This afternoon I watched a talk on “the art of seduction” by a tall, slim, beautiful Hispanic American female dancer. She travelled between the US and Cuba to study with the best dance teachers and she had a message to convey, namely that we should all be playing at the art of seduction to get what we want and it was all about desire, confidence and arousal.
She began her talk by twisting and grinding a lap dance on a male talk host who stood there looking faintly mortified, not knowing where to put his hands or eyes which eventually settled somewhere above her head staring out into the distance at the audience.
She said that seduction was not about being sexual, so why begin her talk with a lap dance which she said was intended to get us thinking about seduction “in our guts”? She said it wasn’t about women sleeping their way to the top either; and her focus was predominantly on women doing the seducing although men got a brief mention too. So if it’s not about sex why did she enact the Rumba as a conversation between a man and a woman with the woman saying, “You want it? You want it? Come and get it!” and the man thrusting his hips towards the woman with “the intention of getting her pregnant”?
She held up Cuban society as a paragon of the art of seduction saying to start with that no woman had body issues in Cuba because there is no advertising (and therefore no negative media influence) since Cuba is a communist country; consequently women of all sizes used their bodies seductively and freely. She emphasized that seduction should start “as young as possible”, describing adults dancing at a social gathering and tiny children “grinding” (her word) next to them and being complimented for how beautiful they looked doing their seductive thang. She neglected to mention the high rates of child prostitution in Cuba …
This latter example reminds me of the hoo-ha surrounding the TV show My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding where viewers were horrified to see how children as young as 6 were up on the dance floor wiggling their hips and grinding their genitals while drawing attention to their little, flat chests. If this is an example of seduction at work in a sociological group, then one should also look at the lack of education amongst women in those particular gypsy communities because getting married and breeding carries more social standing and kudos than leaving school being able to read and write. But hey, if this dancer lady is right, why do they need an education when the art of seduction can get them what they want?
But at what price? She coquettishly described how Cuban men pursued women, seducing and seducing them over and over until “the desire began to burn”. She said that “A no turns into a maybe turns into a yes, and that’s so sexy!” … but what if a no is a no? Sexual harassment is not sexy in any country.
She claimed that any woman could play the art of seduction and be sexy … she looked down at herself and said, “I choose to be classy.” And I thought, “Just because you’re wearing trousers doesn’t make you classy.” She was undoubtedly a beautiful woman and I think she has just been brainwashed into thinking that because she has got a lot of what she wanted from men by using her looks, that she is somehow in a position of power and control. She’s not. The flirting seduction game will work until the guy wants you to follow through and calls you a cock-tease (at best) for not giving him what all your actions have promised him. The seduction game works as long as you are attractive – is she really naive enough to think that a dumpy woman with average looks stands as much chance of seducing her way through life as an exotic, standard-beautiful dancer?
And why should I have to lap dance a guy to get what I want? Why can’t I ask him as an equal and lay down the intellectual reasoning for why I should have what I want? Working for what you want need not be drudgery; getting what you want need not involve semi-prostitution of your self.
I’m not going to cite the source of the talk because frankly I don’t want to send any more attention her way. I found her talk to be naive and irresponsible. Sex is not a tool for bartering, not necessarily for any moral reason, but because in our society we are not bartering from positions of equal standing. Encouraging all men and women to seduce each other as a means of communication is ridiculous … how many men think with their heads once their cock is engaged for a start? The last thing we as women want is to encourage men into thinking that our “no” is merely a segue to us saying “yes”. And her suggestion to teach girls “as young as possible” to communicate through seduction is frightening and sickening.
There’s nothing wrong with flirting. There’s nothing wrong with being sexually active. But seduction cannot and should not become the predominant language because we have fought too long to be viewed as more than the sum of our tits and slits. At university I was probably the most vocal woman on my course which intimidated my male peers who used to flinch when I spoke and one even said, “I thought you were going to hit me then.” Why? Because an intellectually passionate woman can be scary as hell to men who are used to a simpering, flirtatious “yes-girl”.
So I do not advocate “the art of seduction” as a means to “get what you want” … you may get more than you bargained for… verbal abuse, sexual harassment, rape, to name but a few things. Instead learn to say “no” and mean it. Learn to stand on an equal (or higher!) intellectual platform than the men you engage with. Don’t treat him like a walking dick – he deserves more than that too! And don’t act like you were made from Adam’s rib – your bone to his boner. You are more than that and if you associate with the right kind of man, he will treat you as if you are more than that and not expect you to manipulate your breasts and vagina before he pays you any attention.
I’m tamping furious that the bastard council didn’t even let the Guerrilla art stand for a week before they removed it (see this link -> HERE). The area looked sanitised and wiped clean, the presence of the two stags still hanging somewhere in the air.
I have been slowly digesting yesterday which was a pretty dire day. Woman wasn’t at art group. She has injured herself. I was surprised/not-surprised at the lack of emotion in me at that news. I found it interesting that Alpha Psych who so patently has a thing for her, gravitated to her seat and spoke about her art with the postscript, “Although we shouldn’t talk about her when she’s not here.” Preferably not at all, I thought. I find her simpering, weak-woman ways irritating. She is one of those women who plays the helpless female, batting her eyelashes like she’s in a sand storm. I look to the men and see with horror that they fall for this manipulation. It may look endearing in a woman under thirty, but post-50 you really need to chuck the hormone replacement and grow a pair.
As I walked past the copse cleared of stag-art, I thought about how nearly every female friend has confessed to me that they have hairs on their toes … as if it is an admission of something grotesque, anti-social and, even, inhuman. We are primates. We have hair, we have odours, we need food and sex. We are not hairless, odourless, silicone sculpted, poison-injected doll substitutes but creatures with lumps and bumps, blemishes and squidgy bits. We are not sanitised areas cultivated with weed killer, we are living Guerrilla art… and we too are subject to removal.
Sometimes we remove ourselves, sometimes others remove us. In my own case, one indicator of my Presence is an acknowledgement of my needs and the subsequent follow-through. Plastic dolls have no needs. Guerilla art demands your attention and emotional response.
Recently, people keep asking me, “What can I do for you? Is there something I can do for you?” and the question surprises me each time, baffles me, leaving my mind to scrabble for something, the multiple censors hacking at thoughts like a series of slicing blades, trying to find something to say, something doable, something that isn’t “too much”. Asking for anything is a HUGE force of will for me. The double edge of this being that if I do ask for something (and usually I will start with something very, very little like “message me”) and for some reason it is not possible, or life gets in the way for no other reason than life throws a curve ball, then I take that as proof that I am plastic to that person; I withdraw and shut down.
In my five-year relationship with my abusive ex I asked for something once. We lived in a small flat. I was in the living room, he was in the kitchen, and I asked him to please bring me a glass. He was so enraged that he grabbed the dirtiest glass and tossed it at me on the sofa. Serves me right for relaxing enough to think I could ask for something… except of course, now I think, what a tosser (literally and metaphorically)!
But things are very different these days. I am a different person, changing rapidly, although I still really struggle with asking for things. Fantasy is one thing, reality is another.
After my massage which has left me feeling marvelous and fully anchored in my squidgy femaleness, I went for a coffee at my favourite cafe. I saw an interestingly lopsided coffee and walnut cake and asked for a slice (that was always my favourite as a child … the thrill of surreptitiously sneaking in a hit of caffeine as I wasn’t allowed coffee or tea until older, the same justification saw me develop a love of rum and raisin ice cream … !). As the manager cut me a slice, she nodded to the new cook, a young girl, and said, “Cake looks lovely, K.” And it was, so I took the time to scare the bejeezes out of K. by sneaking up on her and growling “Gorgeous cake” in her ear … She blushed and looked chuffed to bits, nervous because cake-making is her new endeavour in the kitchen.
I hate it when women diss other women, when they sit in a public place, point and list the faults. “Look at her extensions! Look at her belly! Look at the way she’s dressed.” It used to be easier to mumble agreement, but actually, no: the girl with the bad extensions has a pretty face, the woman with the big belly looks like she would be a real laugh and great to cuddle, and the woman with the odd clothes looks like she doesn’t give a shit, so yay for her!
I always make the effort to acknowledge the good things about women (I don’t say anything to men because the usual assumption then is that you are cracking onto them … booooring!). When I worked in the bookshop, a woman came in with her 80+ year old mother in a wheelchair. The old woman had fancy nails, and I said how lovely her nails looked. Her face lit up like a beacon, “Really?! I’ve never had a manicure before, my daughter just took me this morning!” and she beamed with pride. I was so pleased I said something, kicking aside that cruddy English reserve that means you “shouldn’t” engage on a personal level with strangers (I only engage personally, incapable of doing otherwise).
The thing is, women need that positive feedback. And I hate women who enforce the negative cycle of synthetic moulding, the belief that anyone else should conform to anyone else’s ideas. Yes, men play a huge role in this; whatever the pundits say, this is still a patriarchal society. And as a friend and I joked recently when discussing weight, the last thing you want from a man is a bloody solution (have you tried such-and-such, why don’t you go on a diet)! No, what you need then is for him to say you are gorgeous and perfect, because to be honest, you probably are: note how I slip easily into pointing the finger away from myself to you – I can dish the compliments, although I struggle to take them. But I do love those friends who have actually said they are willing to invest “years” into complimenting me until it finally sinks in … drip, drip, drip – it feeds my parched soul and yes, I do feel the desert in me starting to bloom, for which I thank you.
So, embrace the gorilla [sic] in yourself! Be hairy and smelly. Eat and have sex. Be beautiful, because you just are.
I went for a walk this evening in the dark. Everything is icy and frozen. I stood on the bridge and watched sheets of ice float in the black river, gathering on the one side at the roots of a willow. Last year when the river froze over there was a large trout lying at that spot. It had come up for air and been trapped in this alien world and died.
First I walked down one side of the river, matching my slow footsteps to the beat of the music I was listening to. I turned to walk back and saw the nearly full moon peering around a cloud.
I walked down the other side of the river. It was so tempting to slide down the banks and tap at the ice floes. How hard are they? How thick? Would I fall in? Would I die if I fell in?
I found a safe path down to the water’s edge and sat in the crook of a willow tree. Looking up I saw the stripped branches of the tree and then the moon unveiled herself and shone. I prayed to my Lords Osiris, Sobek and Khonsu and the ever-present Isis. There were the footprints of gulls in the snow. The ducks floated in the water at the edge of the ice. Occasionally one started grumbling and gacking, a vocal ripple taken up by the others until they once again fell silent.
I found a new path, one that took me further along the water’s edge. I only stopped when I couldn’t see any more, the branches too close overhead and blocking out the sporadic lunar appearances behind the clouds. There was no way except either back or up, so I chose up and promptly slipped down the bank falling into the snowy grass. As I looked up I saw the masts of a sailing ship. A new path and a ship? It hadn’t been that long since my last visit to this stretch of the river. I grabbed at the grass and hauled my twisted toe and wrenched back up onto the walkway.
The ship is composed of three masts (two with look-out baskets) and a prow. The appearance is of a buried ship, submerged: a representation and reminder of the past and things buried (I read on the sign). How appropriate. As I stood there on what would have been the deck I looked up at the main mast and saw the moon; I looked to the bow and saw a star. The clouds in the dark sky, backlit by the moon, looked like gods and I inhaled the air they sent into my lungs.
Some things became clear to me this evening. As ever my blessed Egyptian gods are kind to me and guide me… by moon and by star.
[A brief introduction to Lilith]
Lilith is a predominant demon and goddess figure in the LHP tradition, although she inhabits the darker corners of the RHP tradition as well.
Semitic mythology describes her as the first wife of Adam. She asserted her equality with him, whereas he tried to assert his dominance over her. This was famously expressed in an argument over who was to take the top position during sex. Once Lilith saw that discussion with Adam was hopeless, she flew into the air and fled. The Abrahamic god sent angels to call her back by force if necessary. She refused to return stating that she was created to afflict male babies up to 8 days old and female babies up to 12 days old with fatal disease. Some myths leave it at this with an open question as to why she wasn’t forced to return as god demanded. However, other myths have Lilith citing Torah, that a woman who has left her husband and been defiled may not return to her husband (one can almost see the smirk on her face as she quotes scripture to confound god’s own commands). The defiler in this instance was named The Great Demon who went on to be known as Samael. Indeed the pairing of Lilith and Samael was seen as a dark reflection of that other pairing Adam and Eve.
In this Semitic myth we see traces of the Mesopotamian and Assyrian Lilith (although she is found in other cultures too). Earliest reference show her as a storm demon associated with wind and air (illustrated by the Semitic Lilith flying into the air). And her role as bringer of disease and death, especially to women and children, is confirmed in all myths alluding to her.
She is also described as being sexually predatory. In my mind, there is a certain patriarchal morality clothing her nakedness in some myths: her sexual voraciousness is described in conjunction with her inability ‘to copulate normally’ (although exactly how she did copulate is left to our imaginations), to lactate or to bear children. I think the concept of a female deity who is sexually confident and powerful would have to have her feminine wings clipped in what is essentially patriarchal mythology by denying her any expression of full, ‘normal’ womanliness. On the other hand, her barrenness ties together conceptually with her role as bringer of plague and death. Alternatively, other traditions describe her great fecundity in birthing demons. Indeed to stop these demons from swamping the world, the Abrahamic god castrated Samael. This would have not stopped Lilith in her role as succubus visiting men at night with her lusty sexual appetite with the intention of getting herself pregnant. Men were encouraged to recite incantations to prevent the offspring from becoming demons. And one charming myth says that Lilith laughs whenever a pious Christian man has a wet dream (a woman with my sense of humour!).
Apart from being associated with storms, air, plague, death and prostitution, she is also linked to birds of prey (the Anzu bird, variously translated as eagle, vulture or owl), lions and serpents. She herself is sometimes depicted as a serpent, a lion-headed creature or a sphinx.
In Luciferianism, Lilith is considered the consort of Lucifer. The fruit of their union is the androgynous Baphomet. Lilith is one of the highest goddess forms, often shown as forming an infernal trinity with Samael and Cain.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Poem “Lilith,” Later Published as “Body’s Beauty”(1868)
Of Adam’s first wife, Lilith, it is told
(The witch he loved before the gift of Eve,)
That, ere the snake’s, her sweet tongue could deceive,
And her enchanted hair was the first gold.
And still she sits, young while the earth is old,
And, subtly of herself contemplative,
Draws men to watch the bright web she can weave,
Till heart and body and life are in its hold.
The rose and poppy are her flower; for where
Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed scent
And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare?
Lo! as that youth’s eyes burned at thine, so went
Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent
And round his heart one strangling golden hair. (Collected Works, 216).