All of this and Passionate Kisses

Maybe it’s the heat that’s making me nostalgic or the good music pouring out of my speakers. But I was thinking of my first kiss.

It was very nice. I was in seventh grade playing Truth or Dare at the party of a girl I don’t remember much about except that she seemed always on the verge of being very pissed off at someone. This big lunky boy named Kenny was sitting next to me and he was dared to kiss me. And so he did, leaned right over and softly kissed me right on the mouth.

After a little bit, he reached over and took my hand.

I had never talked to him before and I didn’t talk to him after that.

My first real kiss–like the French do it–was my sophomore year of high school. I kissed a boy at church! Brilliant, really, because the whole church-going thing was what was preventing me from being kissed in the first place and kissing boys at church solved that little dilemma. I liked it as well, even though he wasn’t very good at it.

We spent much of the evening making out and then he said, “whatever else you want to do, you’re going to have to take the lead.” Whatever else I want to do? Until that moment, I wasn’t even really sure people kissed each other like that and now he wants me to take the lead? To where? I surely had no idea.

Well, I had some idea of where to go. I just didn’t know how to even start to get there.

My first foray into the menage a trois happened that same year. No sex, just two awkward girls sitting on either side of a Presbyterian minister’s son wearing nothing but his tighty-whiteys, giving us each sweet kisses until my dad knocked on the door, opened it, looked confused, shook his head, said the minister’s son’s mom was here to get him, and shut the door back again.

Ten years later, I kissed a girl for the first time. It was also very nice. I was dressed like a cat, but she was wearing my ears.

My favorite kiss was in Chicago after dinner with an old, old friend, who bought me dinner and smiled shyly and then, as I turned to go back to my hotel room, grabbed my arm and turned me around and kissed me for a long time. I begged him to come up to my hotel room and he begged me to take the train out to his place and, when both of us realized we were more concerned about the morning commute than getting it on, we kissed again, much differently, and he went home alone.

Obviously, Elias Likes Me Better than You

Well, unless you are JR, but otherwise…

In the mail today, from Elias himself, I got Shake Hands with Shorty, and two R.L. Burnside CDs–Too Bad Jim and Wish I was in Heaven Sitting Down.

How awesome is that?

Must I holler? Must I shake, shake ’em on down?

Clearly, I must.

Yes, Feminism Again. Suck it up.

Last night I had the most surreal online discussion about… well, a lot of things. Read it here if you want.

But the whole thing bugs the shit out of me.

One, why do we just accept that men are shitty and that women need to be protected from them? Doesn’t that piss you guys off, that the kind of default belief is that you’re going to hurt each other and us? And, to go back to our previous discussion, this is exactly one of the reasons we’re afraid of you, because you tell us that we should be afraid of you.

Shoot, it’s clear to me that we still so desperately need feminism because we women are so fucked up in so many ways. But Christ Jesus, this whole conversation reaffirmed to me that we really need to chuck the whole system for the sake of everyone.

And two, again, feminism is not a moral position. Part of the work we have to do is to insist that women criminals be seen for what they are, criminals. Shit, apparently, we have to insist that people recognize that women are capable of committing crimes at all.

This idea that a thirteen year old boy isn’t really the victim of a crime when a 27 year old woman has sex with him is flabbergasting. Of course it’s a crime that has the potential to do a lot of damage to him.

Which brings me to three. It’s very interesting how we’re right back to the idea that, with sex crimes, somehow the victim “deserves” it. Sure, it’s slightly different. A woman who’s raped “deserves” it because she led the man on or dressed provocatively or whatever. A boy who is raped “deserves” it because of his presumably voracious sexual appetite.

Her rape is a punishment for who she is. His rape is a reward for who he is. But still, we’re talking in terms of “deserves.”

I wonder when we’ll be able to just assume that children deserve to be free from being used by adults for their own sexual pleasure and that any adult, regardless of gender, deserves to have his or her ass carted to prison for a long time for fucking with them.