“If I was hugging him while he was wearing a suit, and I was getting off on that, what would that mean?” I asked my spouse. We were talking about money, power, and sex.
“I would think you were getting off on safety,” my spouse said. “The suit is a way to be safe.”
“Yeah, I hear what you’re saying,” I said. “Money and legibility and power don’t get me off specifically. But I do love being safe.”
“It wouldn’t be something to be ashamed about,” he said. “It’s wouldn’t mean you’re less of an anarchist.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m one of the best anarchists I know.”
We were eating lunch in the vacation rental, after a park morning and before a library afternoon. I had brought up a friend who works a professional job and has reason to wear a suit some days.
“No, I wouldn’t shame myself for getting off on the suit,” I said. “I don’t want to shame myself for anything. But if I know that’s inside of me–shadow, like 20%–then I can account for it. Then I won’t get played for it.”
“Yeah,” my spouse said.
He was dishing the last of the rice into our shared plastic bowl.
“Would you think less of me?” I asked.
“For what?” he asked.
“For getting off on the suit,” I said.
“No,” he said. “I would probably get off on the suit too.”
“When I think of the people who go for this guy, I think they’re all white ladies who appreciate his power,” I said.
Maybe their dads wore suits–I never saw my dad in anything fancy. Maybe they imprinted on it.
“They like his deep voice, his job, his money?” I continued. “For me, it’s never been about that. I’ve loved him despite the power, not because of it. Well, I don’t think I love him at all lately.”
“What do you love him for?” my spouse asked.
He put Earth Balance on the rice and brought it to me.
“I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time. But I could tell you what I used to love him for,” I said.
I imagined my friend holding me, my face against the material of his suit, and my hands on his back touching the expanse of fabric.
Would it feel synthetic and nasty? Silky and too fancy for me?
Would I forget the suit as my clit thrummed with light and arousal, beaming inside the folds of my cunt? Maybe I would just want his clothes off, and mine.
Or I could ask him to leave the suit on. I could take off all my clothes and stand naked before him, ask him to hit me, and unzip his pants to suck his dick as he stood there, cold and uncaring.
It could be a microcosmic enactment of my entire life, of the injustice I live out every day. White men with money are ruling the world.
Maybe I could heal my long term class trauma, injustice trauma, gender trauma, enacting it safely. I wouldn’t let myself dissociate like I do in line at the welfare office or suffering on a bus, unable to drive, more disabled than I look.
I don’t need a thrill, sexual or otherwise. Money, power, and sex don’t need to go together. What I most want is love. Love is where safety is.
Who do you have sex with? Who additionally would have sex with you? Would it be worth it?
I need touch diversity and more people to hold. But without love, it feels pointless.
Money, power, and sex is a classic combination I can witness in movies and culture at large. But I’m a dirty anarchist, and my cunt is ruled by my heart.