Editor’s note: This article was initially published in The Daily Gazette, Swarthmore’s online, daily newspaper founded in Fall 1996. As of Fall 2018, the DG has merged with The Phoenix. See the about page to read more about the DG.
I have never felt as loved, as directly spoken to, or as empowered by any other performer at Swarthmore as I did by you last night. You said queer and I yelled, you said strap-on and I yelled, you said safe word and I yelled. All that yelling did more damage to my throat than a thousand blow jobs.
This is a small school and I’m pretty open about pretty much everything, but explaining myself – defending myself – to people who look at my sexual practices with the bewilderment of a seven-year-old discovering baboon masturbation at the zoo gets old. Having deep-throat-the-dildo competitions with my friends is fun, but on some level it trivializes what those toys are really for. Margaret, you made me feel like there’s a whole world full of crazy sexy kinky queer people dancing just outside the gates of Swarthmore, twirling their nipple tassels and cheering me on.
I wish I could have been at your Q & A. I read the Daily Gazette report about it, and I love what you said about being pressured to accept (or present) “whitewashed, P.C. representations of ourselves.” We have a recurring debate on this campus about whether Coming Out Week and its accompanying chalkings play into stereotypes about queer people by oversexualizing us, but I think there’s an important difference between being sexual and being sexualized. The latter is unwelcome and imposed by outside forces, the former is a celebration of our happy, sexy queer selves – or not sexy, for those of us who’d rather not be. I just can’t see how pretending I’m not sexual will make me more free.
I’m preoccupied with my sexuality because I love it – fiercely and whole-heartedly. Living it and talking about it enriches my life every day, and that’s why I write this column: to share and to discuss and to normalize, because sometimes I feel like a freak show and sometimes I don’t like that. But enough about me, Margaret, let’s talk about you.
You know how you said that some women can ejaculate? I’m glad you said that. It’s true. I’ve been there. It’s not that unusual, and it’s not urine. The next time I hear someone say that (or some variation on “she peed on him when they were hooking up, gross!”), they’re getting a stream of not-urine right in the eye. While we’re at it, let’s never use the words squirt and gush in this context again, because there’s no reason women have to sound like they’re doing an Old Faithful impression when guys get to just cum. Why is it that we know that all males, regardless of height and weight and penis size can ejaculate, but among females it’s either embarrassing or an exotic superpower reserved for she-man porn star Amazons (and even then it’s just assumed to be urine)? Female ejaculate has been chemically analyzed and – surprise – it contains most of the same stuff that semen does, minus the sperm. You know this already, Margaret, but to everyone else: it’s normal, people, and it’s hot.
Speaking of which, Margaret, you’re hot. You know how you said that you want everyone to want you? Well, I do (in fact, you’ve made me question, and I think I’m I-sexual). You love to eat ass, I love to have my ass eaten. I’ll never make you do anal. We can party until dick o’clock and then go chasing snowflakes, if you know what I mean. We could be great together, Margaret. Call me.