Beautiful Lies

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A non-unusual thing about me – and I guess it is unusual for me to have things about me that are non-unusual, as I do tend to feel a bit unicornish and outsidery – but here is the thing: the thing is this: I never realise when someone is chatting me up.

I am not particularly interesting to look at. I’m that kind of fat and plain and awkward that often translates into invisible. So, fact is, the reason I am so bad at spotting sexual interest in me might be because it hasn’t happened to me often enough for me to create any kind of model of it happening in my brain. Pretty people, I am sure, get it far better because (a) it is something they at least accept could possibly happen and (b) they have had it happen enough times that they kind of know what it’s like.

I’m a dominant woman. I get turned on by a pretence of power, by a fake status difference during sex, by telling him what to wear and how to stand and hurting him only because it makes me gasp and get wetterer. But all around me in my unelected culture is the message that this power, having this, deserving this, having him hold his legs open for a short little strap on his inner thighs, will all happen only because I am beautiful. That my weak female self can only hold the power of bewitchment. That I have no real right to power of command over men unless I am so aesthetically pleasing he is driven mad by it.

Not because he is brave and beautiful and wants to show me his manpower by giving it to me with his grunt and sweat. Not because he might find pleasure in my pleasure, might glory in my hot pulse and flush.

In femdom you simply have this doubled and trebled message that your pretty is your worth, brought on by all the weight of the femdom ideology revolving around a male idea of a very controlled form of female power. As your pretty is your worth for a woman, then if you want more worth (and power and value) just be more pretty.

Which is why sex working/burlesquing/wearing lipstick is somehow (mis)construed as *gaining* *power* because that’s where you get if you extrapolate far enough from female-worth = female-beauty. Even though nothing could really be less empowering than that central underlying fact that you are worth what men decide you are worth.

So it’s not like wearing lipstick in itself is disempowering - it’s neutral - but thinking or claiming it gains you power actual is.

And god, you know, if these days it is like the thing that we laugh at women who burnt their bras as a feministy thing I hope we are going to laugh ten times harder and longer at women who wear corsets and then say that is a feministy thing. I mean, god, wear a corset if you want, wear 12, but don’t start saying it’s empowering. Your underwear is not really doing anything to address the power differentials between men and women now is it? After you take your corset off the world is just that same. So you know, wear so many corsets you can’t get up off the floor if you want, but don’t tell me it’s political. It’s not.

And while we’re on the subject you can say burlesque to me as many times as you like I am still only going to hear stripping with class pretensions. Nothing wrong with it – but women taking their clothes off and being the looked-at-things is hardly new and revolutionary.

What is - or would be - new and revolutionary is this, very simply, men as sex objects for women.

Oh, come on! Give me a revolution and can get behind. Or better yet, underneath. Or better yet, in front of bent over with a folded up towel under my abdomen pulling me backwards. Oh yes, you know, if I’m going to put up with something constricting my pale, unstructured, mozzarella-touch belly I’d much rather it was something nice and firm and wide yanking me back onto his cock than a exoskeleton of metal and lace.

(But you know, this isn’t what we are talking about today. Maybe I can find a way back to my point and look like I had a structure and a plan or something.)

Here’s a weird thing, being a dominant woman you not only feel the intense pressure that you may only have your sexuality if you are some awestrickening goddess, you also witness how claustrophobic it can be actually being intensely desired by a whole bunch of men. The total fucking flipside is that *as* *well* you can even be a frumpy old mess with lame glasses and lamer hair like me and people will still want to get off with you because some submissive men are so liberated that they see past all that surface appearance nonsense and instead wank like monkeys over that fact that I get turned out hurting them. Because of course it so so much more validating to be reacted to based on some arbitrary bit of misfiring brain wiring than based on some arbitrary arrangement of my exterior topography.

But, that’s in kink - I am totally not ever prepared for men chatting me up in a vanilla context. Except for a bet. And so, when it happens (very rarely) I am very bad at spotting it.

But there’s being bad at spotting something… and then there’s this.

Last Saturday, late, me and Jack were drinking, walking in the street on our way to somewhere else. He needed the loo so decided to pop into a pub. Because we had an open can of lager I waited outside with it. It was a hot, hot night (it is unseasonably hot in the UK right now).

Jack had not been gone less than 30 seconds when a little tiny man came up to me. He looked exactly like Niles Crane except was about two feet shorter. He had an American accent and was peachily youthful. He said to me, from nowhere, standing in the street ‘So who do you think lies more, men or women?‘

I said, ‘Gosh, I have absolutely no idea.’ And as I said that I saw a second little tiny-weeny miniature man approaching. He was not so attractive as pocket-Niles – if pocket-Niles could be described as attractive in some generous and forgiving universe.

Pocket-Niles said something about how men lie more but women tell the really big lies because they are better liars. I didn’t answer by saying ‘you obviously haven’t dated many submissive men.’

Or, well, you know that guy in Austria with the cellar under his house full of his incestuous family – I think he maybe told a few ‘really big’ lies. And maybe, oh maybe, the biggest lies are the kind of genocidal, warmongering type of lies, but I’m sure you’d get the answer that ‘women tell the really big lies’ if you asked Tony Blair or George Bush or Hitler who they think lies more.

I never said all of this to them. Being clever and funny after the fact is the true preserve of the blogger.

Because there are many, many other clever answers to this question I never said. Because, oh, damn, I wish I had been smart enough to give this question the headfuck it deserves. I didn’t spend my adolescence reading books on logic problems for nothing (or did I? (See what I did there?)) - and actually maybe my misdirected youthful activities might explain why I don’t know when someone is trying to fuck me

How do I know that isn’t a lie?
How do you know this isn’t a lie?
Women always tell the truth.. or do they? (- see what I did there?)

Or best of all

I can tell you for a fact that all women lie all of the time

What I did say was, ‘So what’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told a woman?‘

And little tiny-weeny gnome one finally squeaked up with some suggestions (a) I love you (b) your bum doesn’t look big in that. Whereas pocket-Niles went all quiet and looked a bit confused.

Then Jack appeared out of the pub and the two tiny creatures *ran* away. I tried to involve Jack in the conversation (because I honestly did think it was a conversation) by asking him who lied most men or women, but it was too late, my new friends were not interested in talking to me once Jack had alphaed his way onto there hopeful territory.

And then, when I told Jack exactly what had happened, he said, ‘That was the pick up artist thing. Like that book The Game? They were doing The Game on you.’ Jack is supasmart. He has read, like, ten million books and he can remember things. He is very not like me. I am smart in a far more smart-brut kind of a way. (Although, I suppose Jack is more of a smart brute than me if you see the subtle differences.).

But, despite knowing that Jack probably knew what he was talking about I was very incredulous because , come on, people who do some thing like The Game don’t do it so they can pick up low-scoring drab looking women like me. Don’t be silly, why would anyone be doing the Pick Up Artist Game thing on me?

But Jack ignored this flapping. ‘In fact I think ‘Who lies most men or women?’ is in that book The Game. It’s one of their questions. There is probably even an acronym for it. They’re geeks. They have given everything an acronym.’

A little online searching reveal that that opener wasn’t just something people doing The Pick Artist thing use, it is like the main thing they seem to use. It is like code for hello I am doing that lame pick up artist thing.

- But there were two of them? Was I meant to have sex with both of them?
- No, the little gnome one was the “wing-man” (Please note that Jack really did do air-quotes here and that he does them *a* *lot*. I would say, rough estimate, every other word he says.)
- Oh, right. But actually, how come you know so much about The Game?
- I just read the book
- Do you do The Game? Did you do it on me?
- Yes, the game has a whole section on impressing women by buying nipple clamps and getting your tongue pierced

But the tiny men didn’t pick me up with their tried and tested. Which is some what sad ’cause if they had just squeaked to me: sex? We have those urgent hair-trigger erections of youth and or cocks are in no way in proportion to our tiny weeny statures. And we’ll gay up. I’m not saying it would have been a sure thing – but that *might* have worked. And it would have required a seismic cultural shifting. The Game/Pick Up Artist thing is fully entrenched in the idea that sex is something only men desire and only women control.

But it’s hardly the fault of The Game that the world is like this. The Game didn’t cause this – it just reflects it back. But, then again, everything that reflects this sad state of affairs (and really big lie) back just enhances it. Every reflection makes it stronger. Endorses it over and over.

It the same as the thing that underlies all those kinds of fake ‘empowerment’ where women are the sex-product and men are the sex-consumers. All the same fucked up thing. None of them are the cause and all of them are the cause

So what is the real cause. Well there isn’t one. Oh, except prodoms.

Sorry that was a little joke – prodoms are reflectors too - they are sex-product (yes you are your fucking bitch-majesty – no matter how much you are into it for the real – you even come gift wrapped for fuck’s sake) and men are sex-consumers. Men paying women for sex is all the same thing.

But I still had to go make that joke about prodoms there and once again bait a bunch of people who’s job it is to know how to hurt and humiliate people. But luckily for me I’m pretty much immune to being called ‘a cockhungry slut-whore’, I mean, and?

And, obviously, also, this entire post has been a lie

And obviously also, also, who does lie most, men or women? Answer in the comments. And see if you can convince me to believe anything you say is true.

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