I look into the mirror reflecting back the crow's nest of silver hair, gleaming like summer moonlight tossed across tranquil waters, shadows embraced by it in a whimsical dance. The sides of my eyes crinkle like weathered parchment telling tales of smiles shared, victories celebrated, and passions ignited. But it took five decades — five decades of being an American female feminist scholar, of overlooking my desires and diluting my intimacy — to understand that a slow build of passion is an act of rebellion against the constraints, the expectations, the silencing of female voices.
For so long, I adhered to the guidelines and scripts written by generations before me— you know, those that encourage us to refrain from being too available, too eager, too passionate, too much. My sexual and emotional energy were rationed out, parsed and portioned like morsels of rare exotic fruit lest I be seen as too indulgent, too ravenous. And so, I learned to consume myself slowly, selfhood ebbing away as one would the freshest drops of dew, gathering them one bead at a time without disrupting the delicate balance of the blossom.
Until 23 years ago. 23 years ago, when I met her. She was confident, raw, unapologetically herself - the embodiment of a woman thriving in her power. Suddenly, I was seen. We were two women in a world that still struggled to understand us fully, but we saw each other. The spark between us was immediate, but the fire, oh the fire! It was a slow build, like dry firewood waiting patiently to be kindled by the faintest spark. A mantra slowly turned into a hymn, rising with the sun, bolstered by the moon’s light until it became a universe of roaring, flaming desire.
Her name was Laura, and she taught me to embrace my desires, to let my passion rise like a Phoenix from the ashes, shedding the constraints of this patriarchal world. She held me close, whispering tales of courageous women into my ear, tales that danced with the rhythm of her breath against my skin. She didn’t rush me; instead, she waited, encouraged me to explore my own body, to understand what made me quiver, to discover what made my heart race. She wanted me to know myself before I could fully know her.
In the maze of Laura’s love, I found myself, the woman who had been hidden beneath layers of regulations and expectations. I saw how intimate relationships, so often rushed and hurried, can bloom in the hush of a slow build, mirroring the celestial dance of celestial bodies - distant stars nurturing, feeding off of each other, drawing closer over eons until they blaze brilliantly together. The intimacy we shared, unhurried and understanding, was the deepest act of rebellion. It was a monumental break from the oppressive narratives, a defiant act that made our love a revolution in itself.
Now, at the age of 53, I look into the mirror reflecting back the woman I am, a woman who decided to rebel against herself before rebelling against the world. As a feminist scholar, I realize that my defiance is also my contribution to feminism. The rebellion, in all its raw, sensuous glory, isn’t merely about the overt fights or conflicts; it’s about the subtler wars we wage within ourselves, the nurturance of a slow-building flame in our intimate moments. It is about understanding that every woman deserves the right to experience intimacy at her pace, to savor every moment, every sensation like the freshest drops of dew on a spring morning.  |
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發表於 2025-6-26 15:19:23
