Hooking Up Feminist Style

In 1966 I was having the best orgasmic partner sex of my life with a brilliant English professor who had recently quit academia over politics. He was forty-two. I was thirty-six and had been separated six months from a sexless seven year marriage. He'd been divorced a year from a seventeen year marriage and had recently gone cold turkey off uppers and downers prescribed by his psychiatrist. He was an emotional mess going through withdrawal while I was convinced great sex would bring him back to mental health.

On Christmas Day, I noticed Grant staring off into empty space, a sign he was about to sink into one of his morbid depressions. To alter his mood, I asked if he'd like to make love before dinner. Instead of responding to my offer, he began talking about how my gift presented a problem. I'd given him my first vulva self portrait that appeared to be of some ripe red fruit. When he said he could never hang my painting, I was momentarily crushed. He claimed he had to think of his maid's feelings as well as friends who visit.

"You can take my goddamn present and shove it up your ass! No one will think to look there." I gathered my belongings and stormed out- slamming the door so hard it shook the wall. The painting was to acknowledge him for healing my imaginary genital deformity. He'd proved I was normal by showing me his Girlie Magazines. In the sixties, vulvas were varied, not the uniformity we see in today's cosmetically altered porn stars.

One minute I loved him, the next minute I hated him. But in spite of my decision to dump him, the magnetic pull of orgasms had me back in his bed the following weekend. After a delicious Sunday brunch, out of the blue he began to criticize the way I dressed by saying he preferred a more classical look instead of my extreme high fashion. Our mutual recriminations crossed in mid-air as I complained about his black moods messing up our sexlife. Instead of escalating the argument I stopped, and calmly said, "I think we could both use some emotional distance. Let's start dating other people and still have sex dates every so often."

The minute the words were out of my mouth I felt a wave of relief. His face brightened and he thanked me for being so straightforward. He admitted that he'd been agonizing over how to tell me that although he wanted to be with me, he also longed for sexual variety. After seventeen years of monogamy, except the last year when he cheated, he wanted a little time to enjoy being single and date other women. He could never find the right words for fear he might lose me.

That afternoon following a hot session of sex on the leather daybed in his living room, Grant was filled with theories about sexual freedom and non possessive love.

"Just think," he said pacing the floor, "If we both had the freedom to date other people without any secrecy or guilt, we'd have the best of both worlds: the security of an ongoing primary relationship with sexual variety. We could share a deeper level of sexual honesty with one another that would allow our relationship to last indefinitely."

The idea of having sex with one person an entire lifetime never made sense to me, but coming of age in the fifties, I'd never known another way to live other than being an old maid or a nun. I just assumed I'd marry again, but here was a man secure enough to try an alternative to monogamy which I was never that good at anyway. As a result, I'd suffered extreme sexual guilt. The idea that sex could be inclusive rather than exclusive had an integrity that appealed to my soul. What did I have to lose? If it didn't work out, I could always go back to having one lover at a time. We agreed to be a primary couple while dating other people- a decision that would present a far bigger challenge that I could ever have imagined.

The following week I ran into Buddy, a rugged seaman I'd recently met. His appearance was quite masculine and I figured he'd be fun in bed. I invited him for dinner mid week. Now confident in my sexuality, I visualized the seduction scene of the century, but when we got into bed, my leading man couldn't get an erection and then had the colossal nerve to blame me!

"I like my women to be more feminine and you remind me of Pussy Galore." He pointed to my new black lizard boots lying on the floor and continued, "You're going to leave a path of broken genitals stomping around in those boots!" Then he abruptly got up, got dressed and left without even so much as a goodnight kiss.
Confused and humiliated, I sank into a chair with a jumble of questions careening though my mind. What the hell had gone wrong? Why had I kept my mouth shut? How could I have let his "Pussy Galore" line go by without saying a word? That little macho prick! If he'd been more like James Bond we could have had a ball. That night I made a resolution: Next time I'd be on the alert for those macho types who wanted to fuck a sweet, young, helpless thing rather than have sex with a sophisticated, orgasmic woman.

I'd just encountered my first rejection for stepping outside the traditional passive female sex role. Instead of waiting for Buddy to make the first move, I'd come right out and suggested we have sex first and eat later. Foolish me! At the time, I was not aware that I was challenging society's definition of appropriate sexual behavior for women so I had no idea what lay in store for me.

When I called Grant to tell him about my failed first sex date, he said he couldn't talk at the moment. His date had slept over and she was still there. He acted like a jerk, pretending it wasn't me on the phone, which made me so furious I hung up on him. It had been a long time since I'd had those sickening feelings of jealousy. Or was it envy? Later in the day, he called and assured me that the woman he'd been with had only made him appreciate me all the more.

Since I'd grown up playing with my brothers as an equal, I was determined to play this new non possessive sex game. I wasn't going to put out without having pleasure be mutual. If men could enjoy casual sex with orgasms, there was no reason why a woman couldn't do the same.

My girlfriend's cousin Norman might fit the bill. His lean, muscular body and craggy face, framed by a receding hairline like my father's, appealed to me. He also had a good sense of humor. On our second date I got very close to orgasm, just missing by a pubic hair. So far we'd only done straight fucking with no direct clitoral stimulation and we'd never done oralsex. Revving up my courage, I asked if he was interested in whether or not I had an orgasm. Shit! My voice sounded too pathetic but I couldn't suck the words back into my mouth.

"Didn't you come?" he asked with his eyebrows raised. "All the other women I've made love to have orgasms. What's your problem?"

"Well, it's not exactly what I'd call a problem. I just need a little direct clitoral stimulation." Finally, I'd stated my pleasure. But the words "clitoral stimulation" set him off.

"My ex wife wanted everything stimulated. Sex with her was like being on a Hollywood set with all the goddamn candles, just the right music, and then after an hour of eating her pussy, she'd finally scream, 'Fuckme! Fuckme!' By then, I was too tired to get it up."

"Norman," I laughed, "It's not such a big deal. If I get on top and do my clitoris while your penis is inside, I'll be able to come." To him my proposal sounded like I wanted to use him as a dildo. He said he was a simple guy who liked old fashioned man-on-top sex. Heat from embarrassment flushed my face as I laid there listening in silence. During his monologue he said something about civilization with its discontented women. When he said I was too hung up on my clitoris and needed to sensitize my vagina, I told him to go sensitize his asshole which ended that brief affair.

One Sunday afternoon I decided it would be fun to cruise the Museum of Modern Art for a spontaneous encounter. Standing in front of my favorite Modigliani nude, I started a conversation with a man who looked to be in his late thirties. He introduced himself as Stefano. His dark curly hair framed his pretty blue eyes and although I had a fleeting thought, "Don't make a date," I ended up giving him my address so we could meet later that same evening.

At eight o'clock sharp when the doorbell rang, in came Stefano, ready to get laid, filling my foyer with alcohol fumes. That did it! Even though I was wearing my diaphragm I began maneuvers to get him out by telling him I didn't feel all that well. Perhaps we could make a date some other time.

"You goddamn women are all alike," he exploded. "You make a date for sex, and then try to back out of it. What's the matter with you crazy, fucking broads anyway?"

He was right! I had made a sex date. Changing my mind mid-seduction had definitely put me in a precarious position. Sensing potential violence, I quickly sized up the situation. He was solidly built like a middleweight boxer. With my senses on red alert, I opted for self-preservation. I'd rather have a fast fuck than go toe to toe with Mr. Muscle Bound and get the crap beat out of me. After all, I wasn't a timid little virgin and the sex might turn out to be better than my last date.

Once my decision was made, I calmly walked ahead of him toward the bedroom. When I began to undress he whipped off his clothes and fell flat on his back on top of the bed with his socks still on. The visual was actually humorous. Ignoring the advice Victorian mothers gave to their daughters, "Just close your eyes and think of England," I climbed on top and clamped down with my pussy muscle on his instant erection. When he saw it was going to be a fast ride, he gave it all he had and in no time, the little prick ejaculated. Once he'd gotten his rocks off, he appeared quite peaceful. That's when I sweetly lied that my husband would be home pretty soon so he'd better leave. He was up, dressed and out the door in a flash.

After he left, a trickling of his semen turned into a torrent of revulsion as I headed for the bathroom. After taking a white vinegar douche, I sank into a steaming bath to cleanse my feelings of disgust. As I soaked, I tried to analyze why I was so upset and angry. I'd just had sex with someone I didn't like. So why was that such a big deal? I was never this miserable when I had to white out a canvas I'd worked on for months or tear up a drawing I'd spent days creating. The only way to learn about anything was by making mistakes. I concluded my overreaction was due to being conditioned to always associate sex with love- never as a tactic to avoid violence. When I finally had the grace to forgive myself I made a vow: From now on, I'd never again give a stranger my phone number or address. They could give me theirs and I'd be the one to decide when and where.

This dating other people business wasn't going that well for me. Yet I remembered how I longed to have this kind of sexual freedom when I was married. So far, the guys I'd encountered were not that good at sex and I wasn't interested in putting out if it didn't result in mutual pleasure and orgasm. No wonder women latched onto the first guy who could satisfy them sexually. Warmth and affection were nice, but I'd just spent the last seven years giving me most of my orgasms.

The following week while I was fixing dinner for my girlfriend Karen Evans, my soon-to-be ex-husband showed up unexpectedly high as a kite on martinis. He'd dropped by to tell me he was on his way to Mexico to get a fast divorce. His newly beloved was pregnant and they wanted to get married as soon as possible. After I faked being glad to see him, I disappeared into the kitchen to put dinner on hold. When he continued to hang around, I was angry with myself for not asking him to leave. The worst part was I knew why I'd kept my mouth shut-I was dependent on him for money from our separation agreement.

Finally he left and I told Karen about the Pussy Galore incident. We laughed ourselves silly as I imitated the appropriate stride for walking on broken genitals, adding a twist with my heel as I visualized Bob's abundant three piece set underfoot. I had to give him a thirty minute blowjob to get him hard and within a minute after penetration, he'd ejaculate. After he went to sleep, I'd masturbate and have a tiny silent orgasm holding my breath without moving to avoid waking him.

The next day, I had a moment of clarity. No wonder I was feeling wretched. I was dependent on Grant for partnersex orgasms and dependent on Bob for money. Who ever heard of a liberated woman with a dependency on two men who were happily doing their own thing? No wonder I felt boxed in on all sides. Although the media claimed we were having a sexual revolution, dealing with the problems that came with our concept of sexual equality had never been discussed before.

The first time Grant and I accidentally crossed paths at the same party, I was with an older man who wasn't really "my type" and Grant walked in with a gorgeous young blonde clinging to him adoringly. He was so busy with his new piece of ass that he didn't even see me. This time jealousy hit me like a ton of bricks- making me feel physically ill. About to faint, throw up, or both, I asked my date to take me home. Once alone in the apartment, my jealous rage melted into a torrent of tears as I fell across the bed. In the middle of my crying jag, I abruptly stopped and sat up.

This was the same emotional drama I'd been performing my entire life- falling into love, getting my heart broken, breaking up, and then falling into love again and again, ad nauseam. The last dramatic performance had been the night my husband moved out when I threw myself across the bed just like they did in the movies. Here I was again, playing the same stupid melodramatic role of the helpless woman wronged by her man. "Come on, Betty Ann," I said out loud, "Stop running a second-rate movie and get on with your life."

I walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Just then, a calm settled over me as determination took hold. Jealousy was a form of temporary insanity. No orgasm, no matter how ecstatic, with any man, no matter how wonderful, was worth this kind of emotional pain and suffering. Looking into the bathroom mirror, I renewed my commitment to be a sexually liberated woman who was no longer dependent upon a man for my orgasms, money, security, or happiness. Just then, I felt the first warm rush of my period as a thin red line ran down the inside of my leg. My pact had been sealed in blood.

While writing in my journal that night, I realized I wasn't jealous of women, I was jealous of men! Grant was the one who was having all the fun. He was enjoying fabulous sex in our relationship and also having orgasms with other women. On top of that, he had financial security as well as social approval for his sexual adventures. I, on the other hand, was struggling to pay the bills with a measly monthly settlement; unable to have orgasms outside our primary relationship, and all of my girlfriends thought I was behaving like a tramp. None of them understood why I'd want to have sex with another man when I already had a lover. What on earth was I trying to prove? Believe me, there were moments I couldn't answer that question myself.

The next time Grant and I got together, I said I didn't want to own him; I wanted to be an equal. He was a desirable man, a successful bachelor, but society had no equivalent role for me. I was seen as a slut or a tramp. He nodded, saying I was describing the sexual double standard that had been around since the beginning of time. He was shocked I wasn't aware that society supported two views of women- the virginal wife and mother was put on a pedestal and the fallen woman, the whore was debased. I told him I didn't believe in any goddamn double standard. As an artist ordinary rules didn't interest me! I was claiming the right to have the same sexual freedom men had.

Finally I realized I was doing battle with a sexual double standard that I'd never realized existed until it was in my face. Was I going to accept defeat and buckle under to a double standard? Sex could either enslave or liberate me. It was obvious that sex had been a form of slavery when I was trying to get or keep a man. So why couldn't sex become a path to liberation? I was determined to prove a woman could handle sexual mobility, make money, and be a bachelor with a fulfilling, orgasmic sexlife. I had to learn how to be responsible for creating my own orgasm with men!

Following another month of trial and error, I finally broke through my orgasm dependency from ancient female conditioning of expecting each man to give me one. It happened the second time I went to bed with Charlie, a cute guy in his forties. He was secure enough not to insist on his penis as the sole creator of my pleasure. I'd been protecting the male ego for so long that it had become second nature to stop what I was doing the minute a man showed signs of displeasure.

The next time we talked, Grant wanted me to understand that although I believed all of his dates had been great, it was far from true. Most of the women he'd gone out with didn't even like sex. When I reminded him that he got to determine what happened during sex because men were in control, he laughed, and said men only have the illusion of control. Had I forgotten that it took two to Tango? On several occasions he couldn't have an orgasm because his date showed impatience when it took him more than a few minutes to come. One time he couldn't even get an erection!

"Society's effort to imprison female sexuality continues to consistently backfire," he said with a rueful smile. "Remember, it isn't likely that a dependent woman will ever tell a guy the truth about sex. That's why so many men think they're great in bed. In reality they're experiencing a minimum of authentic sex as women continue to fake excitement and orgasm. In the end, our illusion of having power nets us mere sexual crumbs."

For the first time I realized that men were far more vulnerable than I'd imagined. While the financial and sexual double standard appeared to favor men, Grant's experiences made it clear that it repressed male sexuality as well. What a year it had been. I'd gone from being a sexually frustrated faithful wife to becoming an independent sexual adventurer. Some historians believe that 1966 marked the beginning of America's sexual revolution. Clearly, it was the beginning of mine.