Do women want it less?


(Disclaimer: The following post contains views that might perhaps be offensive to you. Please proceed at your own risk. You are welcome to vent your disagreements at the bottom of the post.)

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I read a line, a perfectly innocuous, irrelevant line, inside the pages of the Samuel Johnson Prize winning H is for Hawk, which unintentionally set free a question bubbling in the cauldron of my mind— popping up, fizz-like, every now and then.  

The book is Helen’s memoir but also partly chronicles the life of T.H. White, author of the famous Arthurian Novels. In one place, Helen explains why White’s parents’ marriage went haywire: Constance Aston, Terence White’s mother, married Garrick White, British District Commissioner of Police in Bombay, not out of love but to escape her own mother’s jibes about how difficult it was getting, financially, to keep her with them. And then, writes Helen:

“The newly-weds travelled to India, and as soon as Terence was born, Constance refused to sleep with her husband any more. He took to drink and the marriage toppled into violence.”

 

Why do women want it less? When I say ‘it’, you immediately know what I’m talking about, because everyone knows it can’t be clothes, shoes or chocolates and flowers. It’s that other great thing that women have been accused of avoiding, losing interest in—and which men have been accused of being obsessed with and thinking about all day. And for the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why, because I could never relate to it. If you’ve been following this blog you’d remember when I was being wheeled out of the labour room after childbirth, my first thought was concern over how I’d be able to ‘do it’, now that my case-relevant body parts were significantly mauled. And heavens be praised, I’m not an exception. A vast number of women I know—close friends, acquaintances, neighbours and such– complain of the unfair categorisation of women’s libidos. And before we go any further, I’d like you to do a general Google search—like I did— for women frustrated with their husbands’ lack of libido; the unequal balance of desire where Women would like to have more. You’d be surprised by the number of complaints you’d find.

So where, how and why are there women who would like to avoid getting busy in bed? Plenty, it would seem, surprisingly to me.  Part of the answer I discovered while skimming through aforementioned chat groups of women who wanted more but didn’t get enough from their husbands. Sample this: A man engaged in one of those discussions rather proudly declared that married life isn’t all about sex, that bringing up children is the most important part of marriage, and his wife was ‘cured’ of her ‘abnormally high’ libido once she had children—after that she was okay with just having it twice or thrice a month.

How wonderful, Mr Pathetic.

I wanted to box that jerk’s ears. Buddy, did you ever give thought to the fact that child-rearing is becoming too taxing for your wife, so much so that exhaustion and frustration are killing her libido? Did you ever consider that you might help her in bringing up your children so she could relax a bit and get her desire back? Oh, I’m sorry I forgot—you thought it was ‘bad’ and ‘abnormal’ in the first place so you’re obviously glad she got rid of it. Congratulations.

As you can see, that’s part of the reason—overwork and exhaustion which, I can tell you with the absolute certainness of experience, murders a man’s libido too. But that’s not all. Let’s come back to Helen MacDonald’s mentioned-in-passing sentence from H is for Hawk, which hit me like a lightning bolt.

“The newly-weds travelled to India, and as soon as Terence was born, Constance refused to sleep with her husband any more. He took to drink and the marriage toppled into violence.”

Let me highlight the significant bit in case you missed it: As soon as Terence was born

Now, I’m no historian and know nearly nothing about Britain—or India—in the nineteenth century, but I do know that even now, hordes of women in the world have no access to fairly easily available birth control options—blame ignorance or patriarchy or both.

Constance Aston might or might not have had contraceptive option around her, but here’s my theory: Imagine a world where every time you had sex you were sure of getting pregnant. You’d soon develop an increasing aversion to the former for fear of the latter.

Even the highest libido would evaporate like morning dew in scorching June daylight.

You bet we’d be very, very sparing in partaking of the pleasures of a man if every single portion of pleasure would mean nine months of horrendous vomiting, killing backache, sometimes high blood pressure and high blood sugar—and in my case, thigh-aches and head-aches too—fainting spells and a super-horrid culmination into the unspeakable torture of ripping a human being out of your body

NO.THANK. YOU.

And that, obviously, is why men are always high on the ‘stuff’: they’d never have to worry about any of the above-mentioned consequences. Do it, forget it. And leave the woman to deal with it. Yes, I do know most men have to pay for the child’s upbringing. But not everyone does that either. And then again, a super wealthy man could bring up, oh say, 6 kids just fine. The super-wealthy woman would still have to rip them out of her body, one at a time.

So before I say a word more, let me glorify the universe for birth control. It just threw our fears out the window.

There. Now we can get back to where we were.

That, in a nutshell, is where I guess all of this comes from. The fear of the after-effects. But I’m forgetting one very crucial aspect here—the women who’re actually eager for motherhood but ironically not rooting so much for intimacy. The kind of women who don’t fear pregnancy but fear the act itself.

Because traditionally women had little access to information about physical intimacy, and men weren’t really taught to be considerate in bed, the entire experience would turn one-sided and unpleasant. And you wouldn’t be fool enough to keep wanting something that brought either pain or vacant numbness with it, rather than mindboggling ecstasy. The whole thing about having a high libido is that you enjoy the act, not go through the motions just for duty’s sake.

If you know anything of Carl Jung’s analytical psychology, you’d know that mental concepts—fear, mother, God and such—are passed on to future generations, brain cells to brain cells, much like inherited skin colour or hereditary disease.  It’s called the collective unconscious. So we have entire female generations inheriting the fear of sex, which is only countered if they live in an environment where women’s sexuality isn’t frowned upon. For the most part, that kind of environment is extremely hard to come by. Good girls don’t have naughty thoughts—that’s what you’re always taught.

The more you deny your sexuality, the better the good girl you are.

But you can stop thinking that— right now. The good girl and the naughty can merge miraculously in bed, with every good girl’s ‘naughty’ desperate to rip out and let the hair blow in the wind.

If you’re one of the guys who wishes his partner had a higher libido, darling, go check if she’s exhausted or overworked or generally unhappy with the way you’re doing it.

To put it bluntly, before you blame your partner for being frigid, consider the fact that you might be plain incompetent.

And if you’re a woman who thinks her libido is lower than a man’s—baby, think again. Are you still trying to be the good girl? There’s a whole multitude of places to be a good girl —just not your bedroom. That’s your space to let the naughty go wild.

And remember—birth control’s always freely available.

 

{IMPORTANT DECLARATION: This post absolutely does NOT endorse pre-marital—or extramarital— sex. All of the above refers to making love with your sacred wedded partner. Yep, you guessed it–that’s why Edward and Bella feature right at the top of this post.
And before you say it—no, this has nothing to do with concerns of women’s virginity; this applies equally to men. Yes, let me say it again. I don’t advocate premarital/extramarital sex for either MEN or women. 
(On hindsight, though, that sounds like a ridiculous kind of statement, because if you think all women should be virgins before marriage, but not all men, are you saying all men should be gay? Just askin’.)
To get to the point, though, the reason I don’t endorse either of the above stated acts of intimacy is that making love should be special. It’s the ultimate expression of self, the culmination of emotional and physical bonding. When you save nothing for your marriage, how do you experience the sacredness of it?  When lovemaking becomes casual, love itself becomes casual. Don’t do that to something so tender, so divine.
}

So now that we’ve got that out of the way, ladies what’re you waiting for?

Make like Nike and JUST DO IT!  😉

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Chapter 33: Love vs Marriage


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Dec 15, 2013

Nobody really understands.

The advice flows thick and fast; consoling words with all the soothing quality of Dettol burning on your wound—without the disinfectant effect. You are an aberration, a freak, a phenomenon unfathomable. They cannot figure you out. Why do you pine so for your husband? You have your child, after all. Isn’t that amazing?

And you cannot for a single moment understand why these are the very people who most vehemently advocate marriage. I mean, by the same logic, why was there even the need of a husband in the first place—you had your parents after all.

The idea of ‘at least you have your child’ is entirely baffling. Is the child a replacement of your life partner? Is one person ever a replacement of another? Is one relationship ever a replacement of another? Each person, each relationship holds its own unique place in the carefully stacked-up pyramid of life. You cannot extricate a single one from the structure without causing all others to trip over each other and come tumbling down in a heap.

But far worse are the annoyed, accusatory voices jabbing at you from all corners.

“Why do you need to keep harping on this?”

“Get a job, get something to occupy you, get your mind on other stuff.”

“These things happen.”

And to quote a relative: “Well, this is entirely normal. It’s been happening since the ages. Men go away for work and women stay at home and bring up the kids.” And these aren’t even the words of an old man (so you could pass them off as generation gap) but a young man, about my age.

It hurts.

Your pain, your anger, your rankling hollow loneliness. All of that is normal.

Because why should love be of any importance once you’re married?

Let me illustrate: why don’t you ever laugh at or feel annoyed with Romeo and Juliet? Shirin and Farhad? Even Elizabeth Bennett and Fitzwilliam Darcy? Why does the world find joy in eternal romances, why does your heart weep for star crossed lovers that couldn’t unite?

If this were a typical, pre-marriage love story, no-one would bat an eyelid over the self-destructive obsessiveness brought on by separation. Nobody questions Devdas and Paro, nobody questions Laila and Majnu. Come to think of it, nobody even questions Bella and Edward.  Because we all believe it’s quite alright to push the world aside and fight a desperate battle for love—as long as you’re not married to that love, of course.

Marriage is supposed to work as sanitiser, disinfectant, anti-inflammatory and anti-allergic combined. Whatever was in your system ought to be cleansed by now, and you must be engaged in a power tussle:  sharing lame husband/wife jokes with other friends, pining for singlehood and regretting the knot. So, of course, it becomes difficult to digest that a married couple could be immune to the anti-inflammatory shots and remain pulsating in a whirlwind of classically romantic madness.

No, I cannot just ‘let go and walk ahead’, ‘shake off the past and move into the future’. I cannot ‘find something else to focus upon’, to accept this as ‘part of life’ and just get on with it.

I refuse to focus on anything that declares this as an acceptable way to live. Refuse to settle for second best.

You might call me obstinate. But the world needs to know that it isn’t okay. That it is not supposed to be “what’s done.” That it shouldn’t be what’s done.

That I won’t ever consider it normal and buckle down to it. I would dig my heels in and refuse to budge. This was my protest.

It almost killed me.