Well, well. Are we sexual objects or not? “Me? No way!” This is the kind of (polite) answer they’d got from me in the late century. Sure, I loved making love to my man, thrilled myself at the center of his crazy fantasies, but have kept those moments for the bedroom (or the backseat of the car). For the social eyes I had “another me” to display. Kind of “watch your step” feminist attitude. And it all made perfect sense: working hard through law school, I gained a position to defend. Eventually, I chose my (multiplying) family. Turns out that living for your children is a better accomplishment than struggling for a position.
Time to live some more now. To try loving others as I love myself. Incidentally, I learned that I’ve always been regarded as a sexual object (even if not only) and that I don’t mind. Rob Dee, a hip-hop musician, politely asked me to dance on his music. Well, few thousand miles and many decades away from my Johann Strauss Jr. faves, I said “why not?”
Never imagined how good it feels to dance on a tune offered to you by the living composer.