The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

I'd probably deserve it.

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When my friend A. told me that I just had to ‘go out, right now, and buy Twilight’, her favourite book of the moment, I laughed and dismissed her. She called me the day after and told me I had to do the same thing. I laughed dismissively again. This went on for something in the realm of two weeks before she gave up and moved on to other things, letting me breathe freely without having to unleash what I was really thinking: ‘Twilight is for teenagers and horny housewives who have little or no appreciation for the craft of writing’. I wanted to say it, but I didn’t. Speaking my mind doesn’t come as easily to me these days as it once did.

The problem with what I was thinking is twofold: 1)I have not read the book and do not truly know if it is badly written or not, and 2)I am going by the opinions of people whose views I respect, without formulating an inspired view of my own.

My prejudice of anything ’vampire’ is an old topic. I find that most people, in my experience, who are into vampire-themed material are identifying with the overt sexuality of it. The idea of a sinister, yet handsome, hunk of undead is undoubtedly electrifying if you’re the sort of person who likes to be dominated. There’s a power in it, a challenge even. I sort of like that part of it, too. I have always liked men who seem powerful and commanding because I fit into that sixty per cent demographic of women who like to be dominated in the bedroom. That’s right, sixty per cent of women have fantasies of being completely dominated sexually. When I heard that statistic, I didn’t know whether or not I should be relieved to know that I fit into a tidy little category, or to feel highly unoriginal for being one of many who like the man to occasionally savage me like a plate of wings on Superbowl Sunday.

When I was younger, I would have liked ‘Twilight‘, I think. I would have loved the lust and the longing of it, just like most young, untouched girls do. I would have seen the romance of it over the death and the blood. Now, it’s more frightening, in a way. I say this because when you reach a certain age, when you’ve been in a solid relationship for many years and have had the children, have bought the home and are struggling to remember who you were, the first sweet sip of that kind of nectar might bring on a sudden urge to reclaim that kind of passion. The minivan moms will know of what I speak. How many of them are secretly longing for a pale-skinned stranger to pull them into the bushes, ripping their clothes away, fornicating with them so that the imprint of flattened blades of grass run up and down their bodies. I bet there are more than a few.

It isn’t just about vampires, either. Harlequin romance has been messing up the minds of women for years. I have known so many women who regularly devoured those books as though they were covered with cream and chocolate, and not once was I able to discern any common link between the reader and the content. My grandmother was a habitual Harlequin reader, as is my friend C., and neither of them seemed to scream ’Take me now!’. C. is generally confused about sex, unable to figure out if she’s ever climaxed or not, so I had to wonder what it was about the material that she found intriguing.

These kinds of books are really just for dreaming. It’s a suspension of belief that has some pleasurable side effects, like tingling in certain places or a hot flush pink on the cheeks. I can’t argue with that. What appeals to me, though, is actual passion, the touch of a lover on my pale, freckled skin or the warmth of his tongue as it tangles with my own. I don’t want to read about it, I just want to feel it, and I certainly don’t want to envision bloodsucking, non-humans while I do.

If I were to project, which is my way, I would say that more than a couple minivan mommies will be embarking on some sort of sexual conquest outside the walls of their marriages. The sip of nectar will make more than a couple women drunk, surely, and the addiction will bleed through them, owning them and until they can satisfy the quick, sharp itch in that hard-to-reach place. Perspective becomes poisoned with animalism and carnality when the mind is filled with erotic images. Younger girls who know nothing about sex will only have the fleeting images and confused ideas to contend with, aside from the mild throb or ache of longing. But, a woman, one who has felt sex and needed it, has drunk it in and savoured it as it filled her with fire and a truer sense of who she is will be tempted in a way that no younger woman will understand, until she one day does.
The older woman will feed on the pages until it fails to satisfy her, and this is when she’ll go looking for something warm, something that breathes. The older woman will think twice before taking a bite, but eventually, for some, the temptation will be too difficult to resist.

I’ve seen it. It happens. Of course, they can still go out in daylight and some are vegetarian, but you follow, I’m sure.

I laugh at A. when she babbles about Edward (that’s his name, right?), but maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe his appeal is about something more than a nice smile and a swagger in his gait. Maybe he represents something that A. is longing for, something she feels she needs in order to keep going. I don’t know. What I have learned over the years is that laughing at the passions of others isn’t only unkind, but it has a way of humbling you in the end, so I try not to criticize too much. I don’t want to learn any more lessons the hard way.

I will stay away from all the fuss, though. I prefer to look for the aphrodisia in my own experience rather than through the pages of sensationalistic literature. It makes me feel superior, but I’ll be careful not to say that out loud. If I wind up dusty and dry, I don't want anyone to say I deserved it.