Sunday, August 4, 2019

Clitoris Size: Under The Hood


                      


"We tend to think of the erotic as an easy, tantalizing sexual arousal. 
The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female 
and spiritual plane..."
                                                                  ~ Audre Lorde




“Deeply female,” indeed… So wrote the amazing and prolific scholar-social activist and black lesbian mother, Audre Lorde in the 1960s in Harlem, New York. But while Lorde was teaching us about “The Uses of the Erotic and the Erotic as Power,” (the title of her eloquent, powerful, poetic manifesto on the critical strength and erotic potential of women) very few spoke to us in the kind of clear unambiguous language many of us back then needed to hear about our bodies.

After all, back in the day, as they say, nearly all of what we knew about our bodies was what a male-centered, or patriarchal culture wanted us to know. And the false, destructive, minimizing narrative was clear: ours were bodies less capable and less privileged than their own. 

Ours were bodies that needed to be controlled, needed to be harnessed in, needed to be trussed up and regularly douched out, not touched by us, nor spoken about, nor remotely understood. And ours were certainly not bodies for us to enjoy, not the way males were encouraged to enjoy their parts, grasping, jerking, panting, tensing, hurling themselves blissfully into stratospheric orbit with clockwork regularity.

But not so for women. Not so for well-bred, God-fearing females of the day, for whom wholesale enjoyment of their anatomy would’ve sent them way over the line of decency. And most every community influence emphatically told us so, including parents, teachers, clergy and the like, the message being that exploring what was between our legs might lead us straight to hell, or worse, send us crawling back into the confines of our homes with an out-of-wedlock baby and our prospects for a decent marriage, a decent future, in tatters and shreds.

But we wondered, and pondered, and wanted to ask questions. Wanted to know the whys and the hows of our bodies. Wanted to experience them. To touch. To smell. To taste. And many of us did, but mostly without the knowledge that would’ve empowered us to make safe, informed choices in the process. 

Back then, just as now, most of us were taught very little about what went on “down there” in that mysterious, humid dark-land under our skirts. But occasionally in the course of being, we’d stumble upon - fumble upon - something grand... and it wasn’t at all where we thought it would be. You didn’t find it by probing way up inside of you. 

But it was definitely there… Something wild and rich and exquisitely special that could explode your very core and steal your breath away. Which brings me to the clitoris, the illustrious royalty of body parts, long misunderstood in all her amazing glory. Of course, nowadays, most women and their lovers know generally the what, why and wherefore of this not-so-tiny structure, tucked away beneath its fleshy hood, centrally above the entrance to one’s vagina. And I say not-so-tiny for very good reason. While lots of us think that when it comes to the clitoris, it’s a "what you see is what you get" sort of thing, absolutely nothing could be further from the truth. 

Packed with an unbelievable 8,000 nerve endings, the small button-like bulb that we can see and touch and stimulate is connected to the shaft which is in turn connected to a deep-seated, interior, nerve-rich clitoral structure with two long legs that extend like an upside-down “V”  embedded in the pelvis. 







Created for nothing else than to give its owner maximum, send-her-to-the-moon satisfaction, the entire clitoral structure actually comes erect when we’re turned on, stiffening and enlarging, its exquisitely sensitive head or “glans” igniting us with every touch. 

And so while lots of our naive male partners still expect us to "come" through vaginal penetration alone, the fact is, women weren’t constructed that way. And though legions of women absolutely enjoy the feeling of penetration and something-in-the-vagina fullness, for the huge majority of us, the clitoris is the fountain of our body’s pleasure response, the platinum standard, like a smooth Ferrari engine under the hood. It’s a fact pure and simple, “deeply female” and completely normal, whatever that term “normal” actually means.

Of course, like breasts and hands, feet and noses, the clitoris comes in many lengths and sizes. Many are nearly invisible beneath their hoods; others extend out and beyond the vaginal lips, and for some particularly well-endowed women, the clitoris is literally as long as an adult pinkie finger, plump and pink and clearly visible, nestled inside panties or enjoying the air commando. 

And wouldn’t you know it? Ironically, in a society that prizes large breasts, the owners of large clitorises often feel stigmatized and ashamed, erroneously believing that their large, beautiful endowments are something to be hidden. "Mannish," as some uninformed straight folk used to say. Sadly today, some of these women resort to painful, disfiguring, minimizing surgery, paring their clits down to a more ordinary, so-called “acceptable” size and in the process ruin their ability to experience pleasure at all.

For a whole host of reasons, this is unfortunate in the extreme. But as far as desirability goes, for untold numbers of prospective lovers, both female and male, a large, exposed clitoris, 3 inches and sometimes longer, is an absolute turn on and completely, unequivocally, TOTALLY hot! For many, it’s often a case of the larger the better and definitely something of which to be proud! 

But large, small, visible or not, enough is enough. At the current time in our history, and whatever our cultural backgrounds, it's important to remember that whatever its shape and size, your clitoris, mine and all the collective clitorises on the huge expanse of the planet are completely, wholly and absolutely normal. Exquisite in their individual appearance, like fingerprints, they’re different on every one of us, and that’s a beautiful fact.






So relax. And enjoy it. As often as possible, because you know what they say, use it or lose it. The truth is that sometimes, particularly for older women, with hormonal changes and the decrease in blood flow to our sex organs after menopause, the clitoris can atrophy, or shrink down, and actually decrease in size. 

Fortunately ever faithful, it still responds to stimulation even if this happens, but the characteristic bump, which is the glans, can become more difficult, if not impossible to feel. Clitoral atrophy can also happen through - you guessed it - lack of use. So whether we’ve got a partner or not, it behooves us to put our hands and our vibrators to work. Experiment and play. Let your clitoris know you love it because no matter its age and size, the royalty under the hood, pink and precious and “deeply female,” deserves active, reverent, abiding admiration. And for that, it rewards us extraordinarily well.




photo credit: Jeanne Menjoulet <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/96925387@N00/40355995113">8 mars 2019 - Paris République</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">(license)</a>

photo credit: Giuseppe Martino™ <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/56801363@N04/31318550917">ACAB</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">(license)</a>
                                                                                                                                                                           




                                             


Monday, October 1, 2018

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford and the Venerated State of Old Misogyny






What can one say about the US Judicial Committee’s spectacle last week? What new and pithy commentary can we bring to bear on the unabashed performance of patriarchal entitlement we witnessed in the so called “hearing,” wherein Dr. Christine Blasey Ford gave a sworn account of her experience of sexual assault under the inebriated force and weight of a young Brett Kavanaugh, whose violent sense of male entitlement was apparently well established at the age of 17?

What can we say about the power, grit and grace of Dr. Ford, who has carried the memory of this drunken assault for almost forty years, along with the visceral terror of him forcing her 15-year-old body down onto a bed against her will? Sensory recollection being the historian that it is, it’s likely Dr. Ford remembers the beer-laden stink of his breath in her nostrils, and the clammy pressure of his palm against her lips, his hand jammed to her mouth as he muffled her screams. “I thought he might accidentally kill me,” she attests, recounting how the memory of laughter remains with her still, lodged “in the hippocampus” to this very day.

What can we surmise from the reaction in the room as she presented the details of this violent encounter to a dried-out cabal of Republican males, packing their wrinkled penises like wizards' wands, the gynophobic tools of their patriarchal trade, wands with which to summon some twisted sexist magic in order to nullify the painful, obvious truth?

What are we to make of men who still intend to elevate this mendacious, pernicious fatally- flawed nominee, all while claiming to believe that Dr. Ford was indeed assaulted, just not by their Brett Kavanaugh, of course. Denial being the brewsky of choice for this bunch, they justify their inscrutable view by insisting that she was attacked, not by Brett, but by someone else. Poor thing… she’s confused. Sad thing… she’s mistaken.

What?!

Let’s be precise. It’s a lived reality here in the US that not all suffering carries equal weight, any more than do the lives of which it is a part. We’ve no apparent qualms about adding the proverbial insult to injury when the targets are women, non-European immigrant children, people of color, or anyone else we can “Other” in any way, shape or manner. So it’s easy to see how for some, Kavanaugh’s vitriol and mottle-faced rudeness actually served to raise the perception of his veracity. It’s maddening to see him cast as a victimized hero of sorts in the myopic view of the dessicated senatorial Republican crowd.

Limited-scope FBI investigation notwithstanding, the conclusion I draw is this, and it’s embarrassingly inescapable: it’s a priorities game, sad and pure and simple. In a system like ours, that privileges a violent gynophobe eager to carry tainted judicial waters for power-wielding men who also share his views, some causes matter and others causes don’t, just as some bodies matter and others, not so much.

And they’re salivating buckets for a supreme court judge like Brett with his rabid disrespect for Roe v. Wade as settled law. They’re itching in their short hairs for a stand-up guy like Brett, who has feathered himself a fetid, linty corner of Trump’s pocket; a guy like boozy Brett who’s willing to foam at the mouth in public or contort his face like someone possessed when weaponizing a lie. 

Of course, it chills the innards to contemplate what they’d have said about Dr. Ford if her demeanor had been anything close to what this chosen son displayed.

Instead, like Anita Hill before her, she was a treatise on self-control, knowing full well the expectations around female normative behavior, yet transgressing them with eloquence and bedrock bravery all the same. Her smallish voice in contrast with her warrior-scholar’s heart, we were grateful for all she is. As she spoke, we were in synchrony. Like Professor Hill before her, she was, and is, our own.

And so, with their array of poisonous goals within the old misogynists’ grasp, it simply doesn’t matter that Dr. Ford is telling the truth. It simply doesn’t matter that most of them believe her. The only thing that matters is that they are willfully choosing not to care, and as our experience with toxic masculinity has taught us all along, our country, and the lives of women and girls, will be the worse for it. But old misogynous men will be old misogynous men, right?

Maybe we should all just go and get a beer.








Tuesday, March 28, 2017

A Finger’s Worth of Truth and Worry





It’s been awhile since I’ve posted here, but it’s not for lack of topics that concern me of late. 

And it’s certainly not for lack of desire to be engaged either. In fact, often the degree of lunacy that makes itself apparent these days is more than enough to ensnare my incredulity, as well as my nearly rabid determination to change things for the better. These days, this is particularly true here in the US, certainly since the questionably-enabled ascension of the newest occupant of the White House.