What Do You Want From Us?

    

     Written By: Bria McNeal 

When was it decided that sex was to be dominated by men and endured by women? 

This question, of trained passiveness, has been bouncing through my mind for weeks now. When was I indoctrinated into this way of thinking? Maybe it was when I was 10 and got in trouble for kissing a boy on the playground. He was my “husband,” and we were in love, so I granted him a peck, which was quickly met with my teachers stern lecture and a forced divorce. 

“Little girls aren’t supposed to kiss little boys on the playground.” If I remember correctly, a boy had done the same to his “wife” a bit earlier with no consequence. 

Or maybe it was before that. It could have happened when I was a toddler, sitting with my portable DVD player, wide eyed, watching every Disney princess wait for their prince. Or maybe a bit later - when I heard a girl get called “fast” for the first time and internalized how to behave so I wouldn’t receive the same label.

But perhaps it was years later, during my first time, when I was so happy to be picked that I forgot to be present. Or afterwards, when a friend asked, “how was it?” and I didn’t really remember. I knew what he did, and how he reacted, but couldn’t quite place how it felt for me. 

“Good, I guess.”

All of these moments and the forgotten ones in between, are a part of a shared experience amongst women. Our “place,” is clear, and deeply ingrained. We’re meant to be chosen, not to choose. But I thought we were collectively moving towards something better. Something *free-er.* Which is why I’m embarrassed to admit my shock when people didn’t like my new favorite song -- WAP. 

Meg and Cardi’s single has been out for a while now, and while the broader outrage has fizzled, the quieter conversations still linger. In the past few weeks I’ve heard the following critiques on a loop.

“Why does it have to be so vulgar?” 

“Is it even that good of a song?”

“It’s so unladylike, I don’t get it...”

Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much to “get.” It’s two women talking shit about sex and what they want out of it. So maybe instead of asking “why,” we should be asking “why not?” and “what am I afraid of.” 

Sex and sexuality don’t scare me. It never really has. What does, is the expectation for me to be a vessel and not an active participant. It’s the fact that this idea is deeply rooted. And because of that, my friends and I only recently began talking about sex with ourselves as the focus. 

I’m scared of how normal it is for men to talk flippantly about women's bodies. What they’re going to do to it. How much we’ll like it. How much they’ll like it. How it should look. How it shouldn’t. How beautiful, or fuckable, we may or may not be in their eyes. 

I’m scared because Meg Thee Stallion and Cardi B can’t talk about their own pussies without people complaining about the “right way” to do it, or if they should at all. But Dirrty by Christina Aguilera is still a cult classic and the media was hardly fazed by Britney’s hidden message in If You Seek Amy. Meanwhile, Kanye West can declare himself “a sick fuck who likes a quick fuck” and still be coined a musical genius.

I’m scared of the hypocrisy and the fact that my discomfort isn’t unique, and that this essay, among countless others, will likely be read and forgotten. But society's issue with overly sexual women will prevail. 

A couple of days ago, after a long family discussion about the WAP video, my stepsister expressed her fears. She’s afraid of how this song will affect young Black girls. Specifically, how it will be glorified in relation to whiteness, but weaponized in relation to blackness. And how some may grow to confuse sexual liberation with true affection and respect. To that end, she thought Meg and Cardi should be more responsible with their influence. I, on the other hand, didn’t think it was fair to place that much weight on their shoulders. 

“They’re just rappers,” I said. 

“But we can’t just do the same things as everyone else,” she replied. 

That conversation never really came to a close. We decided to agree to disagree, and, ultimately, I think we’re both right. But looking back, it seems like we’re scared of the same thing -- just from two different perspectives. 

We (and maybe even all of us) are afraid of the weaponization of sex against those who want it...perpetuated by a society that expects it. 

How did we get here?