I'm back!
Let's talk about the male gaze. And my feelings about it, which I'm going to admit at the get-go are complicated. I can't speak for any other Cishet females on this issue of being ogled, but I do know my position is inconsistent and a bit fucked up. But it is what is.
When I was younger I didn't like being gawked at by men. It made me feel like nothing more than an object, unsafe and a bit gross, to be honest. I didn't yet know myself and what I was capable of. I wanted to be seen as a person with skills and talents, with something to contribute to the world. The fact that I inhabited a body with breasts and other such womanly features was incidental. My body that happened to be female was simply transport for my mind, my personhood. I didn't want to be judged for the way I looked, for being born female.
As I became an adult and ventured into the world, I took to my undergrad studies and then my graduate work like a duck to water. I realized that I had a rather brilliant mind, and I was excited for what, at the time, seemed like infinite possibilities. Most of the time as a young woman I felt like I'd rather not be noticed for my physical self at all, thank you very much. I wanted to be noticed and appreciated for my accomplishments, not my body.
Sure, I did find that I got along extra well with many of my older male professors. And that went for male employers and supervisors as well. And part of me certainly recognized the fact the young, cute body that housed my bright, inquisitive mind contributed to my friendly relationships with these male figures in my life. And I'm not going to lie and say that at times I didn't leverage my looks. But always, always, was the desire to be seen and valued for my mind. If I had had my way in my youth, I would have rather gone unnoticed by the male gaze.
But things change as one gets older. And I find that the appreciative looks I once cringed away from as a young woman, I now crave. They're fewer and farther between now, and it's a real downer to realize that you're moving (or have already moved) into a different phase of life. I don't want to say that it's all down hill from here. I mean, shit. My sexy life over the last two years proves that that's not the case. But still...I'm getting older.
And I admit that these feelings about aging have very likely contributed to my restlessness and the ensuing conversations with PM about ethical non-monogamy and what we might like to try, if anything. It's this desire to be seen by others. To be wanted. So, no, I didn't appreciate being ogled in my youth, but now... Like I said, it's complicated.
So PM and I are having conversations where I'm expressing my curiosity about — my theoretical interest in, even — experimenting with our sex life by including other people. Mainly we have framed this topic in terms of swinging or attending a sex party, that type of thing. Something that we’d do together as a couple for fun and that had the potential to enhance our sex life with one another.
PM and my relationship is always evolving and growing, and I'm incredibly grateful to have a spouse who recognizes that I have a multi-faceted erotic self and isn't threatened or put off by it. It's this safety and acceptance that I feel with him that has allowed us to recapture passion in our sex life thus far.
Conversing with one another about these hypothetical sexual encounters with other people represents one way that PM and I are acknowledging the existence of what psychotherapist Esther Perel calls “the third.” She tells us that for everyone couple, there is a third. What more, the existence of the third is the very reason we become a couple in the first place. We choose our partner and not another.
The third reflects the possibilities that lie outside the fence of a monogamous relationship, the roads not chosen when we selected our partner. To read more about what Perel means by the third and my thoughts on it, see my earlier essay here. I also highly recommend reading her book Mating in Captivity.
While many couples instinctually shy away from acknowledging theirs and their partners’ inherent freedom to see and desire others or the possibility that others may see and desire them, recognizing the existence of the third does not automatically mean that a relationship is in crisis. In fact, affirmation of my and my partner’s freedom — I can’t own PM completely, as much as I may want to at times, nor can he own me, to my great relief *shrugs* — and of the fact that our erotic imaginations remain wild and untamable, despite our best efforts, has a counterintuitive effect.
I am reminded that PM is desirable. That he likewise has an erotic imagination that may delight in pondering the roads not chosen. That despite the availability of other potential lovers, he continues to choose me. And I, too, am desirable. And yet I continue to actively choose PM.
On one of the brutally hot days we had this summer at the family pool where my kids and I spend most of our summer, PM dropped by for a quick swim before his afternoon appointments. Our youngest children had swim lessons earlier that morning, so all three kiddos and I were already there when PM arrived. We all enjoyed having him there with us in the middle of the day. And personally I found a delight in watching him emerge from the pool, his swim trunks slung a little low on his hips and water sluicing down his sharp angles. *licks lips*
Later that evening at home, PM told me that he noticed another father at the pool checking out my ass. While the idea gave me a thrill, I laughed. (Well, maybe it was more of a teenage girl giggle. But whatever.) Because, honestly, I found it hard to believe. I’m 42 and have given birth to three children, after all, and while I think I’ve aged pretty well, I certainly don’t have the bottom of an 18-year old lifeguard or a 22 year old nanny. As I’ve talked about before, I’m under no illusion that men will be checking me out when there’s firmer produce to peruse.
It’s simply a fact in our youth-obsessed culture that there is very little room for “older” women *scowls* — especially mothers — to feel appreciated and desirable as women. (If you haven’t read my essay, “Can I be happily married and still want a side piece?” you’ll want to check out. It’s one of my personal favorites.)
Please forgive me when I revert to using the terms “men” and “women” — I’m not trying to make anyone feel excluded, but my personal story is that of a stereotypical cishet vulva-haver and sometimes those terms suit my own perspective and narrative best.
But back to the alleged ogling.
When I asked PM how he knew this man was looking at me in that way — I mean, maybe it was accidental?? — PM explained that this man made a side-glance that lingered longer than what is socially acceptable. Because apparently there’s some unwritten rule that boys learn as they mature into non-creepy, non-pervert men: you can look and appreciate, but be discreet. And, in PM’s opinion, this man’s perusal went a few seconds past discreet. (As an aside, I am endlessly fascinated by PM's breakdown of the male --– in his case, white –– experience and their social grooming.) PM informs me the acceptable male glance is no more than one second –– a one-Mississippi, to be precise –– and this man's gaze had gone on long enough to turn into an all out ogle. This man wasn't just noticing. He was taking notes.
My, my. I like the sound of that. My slight (hopeful) smile grew to a face-splitting grin. “I need to know more,” I implored.
I had an inkling about the identity of my admirer. I had allowed myself to be a little flirty earlier that morning, letting my gaze repeatedly rest on a sexy man with a lovely, slightly graying beard sitting on the other side of the pool. When I asked PM to describe the ogler-in-question, turns out it was one and the same man. Either my appreciative looks did not go unnoticed or this man just wanted to get a better look at the goods. In any case, I was pleased as punch.
I told PM as much — that I had noticed this man and had thought he was sexy. I was rewarded with a sexy, low chuckle and a gentle swat to my tush. “I’m happy for you,” he teased. Then he leaned in — lips close to my ear, the hand that had playfully patted my ass two seconds earlier now sensually squeezing — and murmured, “But who could blame him?”
My breath catches. Does PM still look at me like that? Could it still be true after all these years? In an alternate universe, would PM, like this other man, take a moment to ogle me, a 42-year-old -mother as I liberally apply sunscreen to my aging skin? And like that, the spark ignites a blaze between us.
At once, we are both reawakened to one another as erotic creatures, domesticated and yet wild, known and yet still a mystery.
It’s no secret to PM that I appreciate other men. He knows my type and would probably have no problem identifying them on his own, even if I never pointed them out to him, which on occasion I do. (To be truthful, most of them bear a striking resemblance to PM. *shrugs*) He knows my untamed erotic side better than anyone else.
I’m stealthily admiring a Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome right now as I write at my local cafe. (And realizing as I try to eat my lunch that there’s no sexy way to consume a sandwich that’s on a baguette. I might as well be tearing apart a piece of steak with nothing but my teeth. Would it be super weird to eat a sandwich with a fork and knife? *shakes her head*)
But for PM to witness someone else appreciating the form and shape of me? (And, really, there’s not much left to the imagination at the pool. Most of my flaws…and a few assets…are on full display, for better or for worse.) And what more? For PM to observe my delight at receiving this attention; to see me unexpectedly excited, turned on even, at the realization that there had been a mutual appreciation between this other man and myself…maybe even a mutual attraction. That’s a whole other thing entirely.
PM and I have gotten the chance to see one another, and to see ourselves, as erotic beings, and all that entails. Desire. Passion. Jealousy.
Acknowledging the third requires a measure of distance from my partner. If I am to glimpse my spouse as a person free to desire and be desired, I must force myself to wipe away the grime of everyday life together that obscures my view.
He does things that irk me. Or he doesn’t do things he knows that I need and hurts me. All the difficult parts of being in a long-term committed relationship. Sometimes the day-to-day routines make appreciating PM as an an erotic being impossible. All I can see at times is the boring, the predictable. It is hard to find passion for someone when all I can see is a person who needs me for this, that, or the other thing, if I really see him at all.
And I know the same goes for how he views me.
By talking about that man at the pool ogling my ass, I’m reminded that I’m not just a wife and mother — I’m a desirable woman. And PM, in witnessing said-ogling and my subsequent arousal over it, is reminded of this also. He’s married to a beautiful woman, who others notice and desire.
The practical results of this silly conversation? PM got some more fodder for dirty, fantasy talk when we got freaky later that night. And I felt sexy, which put me in the mood and headspace to not only get freaky but have an incredible climax. A win-win, if you ask me. And based on the groans that I heard from PM, he would agree with me.
So I started this piece talking about my inconsistent feelings on the male gaze. Don't get me wrong. I don't like it as a thing that makes women feel like less than a whole person. We're more than objects for your fantasies.
That being said, as I just told my friend the other day, "I want to be someone's wet dream." Her response? "So do I." We're both married, in our forties, and mothers. It's so very easy for us to feel erased by our youth-obsessed culture. But the fact is, we're still here. And we friggin' love to get noticed by others. (Especially by others who already know us a bit and appreciate our inner goddess, too.) We're reminded that we haven't ceased to exist as sexual beings just because we're a few decades older. So yeah. It's fucking complicated.
Until next time, stay kinky 😉
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