Skip to main content

Just Liking P***y

(Serena Williams at the 2011 ESPY awards...killing em!)

I was having a conversation with a guy once. A guy I found to be smart, attractive, funny and accomplished. A guy I thought as this model of a man....he was and is a good friend.

We were having a good conversation so...I decided to pick his brain about what kind of woman he liked. In the past I knew he dated sort of a "type" of woman: models, actresses, airline stewardesses, singers/entertainers. I think there may have even been a stripper or something thrown in there. At any rate, I knew he had a type. But I also knew he seemed to have some sort of "interest" in me. Not sure what...but I'd like to know how I even fit this strange mix.

So I asked him.."So what's your type?"  He goes.."I dont have a type. I mean..everyone says I date the VH1 Model types..but I don't have a type. I just like p**y".


Ok. Is this the part where I should be flattered or concerned?? My inner "Michele Wallace/bell hooks" raised its point antennas to make me aware somehow. I felt numbed. I wasn't sure if he meant that in a non-descript way or in a generic way. I wasn't sure if he meant to say it as to say "Oh no have what it have a pu**y".

I instantly felt compartmentalized. Like I was the sum of my vagina or something: what it can do, what it can provide. That the rest of a woman. The Intellect? Humor? Kindness? was something that was put on the back burner.

What happened to simply saying "I like all types of women". That I would have been ok with. I also understand that we are a visual creature. I understand that too. But to say "I like p**sy" is to strip a woman of the very essence of who she is and to say she is just the sum of her parts.

 I instantly felt all of my limited Marxist theory reading come to the foreground of my brain: "A woman is not a woman. She is just what she can produce. She is her vagina. And what her vagina can produce is orgasms. That is all that is important in the male "consumer" sexual economy. My vagina has more value than the worker whose vagina it is. My vagina has become Marx's coat"

So here I was...just hearing this man say "I like p**y".  I was able to internalize and recognize my feelings. I was both stunned and appalled. I was thinking "Here's a guy with intellect...sensibilities.." when in fact he is just a guy...a guy whose animalistic base...his primal brain...had taken over with regards to women. Was the value in my "work" and worth my p**y?

What woman wants to be the sum of her vagina? I am thinking none. Not even a prostitute. Even they, too, want to be valued as human beings. And their vagina at least has a pricetag. And I most certainly didn't want to be "someone's p**y". Or "just some new p**y" or just that "good p**y". I want to be "someone's woman"...someone's "new good woman"....someone's "new girlfriend". I don't want to be part of the old adage "What's better than old p**y? New p**y". I don't wanna be "new p**y". or "old p***y"  I don't wanna be " p**y" at all. I want to be more than that.

Where do we go from here?

I don't think anywhere....not until the language surrounding women changes. If it's not "that p**y" then a woman becomes "That b*TCH"....if not "That b*tch..." then she is "That hoe"....and on and on until she is simply less and less valued....less and less a woman...and more and more the "sum of her parts".. or simply the "parts of her parts"

Dude can keep on liking ""p**sy". He can call me when he starts liking "women"


  1. I thought Serena looked a greased up HOT JANKY street walker mess at the ESPYS. She looked so stank to me.

  2. I felt like Deja vu in reading this. Guys can really be jerks at times and I don't believe they realize the damage in what they say. I Think you said it best when you said he can call you when he likes "woman" cuz clearly he is not ready yet.

  3. Oh goodness! That was a very crass and blunt way to put it. As you stated "I just like women" would have sufficed. He had to know that a comment like that would be off-putting!

  4. No way...I think Serena looked great. I mean her physique is amazing


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

2018: A Year Without Fear

I used to make these lofty, resolution goals each year. The older I got, the grander my ideas became. That is until I reached the age of 30 and my entire life shifted.

At the time, I was divorced, living totally on my own, trying to rebuild myself financially and trying to figure out my next move toward happiness. That was at the time I started this blog.... which started out as my chronicling the dating and mating of a 30 something divorcee' in the South's Largest Metropolis. I was trying to date. I was trying to establish myself financially. And I was trying to find my purpose.

So much has changed in the almost 9 years since I started this blog. I've traveled alone. I gained and lost friends. I got into a Ph.D. program. I got re-married. I lost my mother, my best friend.... not to mention my uncle, cousin, and aunt. I gained a sweet baby girl.  I went from getting my bliss.... to trying to balance that bliss with my own life..... Yet in trying to find the balance, I alw…

I Had Hope For Other Hair: Confessions in Black Motherhood

I had hoped for other hair...
(My Little One Reading a Book Before Bed)

... for my daughter.

No, I didn't want her to have "good hair"... hair that ebbed and flowed close to the weight of Whiteness. I didn't want that for her.  I didn't want her to have hair that was deemed "managable" or "a good grade". as if you can give hair letter grades or grade it on a curve.

I just wanted her to have any hair other than MY hair. She inherited my hair. And I cried.

When I found out I was having a girl, anxiety was replaced with dread. "Dear God.. I have to learn how to do hair". See, growing up, my mother was my stylist, even way into high school. So in between salon visits, she would relax or press my hair. She'd style it or comb it. And I never worried about it. I tried and tried to do my own hair... and failed. The only style I could keep up were Brandy-inspired box braids (which some poor, Senegalese woman would do for hours) or a very sho…

The Art of the Dirty Talk

I am the queen of talking dirty after dark. I mean I am GOOD at it. VERY good. So much so I dated a guy and for months..all he wanted me to do was speak nasty to him. We never has sex. Nothing. Just a bunch of dirty talk....and he was happy. (Hey..a very safe sex fetish!) Heck..I'm even considering picking up some extra income in this economy and becoming a phone sex job does NOT pay enough.

I will say there is an ART to dirty talk. You cant be shy. You cant be a prude and say things 1) you are not comfortable saying and 2) that you certainly can't back up if you are in a position to act on those things with a trust partner. 3 ) things you have no real reference point of familiarity with. Don;t say you are down for a "golden shower" if you think that has something to do with "lemonade kool-aid". DOn't pretend to have a weird accent. That would be ROLE playing..and not "talking dirty". BUT a lot of "talking dirty" is role…