Imagine a 42-year-old hot guy who works out, owns real estate, makes you laugh by assuming weaknesses and neuroses, raises a beautiful daughter using Winnicott and his infinite capacity for love, is friends with everyone he’s ever been involved with. and he still knows (and actually understands) some 15 phrases by Lacan that he throws at dinners that last for hours. This man would be the king of the expanded center. The most eligible bachelor in town. But what if we think that this same enchanted person is a woman? Oh, she talks a lot! Demand too much! You have too many male friends!
Imagine a gentleman who shaped and sculpted his sensual and sexual expertise in many encounters. He kisses with intensity and delivers. He says what he wants, and when he can, he doesn’t run. Well, this gentleman, if he’s a lady, has just turned into someone scary. Complicated, intense. Too easy or too masculine.
A guy once asked me, mockingly: “Are you that girl who wrote the book ‘Crazy’?”. The book sold around 50,000 copies, which completely renovated my first apartment. I negotiated the film rights and did the first draft of the script, which made it possible for me to buy a car for myself, another for my mother and another for my father. The film is about the anguished, medicated and anxious generation that we are. And about how “normal” partners, family, and bosses are the real freaks that make us sick. Imagine the respect a man would have had if he had written this work! I think we could even call it a work. I can already see it translated and sold internationally. And imagine how many interesting women would want to love this brave, successful, flamboyant and creative being of light? Not just print a conversation to show off to friends. Not just making waves by arriving at the party with the well-known author. Not just tame to put on the resume. A man who supports himself with art is the dick of the galaxies. A woman who supports herself with art must be a freak or a piranha (read: I can’t be with someone I’m so jealous of).
On another occasion a guy asked me, “Are you the ‘girl’ on that bunch of ‘crazy podcast’?”. He asked, stroking the shoulder of his wife “3S” –sleepy, supported and without salt– who works, only occasionally, giving tips on how to decorate a good dinner table. No, dear right-wing-shitty-executive-dumb-garbage-dressing-as-deconstructed-progressive-dummy, I’m not “the mine” for podcasts. I am the woman who created and hosts three of the most listened to podcast shows in the country. And I earn in dollars for them. And I employ a badass crew. And the best psychoanalysts in town ask me to participate. And the most amazing women write to me asking to be interviewed. If I were a straight white male, my God, I’d have to deal with extraordinary options of genius partners, cultured and thirsty for fluids and good talk, wanting to stroke my back. But, as a woman, I’m still called “the girl who exposes herself too much”, the “girl who works”. It’s amazing how young I am for professional references and how a lady tells me that my tit was sucked for a year and a half by my daughter.
I never forget my heart-wrenching phase: poor, dazzled, forcing the letter “r” in words. A semi-virgin, I used to think that a wishy-washy peck on the neck meant being good in bed. I remember the day I sat in front of a meeting room with three powerful men fighting for me. Everyone wanted the intern. One of them closed his fist, threatening a punch. The eldest said he was going to stop for the good of the company. I was not a hundredth of what I am now. These days guys like that greet me with their heads down. When they are more daring, it is their other little head that ends up crestfallen in the middle of the process.
Ah, but what do you want a man for? Would you ask a man why he wants to be loved?
LINK PRESENT: Did you like this text? Subscriber can release five free accesses of any link per day. Just click the blue F below.