Why does cunt rhyme with blunt?

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Hmmm…

Makes me wonder why I’m so blunt?  Am I a just another Cee U Next Tuesday?  Ummm.  Yes.  I said cunt.  For the record, in ancient times, it was a title of respect for women.  It used to be an honor.  Now, it’s merely an expletive.  Read Inga Muscio’s book, “Cunt: A Declaration of Independence.”

Clearly, I’m both.  Or is it one in the same?  Or is it because I’m a woman.  At what point did cunt go from a noble honor to the worst word in the English language for which women are referred to in a derogatory manner?

I wonder.  What would be the rhyming word for a guy who is a dick?  Prick?  Slick?  Lick?  Forget asshole.  I can’t think of any words that rhyme with it.

It’s one of the few words in the English language that is referred to by its first initial.  As in the C-word.  Like the F-word.  Or the N-word.  We all know what that one letter means.  Used in the proper context, of course.

I’ve been told I’m blunt since pretty much day one.  Now, I have a podcast, One Blunt Woman, just to exacerbate it.  Or simply put it out there.  For others to judge, criticize, and sometimes (rarely) give me a thumbs up.  I’ve been told to “Just Stop.”  I’ve been told, “keep it up.”

Can’t please everyone.  Obviously.

So, I’m crude.  I’m vulgar.  I’m an asshole.  I’m blunt.  I’m raw.  I’m a fighter.   And, I’m vulnerable.

As survivor and an advocate for abused children, I support their cause financially.  After hearing Brene Brown last week, I was in awe.  I immediately went out and purchased her latest book, “Daring Greatly”.

Two words.  Read it.

We have a choice each day.  We can choose to be comfortable.  Or we can choose to be courageous.  In order to be courageous, we have to be VULNERABLE.  Yes.  Vulnerable.  But only the weak are vulnerable, right?

Wrong.

The author, Brene, told us otherwise.  She explains to us that vulnerability is at the very core of our fears, our griefs, AND our disappointments.  BUT, it’s also where we have the opportunity or, as she calls it, the birthplace of love, joy, empathy, and creativity.

Sold!  I’ll take two, please.

We have to be willing to step in that arena and fight the fight.  With millions of eyes watching you.  Just waiting to take you down.  Are you willing to take that risk?  I am.  Nothing is more pitiful as standing on the outside looking in.  You do want to live your life?  The way you want to live it.  I do.  I won’t live the same year 70 times.

What does that arena mean, anyway?  What are we putting it out there for anyway?  A new relationship?  A new city to live in?  A new adventure?  A new skill?  Taking on ice hockey at the age of 34?  Or simply having a difficult conversation with your children about sex?   Not sex.  TABOO.  Child molesters.  TABOO.   Ummm.  They exist and, thus, NEED to be talked about.  Yes, you will be criticized.  Shunned.  Avoided.  HOWEVER, these difficult conversations HAVE to be had with your children.  You want them getting all their information from their peers?  How much does a 15 year old know about emotional fulfillment of a positive sexual encounter?  Ummm.  None.  Do they know the anatomy of the human body?  Most likely, yes.  Do they know how intercourse works?  Most likely, yes.

But does she really know her own body?  How it really works?

Here we go again with sex.  Seems to be a hot topic.  A dangerous topic.  A forbidden topic.

Talk about being uncomfortable and being vulnerable?  It’s one thing for me to talk to my children about child molesters.  How I would adamantly castrate him should he EVER touch one of my children.  But talking sex with my daughter is a STRETCH.  Even for me.

I need help with this.  I know I’m blunt and I’ve been called the C-word on many occasions but, all that aside, I need serious liquid courage for this talk.

Girls & Sex written by Peggy Orenstein is an excellent read.  Again.  Read it.  She interviewed dozens of girls between the age of 15-20 about sex.  Real sex.   Yes.  They are having sex.  With or without you knowing, approving, guiding and most importantly, supporting.  Yes.  I said supporting.  She is going to have sex.  We can preach abstinence all day long.  They will just do it behind your back.  Imagine the choices she is making.  And, you’re in the dark.  Because you are too UNCOMFORTABLE talking to her about sex.  And, I’m not talking about geography of her sex organs.  And his.  Nope.  I’m talking about orgasms.  Masturbation.  Enjoyment of the act.  Emotional implications of having sex before she is ready.

But Peggy pegs it perfectly.  Americans shove the abstinence plea down their daughter’s throats.  (Don’t get me started on things shoved down your throat.)  Dutch girls, on the other hand, reported more comfort with their own bodies and their desires and more in touch with their own pleasure.  Oh.  And, their pregnancy and abortion rate are FAR LOWER than over here in the U.S.

Their parents, teachers and doctors talked openly and candidly with them about sex, pleasure and the importance of a loving relationship.  About the joys and responsibilities of intimacy.  What?  Come again?  Over here, we focus on the risks and dangers of sex.  Not pleasure.  That’s just TABOO and uncomfortable.

It’s my job as her mother to be open, frank, and uncomfortable.  I don’t want her giving her first blow job in 9th grade.  Especially, for the wrong reasons.  To please him for absolutely no reason.  I want her to understand the implications of all this.  I want her to know I’m here to support her.  To help her understand sex, her body, her ability to understand how her body works.

I’m going to step in that arena.   Risk being both vulnerable and uncomfortable.  Risk being criticized.  Oh well.  Just another day at the office for me.

Will you?

Blunt or not.  This is a must conversation.

 

Finding myself at Mardi Gras?

Ok…not really…how could I? Everyone was in costume acting like inebriated fools. Well…some were dressed…some felt the need to bare all to the men in the balconies throwing out cheap beads made in China. Yep…I’m going to bare my breasts (my rather small breasts…not much left after all 4 of my children sucked out everything I ever had in them when I breast fed them as babies…my breasts give a whole new meaning to “DeflateGate.”)

Ok…so I didn’t bare anything other than my loud, obnoxious self on stage belting out hits from the 80’s at “The Famous Door” right in the heart of Bourbon Street.

So I started thinking…yes, I know what you’re saying…”Oh God, where is she going now?”

Do the men really hold all the power? I mean, after all, they have the beads. All I have to do is pull up my top and BAM….the beads fall out of the sky…Victory! I get to use my sexuality to acquire more meaningless shit. Like the backpack. Choices. If I make the choice. I get the beads. Wait a minute…is it my choice or are they controlling me? Fuck…here we go again with being controlled…women who are abused don’t like to lose control. What happens when you lose control? Abuse. I, for one, will NEVER let that happen to me. So, fuck you, you drunken, corpulent fools tossing out beads for a quick view of my breasts.

So, yes, I found myself at Mardi Gras. My crazy self had fun. A lot of fun with all my friends. And, I didn’t need to show my breasts.

And guess what? I got plenty of beads.