i remember when the Vanity Fair kerfuffle hit back in the early nineties. There the women were on the cover... and they weren’t wearing designer gowns or selling us lipstick (well, giggle, perhaps Crawford was – in a manner of speaking). Some people blew a gasket.
i was mesmerized.
Cindy Crawford didn’t do too much for me… nor did i want to be her but the thought of straddling k.d.lang did cross my mind.
i’ve always had a thing for that sort of woman… whatever that sort is…
i was a young mother then and living in a Navy town. Mr. X and i would go to the Go-Go down the street from time to time to watch the ladies and i was never taken with the ones that smelled of sugar and spice. Ah… but “The Streak” was one of my favorites. i am sure she had a name but i always called her “The Streak” because she had a blaze of white hair through her auburn locks and a roughness about her… like she was always coiled and just about to strike.
i bare my neck… Yes, please… sigh…
Fast forward two decades and i’m in the car – just now – with the spawn. i’ve grabbed her from work and we’ve run to the store and i’m telling her that i’m looking forward to this weekend. my child knows i’m far from normal… but really has no clue just how kinky i am (and that’s fine, i think). She knows i have friends involved in power exchange but has no idea that i sit at Master’s feet… that i am owned. Perhaps one day she will… i cannot say.
She knows that i am not heterosexual. Across the years i have identified as bisexual, sapiosexual, pansexual, and just plain “non-het” and she knows i’ve dated my fair share of women. Still, she surprise me from time to time… like just now.
As we’re sitting in the parking lot, i pull up some photos of a certain “M” that i’m going to meet this weekend (hopefully) although i don’t tell the spawn that i hope to see that person sparring with a formidable “opponent”. i tell her that “M” is hot as hell.
The spawn looks absentmindedly at the photo… a woman clad all in leather… no smile… no softness…
“I don’t understand,” she says, “Are you going to date her?”
i tell my child that i’m not saying i want to have her… for heaven’t sake… i don’t have to act on every desire. i go on to explain that i find different women attractive for very different reasons.
As for M? i say, “i find her delicious and beautiful and handsome and hot as hell.”
The spawn shrugs her shoulders. i swipe my finger across the phone screen to show her another picture… this one with a mona lisa smile and a dimple, even…
“No… i get that you think she’s attractive… I just don’t see it,” says she.
And i start to explain it to her… though i hardly understand myself… why some things attract me while others do not. It’s easier with men… easier, that is, to explain what “turns me on” but with women? It’s harder to pin down. i try to explain without simply saying that sometimes it is the physicality and sometimes just a white cotton shirt and denim and some ass-kickin boots. Sometimes it’s the roughness of a body slam from someone with breasts… other times it’s a polished nearly-angelic form with the foulest of mouth and the appetites that society generally reserves for men.
i try to explain it to her…
she hushes me with this:
“Ma… I understand that you think she is hot… but she is just not my type… y’know… what with a vagina and all…”
‘Nough said, child of mine… ‘nough said.
Tegan & Sara “Closer”