Whores and Other Feminists by Nagle Jill

Author:Nagle, Jill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Taylor and Francis

[12]

500 Words on Acculturation

Jessica Patton

SHE FUCKED ME FROM BEHIND WITH A NINE-INCH BLACK RUBBER DICK, pounding my pussy like driving a stake. She pinched my clit with two sharp fingernails, as if killing a flea, and smacked my ass with the other hand.

“Harder, please!” I begged.

“You want it harder, you greedy bitch?” She teased, pulling my hair—letting go casually when she realized it might come off. I screamed and I came, wet like an accidental milk spill on the table beneath us. She held me and touched my face lightly with a glove with my smell and whispered, “Good show.”

Later, I stood next to Cassandra at the dressing-room sink. Still in costume from our performance (sparkly body oil and high heels with little oval traction pads glued on the soles), we washed our dildoes.

Cassandra was straight. (I had just left my girlfriend, a one-finger special, and moved from Northampton, Massachusetts.) I knew it was the best fuck I’d ever had. It just happened to be on a platform the size of a cocktail tray, my cunt at nose level to a skinny guy with an incest fetish. He bounced up and down on the puffy vinyl rose-colored bench, hollering, “Love me cousins, love me!” and paid us each a hundred dollars. So began my girl-girl, femme-on-femme-with-an-audience sex life.

At Smith College, I had come out and gone home with my first woman. She traded her Junior Miss Texas past for Birkenstocks and MacKinnon over the course of her four years but was still thoroughly femme. Gone home with her, period. We sat for hours in her chandeliered dining hall talking about feminist theory, talking about the inherent power imbalance and oppressive sexual contract between men and women, talking about just how logical lesbianism is, talking and waiting, theorizing yet still being at the mercy of our nasty conditioning as we each waited for the other to make the first move!

The sex I actually had at Smith was tentative and pitch dark. At its earliest it was still in the dying stage before “lesbian bed death.” “Give me a power imbalance!” I screamed (quietly, to myself) as I whacked off in my twin sized dorm bed to the image of the beauty queen fucking my brains out on that diningroom table during lunch rush.

In San Francisco, the city of sex positivity, I chose the sex industry with the privilege of a girl privileged enough to know she has a choice to choose to rebel against her privileged education.

But the actual sex took me by surprise. It snuck up from behind with the metaphorical and literal impact of that nine-inch dick. All my snotty Ivy League assumptions about strippers went down the dressing room toilet. Here I was in the Ivy League of strip theaters. These women knew about sexual contracts, and they knew about women’s space—with two critical differences from Smith: They knew how to fuck, and they knew how to look good doing it.

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