A woman walks into a bar.
(This isn’t a Richard Prince joke painting. Or a joke…)
A woman walks into a bar, a party, a gig, a gallery opening, a gala. She walks up to a man she doesn’t know but finds attractive. She whispers, “Let’s go.” Which they both know means “Let’s fuck.” He’ll probably go home with her.
Now reverse the sexes – if a guy approached a woman in the same way, she’d probably just tell him to fuck off.
There are deep evolutionary reasons for the above, but essentially, what it means is that today, women wield a sword with double-edged power; we hold both attraction and choice.
As a woman, I know that just because I put on some nice clothes and happen to be standing in a public place, it doesn’t mean I want to be approached by randoms. I find that so presumptuous. So I decided a while ago that if that’s how I am going to be seen, then lets be equal about it.
I stand back, look around and scan the room. I see if anyone in front of me is worth of investigation. When a guy does it to me, it’s intrusive and annoying (it’s cheesy, played out and so cliché.) but when I do it I think it’s spunky and refreshing. And it works, 95% of the time.
This kind of attitude could be described as slutty or the behaviour of a nymphomaniac. I’ll take both.Think about nymphs, they were carved and painted as alluring feminine spirits that slept with gods and demi-gods, inspiring poets and artists, luring and discarding the mortal male adventurers who would disturb them, on their capricious whim. That’s basically me.
However my nymphomania is selective. It would we a blessing for men if I fucked every dick crawling past me. But that’s not the case. At all. My choice to fuck when, how and who I please—from A-list actor to waiter—whether I choose them for their beauty, wit, height or hand-breadth is my choice.
As a young child I liked to put on make-up but hated Barbie, I liked playing in the dirt with cars and I never saw that as a gender problem. And now, as a grown female adult, I wonder, why should only men think like men?
To me there are no gender roles, only action. The active and the passive. Both can be masculine and both can be feminine, it’s not about being dominating or submissive. That BDSM lingo is just as limiting and full of responsibility as those archaic biological terms like ‘woman’ and ‘man’. Screw that BS. You want to fuck him or her? You want to be fucked? Then do it, make it clear to them, don’t play some subtle textual game of over-analysed ping-pong. If someone won’t meet you in the flesh, then nothing can happen. When you meet, look them deep in the eyes and make him or her want to fuck you.
Act the coquette if it gets you cock, but straightforward usually works better. Sex is essentially an aggressive act; when else (apart from a fight) do you impact and enter the body of another?
But remember, a nympho pulls because she has swagger, not necessarily because she’s the hottest girl in the room. She has an innate, magnetic power (having a lot of sex makes you radiate) It’s a simple physiological effect. I’m no lecturer on the science of sex, but I know it’s true. And sex is about more than racing to orgasm. I was lucky enough to encounter a tantric (ex) practitioner in Paris, and the cataclysmic effect of that—my friends noted—made me glow calmly and beatifically for days. And how did I meet him? I simply walked into the restaurant, made eye contact with him, touched his cock through his trousers (which was already hard) and moments later we were running through the streets en route to his hotel… And I emerged the next day with my chakras fully aligned.
To by a selective nymphomaniac, you have to enjoy being trooper. You have to be tough. Confident. Not give a fuck. Not pretend to not give a fuck, then expect all the fussy bullshit of a conventional rom-com relationship. And cry about it and ‘hate men’. If you choose this path then you aren’t going to get flowers, notes and dinners or have these men notice or care when you are sick or sad. But this also means that you don’t have to remember their birthday, or whether or not they like white chocolate. And you shouldn’t expect that from your momentary sexercise partners. Want to talk about the state of the world and its rights? What kind of macaroons you prefer? That’s what friends are for.
With your lake of lovers, you just have to remember how good it felt to feel their body inside of you, over you, around you. How they like to kiss. How they like to cum. How you made your yourself cum using their body. And that’s all. You smile. You go. And no psycho-texting afterwards. No review is needed. There’s no analysis needed whatsoever. You leave with an aching body, aching with the abrasions of strong contact with another. Carpet burns and scratches in odd places, hickeys, bruises, rubbed nipples, broken fingernails and lips blown to double their size. The act is the action. You both hold the actions in your mind, and always will.
Keeping your lovers is also an art. Like in Ghostbusters ,you must never ‘cross the streams.’ Never think or talk about the other people you’re sleeping with in their company, because it’s not polite, it’s weird and they can feel it. It’s also just gross to talk about past loves in front of the person you’ve just had sex with, and intend to do so again very immediately.
It’s a luxury and a privilege to be a slut. Or, if you work hard, you can graduate through studious sluttery and become a nymphomaniac. Not everyone can—or should—do it. Not everyone can. Most women just don’t have the balls.
Being a nymphomaniac isn’t as easy as it looks. Like all manias, it excludes as many behaviours as it encourages. You have to sacrifice weakness, hone yourself, give things up to attain its highest levels. As Lars von Trier’s film of the same name shows, Charlotte Gainsbourg’s character goes through trial after trial in pursuit of a state of pure orgasm.
So. Why wait to get picked. Pick. Choose. Fuck. Go forth. Have fun. Then turn on your heel, and don’t look back.