Sexy Healthy Wealthy

So I have this friend, I’ll call her “Nicole”, and she is SO passionate about vaginas that she passes out literature on the street for them.  NO, not the “collector” girly playing cards they throw at you near the Strip in Las Vegas (which are always fun to re-distribute on BYU campus)…I’m talking about some really intriguing stuff, which I’d like to share with you today in her honor.  We had this woman ask us for money on the street in Philadelphia in the middle of the night because her boyfriend had left her there and we (Nicole) sent her off with some money and this article from the “Biting Beaver.”  I figure if it’s good enough for a crackhead on the street, it’s good enough for you.

It’s kind of long…but it is well worth it.  And besides, like all good missionaries, Nicole WILL FIND YOU.  Here it is:

SWORD OF POWER

I think many of us have experienced That Moment. That moment we think we see the light, that moment of Power. The first moment may have been the moment in Middle School, maybe High School for ‘late bloomers’ that moment when we wore a shorter skirt than we normally did to school and suddenly, the boys who previously ignored us, flocked to us.

Perhaps we had The Moment when we were in our boyfriend’s car necking on a Friday night when we were supposed to be at the movies. The Moment when he looked at you and you saw something on his face that was strange, alien. Before The Moment girls were something to be avoided by boys, we were perhaps picked on, teased for having ‘cooties’. We spent our days at school watching other girls being teased or getting their asses grabbed. Maybe we saw the young boys gather around a certain girl and cry out things like, “Itty Bitty Titty Committee!” or, maybe we saw them snapping the strap on her brand-new training bra. Maybe we had seen the boys, standing at the bottom of the stairwell, taking turns looking up the stairs at the girls who were wearing skirts. Perhaps we saw that the girl was, in effect, helpless. There was no recourse available to her. Maybe we even watched, horrified, when she went to a teacher and we saw the teacher pat her on the head and tell her, “Boys will be Boys. Just ignore them honey and they’ll stop”.

There was certainly A Moment that came before the moment in the car. The first Moment, the moment when we realized with shock and a little bit of horror, that boys could act in almost any way they wanted in regard to our girlfriends and come out of it unscathed, or with only a slight warning from a teacher. We saw the boys acting with impunity, maybe we watched them circle around our girl-friends and take turns touching her ass while she circled and tried to play it off like she was laughing and joking with them rather than being the proverbial butt of the joke. Nevertheless most girls realized, rather early on, that we were helpless in the face of the boys.

If you were like me you may have beat the shit out of them back in Elementary School, while you were still physically able to do so. But all of that changed in Middle School. When we came back to school after a summer of climbing trees and romping with our friends we saw that the boys were much bigger than we were. They were also more aggressive than we remembered as well as louder and more brazen. Soon, many of us knew which girls we should avoid, which ones brought the most amount of torment onto themselves by some mechanism which may still be elusive to us. We watched as they went to the teachers, telling them that so and so boy snapped their bra-strap, or so and so boy touched their butt or even dry-humped them on the playground. We watched as the teachers wearily pulled the young offender to the side and reprimanded him half-heartedly and we watched as the same group of boys teased the ‘tattle-tail’ relentlessly on the schoolyard. We watched and we had A Moment.

We realized that we were powerless. There was probably fear, the fear of having them zone in on you, the fear of finding the group of boys as we rounded a corner in the hallway. I think that, to varying degrees, women have gone through this all over the country. Our times in school were a time when we realized that we were not, and never could be, Just Another Person.

We probably watched the boys calling each other ‘Sissy’, the very term that our Mothers and Fathers called us, but they were using it derogatorily, they were using our pet-name as an insult. We probably heard them laughing at one another, telling the weaker boy that he “Threw like a girl”, but…but…We were girls! What was this? We probably heard them taunt another boy who was crying on the playground by saying something like, “Cry little girl! Cry!!” and we looked at ourselves and thought, “Is there something wrong with being a girl?”

But all that changed, didn’t it? During our first years in school we had The Moment when we realized we were powerless from all but the most heinous of teasing. We learned that having our asses grabbed and being tormented about our breast size or having our bra-straps pulled were part and parcel of our lot as girls. It probably happened slowly, insidiously, until we realized, maybe many years later, that boys made us feel powerless, weak, afraid, and maybe even ashamed. Later we found another Moment, a Moment in which we saw Power.

That Moment may have been in the passenger side of the car, maybe it was at your parents’ house when they were out for the evening. You may have been kissing your boyfriend and you opened your eyes and saw….something. Something so alien that it failed to register in your consciousness, but your lizard brain got it, your lizard brain speaks that language and recognized what you saw. Power. For that brief moment you looked at him and knew, somehow, that he would do whatever you wanted if you would let him touch your breasts, or let him give you a hickey or let him do whatever it was that he may have wanted to do.

The Boy, the ever-powerful boy was giving you Power. The same boy who tortured you in 3rd or 4th grade. The same boy who ruthlessly pulled bra-straps and led the gang of other boys to touch your friend’s ass while she was walking down the hallway. The same boy who grabbed your purse and rooted through it, looking for the tampon or maxi-pad that they knew was in there. The boy who then pulled it out and stuck it to the floor or the wall or who just played “Keep away” with it until you were almost in tears from embarrassment but were too afraid to cry. The girls didn’t help, they just watched, terrified of bringing that wrath down onto themselves if they said anything. The teacher only mildly scolded them and you most likely went away feeling ashamed for being so upset. That very same boy was now looking at you with a look of Submission. A look of Desire. Desire so fierce that you knew that Power, the only Power you may have ever been allowed, resided in that gaze.

This is the Second Moment in our lives. The Moment we note that our boyfriends bulging crotch and bulging eyes gave us Power. From there on out we tried our best to recapture that Power. We curled our hair, we slathered our faces with makeup, we wore short skirts and shirts that showed the beginnings of our cleavage. We jostled with the other girls, competing for The Power. This was a new thing to us, this Power. We thought that we finally had insight, that we finally understood. Our sex was powerful if we flaunted it.

From there on out we turned on our girlfriends, getting angry at the girl who wore the short skirt and who was surrounded by the troop of boys. We saw the looks in their eyes and knew that she had The Power. We called her whore and slut, because we thought that she had The Power. And she did, didn’t she? The boys didn’t torment her in the same way. Instead, they seemed to accept her, to want to be around her. She seemed to be safe as long as she kept them desiring her. When she was desired they treated her well, they didn’t snap her bra, they didn’t torment her ruthlessly, they seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be treating her kindly and with respect.

“So,” we thought, “That is where Power lies”. And we believed it. We jostled for position, trying to be the one that stood out above the others. We learned that Power lay in the hands of boys and men.

I did all of this and more. I sought that Power for most of my life. I turned myself into the proverbial sex-kitten, evoking and wielding That Power like a sword, brandishing my sex for all to see, watching the men go glassy-eyed and slack-jawed as I gyrated on the dance floor in some bar late at night. My Power, my sense of self, was utterly reliant on THEM. And it was in this that I found the paradox of my supposed Power.

It occurred to me at some point that the Power I wielded was only an illusion of Power. My Power was utterly and completely dependent on men. All those years I thought I held a large Sword of Power and suddenly, I realized that my sword was a gift, given to me by the men who wanted me to believe I had Power. The edges were dull and it could not cut, it could not wound in any real capacity and then it became clear. The Power in my sword was false and I saw the sword for what it really was, a cheap Made-in-Taiwan plastic imposter.

It slowly dawned on me that Power given from the Powerful to the weak based upon the weak’s ability to entertain the Powerful was not Power at all. In other words, the Power I thought I had was only there because I chose to submit to the people who held the Real Power. The Men. Men were the keepers of ‘Real Power’ and I had succumbed to the inherent bargain. That bargain was that I was allowed to feel Powerful if I acted in the way that they wanted me to. I was allowed to feel Powerful as long as I continued to make them feel more Powerful than me. Make no mistake about it, all my capering and dancing and wooing served to make them feel MORE Powerful than me. They had the Power of the King and I had the Power of the Court Jester, Powerful only as long as I kept the King entertained.

I looked around and realized that I had been jostling for the position of Court Jester and you know what? I got that title, I got it and I wore it, but I thought it was a different title.

As the years flew by and the men got older I had to do more and more to keep my title intact. At first, way back in those early years, I had only to wear a short skirt. Then, I had to let a boy put his hand up my shirt, then down my pants. Finally, I had to let him inside of me and even that wasn’t enough to keep The Power. Soon, I had to writhe and contort my body in an effort to keep The Power I had been given. I began to live and breathe for the pleasure of men. Delighting in the scraps of Power I was allowed to have. Later, I had to pretend that I liked anal sex, I had to pretend that the man I was with was pleasuring me greatly. I had to scream and gyrate, I had to succumb to being called names like ‘Whore’ and ‘Slut’ and pretend I enjoyed it. As the years dragged on I had to work harder to keep my plastic sword, I had to scream louder and act more sheepish, I had to dumb-myself down for I realized that few Men liked it when I was more intelligent than they.

The day I looked down and realized my sword was plastic I realized I had also been duped. That I had sold myself to be the Court Jester. I had become the Porn-star, I had become ‘Every Man’s Fantasy’ I had managed to become the ‘Object of Desire’. There was nothing you could do to me that was too degrading, nothing that was off-limits. I craved that look in their eyes like a Junkie jonesing for a fix. It was, after all, the only ‘real’ Power I had ever known. Every man who met me lusted after me, my boobs were presented in push-up bras like fruits to be picked. My hair was styled in the fashion of ‘Just had hot-monkey-sex’ look, my eyes were suitably sultry and my gaze was always poised to meet the gaze of a man from under my eyebrows. I had mastered the art of appearing submissive yet sultry and Men continued to put plastic swords in my hands. Every movement I made was for the sake of the men around me and I was skilled at the art of presenting my body in the best light possible. My back was arched, my shoulders were back, and my chin was slightly down. This was the existence I carved out for myself and you know what? It worked. It worked right up until I realized that I had been tricked.

I made a vow that day, I vowed that I would capture THEIR POWER. The Real Power. The Power of Independence, the Power of Intelligence, the Power of Success. Since then I have been labeled many things. I have been called “Frigid”, my beliefs have been teased as being “Renaissance”, I have been called and labeled a “Prude”, I’ve been accused of being a “Man Hater” of being “Rabid” and “Extreme”. Many times it feels as though I’ve landed back in the days of Middle School and that I have become the girl that seemed to bring chaos with them, the girl who was tormented ruthlessly. I think I know now what those girls did to anger the boys so much. They were Taking Power. They had, somehow, seen that the sword was plastic and they refused to play the games that the boys wanted them to play for Power. Instead, these girls had shown that they wanted the Real Power, the plastic sword wasn’t enough for them and god, how this angered the boys.

Now, when I see young girls and women displaying themselves for that Plastic Sword of Power, my heart goes out to them. When I see Porn stars on the screen I see in their hands, the Plastic Sword. When I see “Girls gone Wild” I see, held in one small hand, that almighty Plastic Sword. When young girls pass me on the street looking like Barbie dolls I look sadly at their hands and realize that they too are clutching that Sword. And I’ve found through the years, that women hold onto that sword as tightly as possible, it saddens me but I don’t get angry, I can’t get angry because they don’t realize that the Sword is plastic, they don’t realize that they’ve actually gotten the job of the Court Jester, they believe they’re a bona-fide member of The Court.

They cloak themselves in ‘Empowerment,’ but Empowerment based upon how well you can contort your body is not Empowerment. Empowerment based upon how practiced you are at screaming the scream of the fake orgasm is not Empowerment. Empowerment based upon molding your body and your mind to make Men Feel Power is not Empowerment. These are the trappings of Court Jester and the Power bestowed upon you is the Power given to you by the Truly Powerful.

I believe that we, as women, will only find the true Sword of Power when we remove the trappings of achieving the Plastic Sword of Power. I believe that we, as Women, will only be Powerful when boys no longer tease in Middle School. I believe that we, as Women, will only be Powerful when we are no longer raped for profit. I believe that we, as Women, will only be Powerful when we refuse to allow our bodies and our sex to be bought and sold as commodities.

~ Biting Beaver

It’s late, I’ve been studying all day….and I wish I could write something more enlightening but I am just a lady, with a simple lady mind.  Hahahah, I’ll let Sarah Haskins do it for me….

AND Happy Birthday to my dear friend John in New York who I’ve known since 1996- I call him John but now he goes by Philip….which is funny when I talk on and on about “John” to whoever is sitting on the bus with me to NYC, only to have him there waiting and introduce himself as “Philip”….hahahah….that look is priceless.  Really, I DO know this person!

I’m going to give you the link to his blog….now I know you’re thinking that I only put this here because he says wonderful things about me.  You’re absolutely right. 

Click here for the World of Philip John–and remember his name (both of them!) because he’s going to be famous one day, girl!  I am more than a simply lady today because of him.  Except when he makes me almost pee my pants laughing…not so lady-like.

I LOVE YOU JOHN!

Licking the camera from Crystal Evans on Vimeo.

This video makes me laugh, everytime.  Bejus would make such a cute dad, for somebody….someday….

When you see a hairless dog all the time you forget how dang funny they look

I usually think there’s a God, or some kind of big energy force out there.  But when I get boob sweat and I don’t even have boobs?

Then I have to wonder.

<photo taken at my fishing spot in the fishtown neighborhood of philadelphia>

One thing that Mormon girls grow up with is the fun activities planned to help groom you towards that beautiful fantastic dream of a temple marriage, where you are sealed together for time and all eternity.  If your family is temple-worthy, they can even be there for the ceremony. 

In the church, Young women are organized according to their age.  Between 12-13 you are a “Beehive” and your purpose statement (repeated every Sunday in class) is: “A Beehive becomes a Young Woman of Truth as she follows the promptings of the Holy Ghost, seeks truth, and strives to live and share it.”   (So weird how I remember that).

Between 14-15 you are a “Mia Maid” (pronounced MY-uh) and your statement is:  “A Mia Maid becomes a Young Woman of Promise as she honours her baptismal covenant to keep God’s commandments, to receive His blessings, and to have His spirit to be with her as she builds a loving relationship with her Heavenly Father and those around her.”

“Laurels” are between 16-17 and this is what you memorize:  “A Laurel becomes a Young Woman of Faith as she more fully experiences the Savior’s love and prepares to receive the ordinances of the temple by living, teaching, and sharing the gospel.”

And all Young Women, when they meet every Sunday, recite the following in unison:

“We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us, and we love Him.  We will stand as witnesses of God at all times, and in all things, and in all places, as we strive to live the Young Woman values, which are:  Faith, Divine Nature, Individual Worth, Knowledge, Choice and Accountability, Good Works, and Integrity.  We believe as we come to accept and act upon these values, we will be prepared to make and keep sacred convenants, receive the ordinances of the temple, and enjoy the blessings of exaltation.  Stand for truth and righteousness.”

When you are 18 you are no longer a “Young Woman” –you are a grown and marriage and family-ready adult, and you join the “Relief Society” which is women ages 18 to 100. 

I actually met a girl at Bob and Barbara’s in Philadelphia, which is a FABULOUS dive bar that has a drag queen show every Thursday night and drink special of a can of PBR and a shot of Jim Beam for only three bucks.   It’s something you really need to experience…anyway there’s this Mormon girl there with all her friends (when you meet a Mormon at a dive bar with a drag queen show, either they are there as the DD for their friends and their eyes are WIDE OPEN THE WHOLE TIME or they are not an active Mormon anymore…please buy that said Mormon a drink because, trust me: they need it.)  So this girl wants me to “prove” that I’m a Mormon and I busted out my Young Woman values and we were instant friends-in-recovery.  Only I lost her # so if this sounds like you- we need to hang out again!

Okay, so back to this photo…this is one of our weekly activities and it must be a combined Mia Maid and Laurel activity because both I and my little sister are in it.  I was 17 and she is 15.  It’s important to build excitement in young women so they want to get married right away, and boy does this do it.  Keep in mind…it is the 90’s…but look at the modesty!  When you go through the temple you get your “garments,” which is underwear you have for the rest of your life that covers your body from over your shoulders to your knees.  Say goodbye to tank tops forever.  One perk of never going through the temple is getting bags of “immodest” clothing from friends and family who can no longer wear their cute stuff.  Yay for me!

Another funny thing about this picture is the generic warehouse ambiance in the bridal store.  Fluorescent lighting?  Ugh.  I think it helps to cover the yellowness of the rented gowns.  This is also reflected in the assembly-line-ness of your “special day”…..if you ever visit Salt Lake city just sit in Temple Square and watch the bride-go-round (especially in the summer) as bride and grooms are rotated through at a rapid rate.  The pictures in front of the Salt Lake Temple–or any of them, really (looks like a Disney castle) are beautiful–you don’t see the waiting line of all the brides behind waiting their turn.  A typical wedding reception is in the church gymnasium, with basketball hoops overhead and kids running everywhere, echoing on the hardwood floor.  Church members are in the kitchen churning out punch and keeping tables stocked with sheetcake and little sandwiches.  If you’re lucky, you can get the crowd to dance… but there’s no alcohol and that doesn’t last too long.  But where other people spend thousands and thousands of dollars on a wedding, Mormons know how to bust one out for less than two. 

My little sister loved this activity so much, she got married three times.

I multi-task in the bathroom. Just sitting there seems like a waste of time. So I exercise my Kegel muscles, because I read somewhere that when you get old your VAGINA FALLS OUT. So to combat this horrific force of gravity, when I’m peeing I flex my Kegels. So it’s like, pee, stop, pee, stop, pee, stop. And on TOP of that, apparently when you get old your your FACE FALLS DOWN. So to slow down this process, I squeeze my face, starting with my neck muscles…so my mouth is tight and my eyes bulge out. This was explained to me by a professional as “Renee Zellweger’s face.”

Since I tend to do this all at once, (being the glorious multi-tasker that I am) if you were to see a video of me peeing in the bathroom, it would appear that my peeing is an excruciating process.

Just so you know, Mister Bathroom-Camera-Pervert:
I’m WORKING.

Which reminds me…there is a certain restaurant in Philadelphia, a fancy Steven-Starr restaurant, that features two-way mirrors in the bathrooms. Imagine all the things that you do in the bathroom mirror when you think you are completely alone and nobody is watching, and now imagine that the “mirror” is actually a window to a hallway, where EVERYBODY CAN SEE YOU.  Now imagine that I’ve been there five times before I figured that out.

DANG IT.

Actually, I can’t credit myself for figuring that out, Bejus did the first time he ever went there.  So then we sat and watched the boy’s bathroom “mirror,” where unsuspecting men picked at their teeth, wiped a stain off their shirt, and one even whipped out a camera and took a picture of himself.  (Okay, that one was my unsuspecting friend).  You can actually see into the urinals in the boy’s bathroom, I KID YOU NOT.  Can you believe that?  In a big city, that’s “modern.”  In a small town, that’s a “felony.”

**this pic was taken near my house, in Fishtown, with my brother-in-law’s brother, who i love like my own**