Full Exposure: Opening Up to Sexual Creativity and Erotic Expression by Susie Bright

rejected, and also to get a few demands made on my own prowess. I don’t think I would have even used the word prowess before I made love to a woman, because my idea of what was sexually appealing about myself was based on merely being fetching.
    I remember a butch date of mine who asked me right up front, “Are you a fuck-me femme?” I laughed; I’d never heard that before, but I had an idea what it meant. “Yeah, that’s right,” she explained, “those pretty girls who just want to lie back and watch me do everything—I’ve had it with that.”
    “I think I’m about a 75 percent fuck-me femme,” I said. “Maybe you’ll catch me on one of my turnaround quarters.”
    I am pretty girly—but I wouldn’t give up my 25 percent of butch-ness, or whatever it is; if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be me, and I’d hardly be human. I wouldn’t be sexually satisfied. I’m only sorry I ever had the idea that what I looked like and how I behaved was anything but a perfectly holistic combination of masculine and feminine attributes. I don’t have the patience to be stereotyped as a pink or blue marionette anymore, and I’m attracted to people who get the gender-free message.
    The best part is watching women younger than me move boundaries with a wave of their hand. When I was in college in 1979, there were a couple of liquor stores close to campus, and one of them, Mr. G’s, sold porn magazines. College gals who were down at Mr. G’s testing their fake IDs to buy a six-pack were also just getting their first taste of those famous feminist antiporn slide shows that came to our campus and turned it upside down.
    I was one of those young women. Before I viewed the Women Against Violence in Pornography and Media slide show, I don’t

    think I’d seen a Hustler magazine; I’d only flipped through the slick soft-core men’s magazines. According to W.A.V.P.M.’s hushed presentation, Hustler and a bunch of other low-grade sex mags were pouring women’s bodies into meat grinders. Talk about your worst patriarchal fears confirmed!
    A bunch of students went down to Mr. G’s after they saw the slide show, and demanded that the owner remove this filth immediately. Mr. G told them to fuck off. There’s no love lost between town and gown in that city, and this man had never even heard of a feminist critique.
    When Mr. G wouldn’t budge, he was boycotted. His business suffered immediately, but he was no martyr for pornography—he was just outraged at some underage chicks telling him how to run his business. Finally Mr. G gave in, outraged but submissive. Whatever dirty magazines remained in our college town, you had to be a sleuth to uncover.
    Fast-forward twenty years: I now teach a class on sexual representation at the same college I graduated from. I told my students that they might want to go outside the university library to look for examples of contemporary erotica—porn videos, skin magazines, and so forth. The next week, a group of my women students came into class bewildered and insulted. They had been to Mr. G’s.
    “What’s the matter with that guy?” one girl asked. “We just asked him if he carried Hustler magazine, that we needed a copy, and he blew up!” “How old is he, anyway?” another one said. “He was screaming, ‘You broads are crazy! First you put me out of business for the magazines, then you say you want it back. Are you going to shut me down now if I don’t get you a copy tomorrow?’ ”
    Sorry, Mr. G. Women have been a little crazy—but that’s what infantile propaganda will do to you.
    CHAPTER TEN ‌
    THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION CRACKED UP

    S ometimes I wonder if what I’m doing is a page out of a stand-up comedian’s script. Say, for instance, I take a seat on an airplane for a long cross-country flight. The gentleman next to me is looking for conversation, and, sneaking a peek at my bag of books and laptop computer, he asks what I do for a living. I’ve rehearsed at home a