Express Yourself
Last night's In The Flesh: LA Erotic Reading series was just brilliant. Amazing writers all, such comedic as wells as thought provoking pieces. The theme was Madonna and after much going back and forth, I have decided to post my original piece from last night here. I have cut some X rated language but other than those minor edits the piece remains the same. (the Madonna songs are in bold)
Express Yourself
By Margaret Marr
The Madonna of my youth is not the Madonna of my maturity. But regardless of either, she is the Madonna of my generation. She is me and I am her. The manifestation of my blossoming teenage sexuality. The definition of a generation for which the words dirty girl and bad girl held a much different meaning than for our mothers. Born post-pill and sexually aware pre-aids, I had no fear. Emboldened by the words BOY TOY and the vision of a writhing Madonna rolling across the floor of the stage on the MTV awards wearing a lace wedding dress and telling me and the world she was like a virgin, but not a virgin and felt no shame because of it, I and my set had no fear of being labeled bad girls. No, in fact my sexuality was mine and mine alone. I could disperse my favors as I saw fit without fear of retribution, or recrimination or (gasp as my mother’s generation) without getting a bad reputation. This was my post-feminist revolution, to embrace all that my ERA bra-burning older sisters said oppressed me and was the domain of my male oppressors, to instead flip the very meaning of the words BOY TOY, in that the Toy for me, was the Boy. And should I choose to be his Toy, the power came from my choice, Me giving him my sexual gift, my essence my sweat sweet nectar.
Sex is not oppression, but power. Men, ah men, how every woman loves the feel of a hard man between her legs and yet, women are driven by so much more than our sexual urges. Making men so malleable, so easily lead. A tight pair of tits sitting high on a chest, with a willowy waist and lusciously round hips, just the vision of this can cause middle aged men, fearing their loss of virility to buy ferarri’s, porsches and toss away years of marriage and family for the four minutes that they might feel themselves slide into the tight wetness of a sweet young thing.
Lusciously full of sexual power, and conquest I was burning up for their love. But as much as the youthful me saw relished the power of this, my sexuality that could be wielded as one might swing a samurai blade, my aging me now mourns her loss. So the saying goes; those who live by the sword die by the sword. And now post child-birth, and well into my thirties, ah-hmm the end of my thirties as I see the young thing walk by swinging her hips, her breasts wantonly sitting high on her chest, braless and barely covered by a tight white tank top, I long for that moment. The moment of power, the moment of saturating myself with the strength of my sexuality the power of my attraction the essence of my desire.
And while my Madonna, the Madonna of my generation manages to maintain some of her sexuality with a hard body, and the refusal to eat after six pm and never letting a piece of bread pass her lips. I look at her and gone is the warm voluptuous sexy creature of my youth. Gone is the girl in the black lace and beads bouncing across a white set singing holiday she is replaced by a overly lean hard looking woman. One who I am unsure I can follow into that long goodnight.
I search for my sexuality now that I am a mother, a wife, and almost (gasp) middle aged. So easy to feel sexually attractive when you are the very essence of mother-nature’s desire for reproduction, when the gift of your flower is to fulfill the role of reproduction. But what then when the role is fulfilled. What then as I age and look beyond the essence of physical beauty, virility and search even deeper to find what is sexy about me. My answer seems locked beyond my grasp.
My answer I hope waits for me just on the other side of my children entering school and perhaps getting a piece of my husband again for myself. But as I search, I often think of the moments, when my beauty, my sexuality, my freedom was all present for his and my pleasure. The feelings of his lips on my mouth, his hands sliding over my breasts, and down to my waist. His lips on my neck causing me to run my fingers through his hair grasping for him and gasping for air, as his hands slid up my thigh, pausing and making tight little circles. His fingers slipping under my lace silk panties and pausing, a pause, that causes me to gasp with desire as heat courses through my body. He presses closer, he pushes against me, and in this moment, this moment of arousal, I feel the surge of desire, of power, of sexuality and in this moment I feel beautiful and see the ray of light that is my future sexuality and know that I am still crazy for you.
xo mm
Express Yourself
By Margaret Marr
The Madonna of my youth is not the Madonna of my maturity. But regardless of either, she is the Madonna of my generation. She is me and I am her. The manifestation of my blossoming teenage sexuality. The definition of a generation for which the words dirty girl and bad girl held a much different meaning than for our mothers. Born post-pill and sexually aware pre-aids, I had no fear. Emboldened by the words BOY TOY and the vision of a writhing Madonna rolling across the floor of the stage on the MTV awards wearing a lace wedding dress and telling me and the world she was like a virgin, but not a virgin and felt no shame because of it, I and my set had no fear of being labeled bad girls. No, in fact my sexuality was mine and mine alone. I could disperse my favors as I saw fit without fear of retribution, or recrimination or (gasp as my mother’s generation) without getting a bad reputation. This was my post-feminist revolution, to embrace all that my ERA bra-burning older sisters said oppressed me and was the domain of my male oppressors, to instead flip the very meaning of the words BOY TOY, in that the Toy for me, was the Boy. And should I choose to be his Toy, the power came from my choice, Me giving him my sexual gift, my essence my sweat sweet nectar.
Sex is not oppression, but power. Men, ah men, how every woman loves the feel of a hard man between her legs and yet, women are driven by so much more than our sexual urges. Making men so malleable, so easily lead. A tight pair of tits sitting high on a chest, with a willowy waist and lusciously round hips, just the vision of this can cause middle aged men, fearing their loss of virility to buy ferarri’s, porsches and toss away years of marriage and family for the four minutes that they might feel themselves slide into the tight wetness of a sweet young thing.
Lusciously full of sexual power, and conquest I was burning up for their love. But as much as the youthful me saw relished the power of this, my sexuality that could be wielded as one might swing a samurai blade, my aging me now mourns her loss. So the saying goes; those who live by the sword die by the sword. And now post child-birth, and well into my thirties, ah-hmm the end of my thirties as I see the young thing walk by swinging her hips, her breasts wantonly sitting high on her chest, braless and barely covered by a tight white tank top, I long for that moment. The moment of power, the moment of saturating myself with the strength of my sexuality the power of my attraction the essence of my desire.
And while my Madonna, the Madonna of my generation manages to maintain some of her sexuality with a hard body, and the refusal to eat after six pm and never letting a piece of bread pass her lips. I look at her and gone is the warm voluptuous sexy creature of my youth. Gone is the girl in the black lace and beads bouncing across a white set singing holiday she is replaced by a overly lean hard looking woman. One who I am unsure I can follow into that long goodnight.
I search for my sexuality now that I am a mother, a wife, and almost (gasp) middle aged. So easy to feel sexually attractive when you are the very essence of mother-nature’s desire for reproduction, when the gift of your flower is to fulfill the role of reproduction. But what then when the role is fulfilled. What then as I age and look beyond the essence of physical beauty, virility and search even deeper to find what is sexy about me. My answer seems locked beyond my grasp.
My answer I hope waits for me just on the other side of my children entering school and perhaps getting a piece of my husband again for myself. But as I search, I often think of the moments, when my beauty, my sexuality, my freedom was all present for his and my pleasure. The feelings of his lips on my mouth, his hands sliding over my breasts, and down to my waist. His lips on my neck causing me to run my fingers through his hair grasping for him and gasping for air, as his hands slid up my thigh, pausing and making tight little circles. His fingers slipping under my lace silk panties and pausing, a pause, that causes me to gasp with desire as heat courses through my body. He presses closer, he pushes against me, and in this moment, this moment of arousal, I feel the surge of desire, of power, of sexuality and in this moment I feel beautiful and see the ray of light that is my future sexuality and know that I am still crazy for you.
xo mm
posted by Maggie Marr at 7:49 AM
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