposite sex. Live and learn and then teach. Teach our young boys and young men about respect, and love and that humans aren’t property.
Ever.
The end.
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