Part 3 (1/2)

I told him the real problem is that we women don't exploit PMS nearly enough.

I've always thought it was pretty funny that, for years, we gals were told that PMS was ”all in our heads” by a medical profession that tended to view every other ailment that plagued us as the product of our uteruses. And now that PMS is taken seriously, men use it to question our ability to think rationally. This from a gender that regularly attends Monster Truck Expos.

Of course, if a guy has raging hormones, no one considers it a threat to his competency. But for centuries, those of us who have a womb for rent have been deemed naturally ”hysterical.” Our reproductive organs have been considered our sole source of ident.i.ty and destiny-despite the fact that men can, if permitted, talk nonstop about nicknames for their p.e.n.i.ses for an average of twenty-seven years.

So here's what I think we should do when it's That Time of the Month. Rather than ride our hormonal upheavals like a mechanical bull, or even try to a.s.suage them, I think we should exploit the h.e.l.l out of them to combat s.e.xual discrimination. Practice some ”directed PMS.” Some Estrogen Activism. Some Progesterone Power. Let's harness those mood swings, milk those menstrual cramps, let our ovaries, ahem, egg us on, and focus our frustrations for all that they're worth.

Every day, we chicks are subtly pressured into being seen and not heard, into denying what we want, into tempering our rage, ambition, s.e.xuality, and appet.i.tes. Yet each month Mother Nature turns up the thermostat in our own little incubator until we can't help but behave like a force of nature ourselves. We're chemically compelled to weep, b.i.t.c.h, emote, scream, laugh, eat, and make love with abandon. We devour that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels; we curse out the guy who tries to cut in front of us at the line at the Jiffy Lube; we pull our lover into the bedroom as if our libido has just declared a national state of emergency.

Despite whatever social constraints have been placed on us, we're hormonally programmed to defy them anyway.

Talk about a natural resource!

So I say we SmartMouth G.o.ddesses use this to the Max.

Whenever our b.r.e.a.s.t.s get achy, let's use it as a time to really get something off our chests. Let's direct our frustration, rage, and pa.s.sion toward a greater end; let's use them constructively, productively, and politically. Next time our hormones heat up and we feel like chewing out our roommate because he bought the wrong kind of f.u.c.king mayonnaise, here's what I say we do instead: Take it out on the federal government.

I mean, why harangue our loved ones when we can harangue our legislators? After all, that's what we pay them for: It's their job to listen to our concerns.

The White House actually has its own ”public complaint line,” (202) 456-1000, plus e-mail addresses for the Prez, the Veep, and the Grand Dame herself (they're at, respectively: [email protected]; [email protected]; and ).

Or, better yet, let's contact the folks in Congress (for your representative, go to e a force to be reckoned with-with minimal effort on our part. Speaking out just becomes part of our once-a-month to-do list. You know: Buy Tampax. Take Motrin. Contact Congress with Complaint of the Month. Eat half pound of M&M's and some pickle slices...

If we've got to endure a so-called curse, then let's inflict one on the very folks whose salaries we pay and whose job it is to represent our interests and improve this crazy world.

No doubt some dimwits like my friend Jerome will tell us that such ideas are irrational. So be it. Just remember: As women, we have the G.o.ddess-given gift of getting good and p.i.s.sed off every month-and we're not about to squander it.

Then we can tell them to shut the f.u.c.k up and pa.s.s us those chocolate-covered pretzels.

Chapter 7.

Your c.l.i.toris as Disneyland.

If G.o.d hadn't wanted us to touch ourselves, he would've made our arms shorter.

-GRANDMA.

You know, men rarely get more creative than when it comes to devising euphemisms for playing with themselves. Ask Joe Sixpack to describe masturbating and suddenly he's a poet. He's William Shake-the-spear. ”Jerking off?” he says. ”Oh, that's easy. How about flogging the bishop? Choking the chicken. Boxing Goofy till he pukes. Polis.h.i.+ng the k.n.o.b. Stroking the salami. Doing the one-fisted tango. Glad-handing with Mr. Happy. Hoo boy,” he gasps. ”Just talking about it is giving me a doggie b.o.n.e.r. Time to go slap the dachshund.”

But women, what do we say? ”Playing the skin flute” isn't exactly a term of self-endearment for us. Ditto for ”spanking the monkey.” I mean, really. We don't have pet phrases for masturbating because, as we all know, it's not something we're supposed to do, let alone talk about.

When I was in high school, two guys from my cla.s.s used to shout across the hallway to each other: ”Hey, Mark, what're you doing tonight?”

”I dunno, Biff. Watching the playoffs and jerking off, I guess.”

The fact that I still remember this charming little exchange shows how much it astonished me. I mean, would you ever hear two sixteen-year-old girls joke: ”Hey, Gabi, what're you up to this afternoon?”

”I don't know, Suze. I thought I'd go home, watch General Hospital, and switch on the electric boyfriend for a little while.”

Don't think so.

In high school, most of us gals would sooner suffer the humiliation of going to the prom with our parents than admit to masturbating. Even the word sounded low-life to us. Ironically, while sticking our fingers down our throats was considered perfectly acceptable (even a badge of honor among some) sticking our fingers down our pants was certainly not. I mean, Eeeww. That was just gross. You might as well be sticking your fingers up your nose.

Never mind that we were constantly and eagerly exchanging graphic details about our s.e.xual escapades with other people. I went to one sweet sixteen where a bunch of us, drunk on (what else?) pink Champale, compared flavored condoms as if they were Bonne Bell Lipsmackers. We thought nothing about discussing b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs or t.i.ttering about how some guy's p.e.n.i.s was shaped like a croissant. (”I mean, it looked like it should come with a cup of coffee and a packet of jelly!”) But self-stimulation? That we equated with being ”dirty,” overs.e.xed, and pathetic. Go figure.

For all our s.e.xual hipper-than-thouness, none of us ever stopped to examine our Orwellian, so-called logic. Like everyone else our age, we a.s.sumed if you satisfied yourself, you were ”desperate.” If you got off without a guy, you were ”s.l.u.tty.” And if you understood and enjoyed your own anatomy, you were a ”pervert.”

The s.e.xual revolution didn't do much to stem the tide of messages we received about self-contained s.e.xuality: We still believed that girls aren't supposed to ”do it” with ourselves. Our bodies are to remain ”hands-off”-even if the hands are our own. o.r.g.a.s.m and s.e.x are things that are ”done” to us, that ”happen” to us, that we ”surrender” to. On our own, we're divorced from s.e.xuality; we're ”allowed” to marry it only through a man.

We accepted these contradictions unquestioningly, the same way we accepted all those ridiculous advertis.e.m.e.nts instructing us to make sure we had that ”fresh all day, feminine feeling.” (Whatever the h.e.l.l that meant. One of my friends once actually used feminine-deodorant spray on her armpits.) And if we had a fair dose of traditional religion growing up, well, that just complicated things even further. As a friend of mine put it: There's nothing quite like the possibility of burning in h.e.l.l to put the kabash on enthusiastic self-love.

It was only after we got to college that the women I knew began to discuss ”petting the kitty.” And then it was only at late-night rap sessions with a lot of Kahlua and chocolate plying our tongues: ”Oh, my G.o.d, I just discovered the joys of a hand-held shower ma.s.sage,” my roommate confessed one night, and all of us started giggling, half knowingly, half with relief.

Then the floodgates were open. The veil of embarra.s.sment lifted-and there was no stopping us. Once it was clear we were all members of Autoerotics Anonymous, we couldn't shut up. We began trading ”recipes.”

”Read a book called For Yourself. Or My Secret Garden.”

”Forget the books. Get yourself a vibrator. I borrowed my aunt Mathilda's one night. I came so many times, I almost blacked out.”

”I'm having a love affair with my bathtub. Just lie under the faucet and let the water do all the work. You can come two or three times without lifting a finger. It's like, Look, Ma! No hands!”

Recently, pop-culture references to women masturbating have started to come out from under the covers, so to speak-especially when there's been a cigar and a president involved. And every time I've caught one-whether it's a rap song by the righteous T-Boz, or an episode of s.e.x and the City in which one of Carrie's crew gets addicted to a Hitachi Magic Wand, or Nastasha Lyonne dancing with a vibrator in the movie The Slums of Beverly Hills-I've felt a little thrill and relief. Finally it's being acknowledged!

For, G.o.ddess knows, we gals could benefit from a little less cultural shame. Despite the commercial raciness of Cosmo or the dreary honesty of Our Bodies, Ourselves, a lot of us still feel a glint of embarra.s.sment about masturbation, even in the privacy of our own bedrooms, let alone in conversation.

Yet, ironically, there's one group who's dying to hear women talk about jerking off: straight guys. I am not kidding. Tell a straight guy that you gave yourself an o.r.g.a.s.m and it's almost as good as telling him that you and your gorgeous twin sister used to play doctor together. Tell a straight guy that you're happy to make yourself happy, and he's transported to Fantasy Island. He can't hear enough about it. He wants all the p.o.r.nographic details. He is awed. He is reverent. He is grateful. He actually shuts up and listens.

Stunningly, it never seems to dawn on him that, just like with the lesbians he fantasizes about, the fact that you can be satisfied without him actually decreases his chances of joining in the fun. Oh, please, tell me more, he begs. Do you do it like in the movies, wearing high heels and a garter belt?

A few years ago, I had a surreal conversation with three nineteen-year-old guys at the University of Michigan.

”We're all dying to date this one girl on our hall,” they told me. ”She told us she m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es.”

”And this makes her attractive how?” I asked.

”Because!” they practically shouted. ”Don't you get it? Any girl who m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.es has got to be a total hottie.”

Well, hey. If this is all it takes to get boys excited and interested, it sure beats plucking our eyebrows or wearing a ”body slimmer.” But more to the point, I think, is the fact that taking matters in our own hands, ahem, gives us more power in the long run-and not because it gets the guys' knickers in a twist.