CroMagnonJazz

by Ms Downtown

I recently cut off the Juicebox as a booty call, much to my own dismay. In case you’re wondering, he was so named because his first attempt to hit on me constituted holding me back as I tried to leave a party at his house because, he claimed, I needed to stay for some juice to sober up. I drank my Veryfine, drew out the goodbye-hug to savor the feeling of desirability, and then called friends on the drunken walk home to ask, who the fuck drinks juice boxes as an adult? Apple juice, no less.Terminating him was a tough decision because I really loved fucking him, or should I say—and this terminology only applies to this particular case—getting fucked.

I use the passive because I was unquestionably the object in the dynamic he presented. Although he sometimes asked before attempting certain things (up the ass: no thank you; facial: OK) as a token acknowledgement of my sentience, most of the time I was thrown into whatever position he desired at the moment. I liked feeling tiny and powerless under his control; I liked being bent over and fucked in any public place where we didn’t think we would get caught, and bracing myself against bathroom counters and walls meant I would never need to do resistance training at the gym. I liked being told that he jerked off envisioning me sucking his cock, accepting and even relishing that this may be the only capacity in which he thought of me. In our little unspoken roleplay, I imagined that the Juicebox, a hardcore Zionist, pictured my human rights-respecting ass was Palestine so he could invade and punish me.

I was starting to wonder if my feminist credentials would be stripped away along with my g-string as punishment for this short-lived but sordid affair because I had really been getting into the hair pulling, face fucking, restraint, and overall treatment like a dirty little plaything. But I realized that maybe being confident and powerful in the nonsexual world was enough to make you crave the opposite as an antidote in your sexual experiences. Aren’t the big tough CEO types the ones who always hire a dominatrix, begging to lick her stiletto boots? Since I’m professionally self-sufficient and independent, maybe I don’t need to assert myself in the bedroom too. It was a nice break. I suspect that men may be intimidated by women approaching equal footing in the workplace (not that it’s been accomplished by any means), and may feel the need to reinstate the status quo by fucking us into submission, but I don’t really care about their motives. I only care about my own, and they satisfy me that I’m not wasting my activism and intelligence.

Despite all this, I had feminist reasons for cutting off the Juicebox. What I didn’t love about our arrangement was that while I was always ready to stop what I was doing and show up in his bed when called, he was never willing to do the same for me. Knowing I couldn’t keep making advances like an obsessed nymphomaniac, or, even worse, a girl with romantic interest in him, I had to use the nuclear option and delete him from my cell phone. That meant whenever I got that twitchy turned-on feeling in abandoned stairwells and public bathrooms, I couldn’t call him, and waiting by the phone for a man is SO not my style.

It took me a while to reconcile these two problems. Finally, I decided that being a feminist, to me, means going after what I really want. If it’s submissive sex, that doesn’t compromise my beliefs, but if it’s waiting for the phone to ring or being rebuffed unless fucking is his suggestion, that most certainly does. Booty calls should be all about reciprocity. If you can’t get off on your own terms, sexual equality’s nothing but self-delusion.