And He was asking him, "What is your name?" And he said to Him, "My name is Multitude; for we are many."
« I sought “naturalness”, a “reality” of me, a “truth”. Today, and particularly these days, I feel that there is none. I do not know how to know myself, everything seems a fiction, an external imposition, a forced interpretation. I feel empty of truths, even when I’m naked.»
Preciado readings, p. 167 – decoding desire
Preciado recounts how V. made her think about the differences of decoding desire in men and in women:
How to be sure that the other person desires you?
In bodies without an erectile dick there´s a poetical space, a territory of sex as internalized knowledge. (Preciado, Testo Jonqui, p. 167)
To what extent have these dualities (explicit/non-explicit, visible/hidden) permanently influenced the dichotomies associated with the gender binary: public/private, extroversion/introversion, expansion/modesty?
This might have also been a factor in the historical politicization of genders. We went from the problem of “nature” to the theorization of the genitalia as a differentiating factor and its parallel with the sexual act, i.e., the potential of procreation has even been explored. But what about the visible versus the invisible arousal? Has it remained invisible as well?
Generally, in bodies with an erectile dick, arousal is shown in the erection. There´s an obvious physical reaction that exists to be seen, to be perceived, to warn: I´m ready, I want it, I want you. I admit that not all the bodies of bio-men work like this, but even considering such cases, on women it is still different: there are no signs as obvious as an erected member. We don´t see the arousal, we feel it: the energy is focused, the heart speeds up, the cunt lubricates, we feel the heat.
It is so obvious to ourselves that we forget that no one else knows it. I´m the only one who’s aware of the desire that inundates me. Not a single aspect about this desire is visible. How do we fulfill these desires? They calm down. We live in permanent postponements, in eternally unfulfilled desires. A well of silenced, invisible desires. An accumulation of frustrations and unresolved wills. Because we are not seen, because our “true”, “organic”, “natural”, “authentic” wills are transparent, interior.
This invisible arousal, these invisible desires are our unnoticed achievements. Our ability to lubricate without anyone ever knowing is equivalent to our successes, our achievements that nobody sees, our orgasms as well. I cum and no one knows. In the bedroom with the door open, a few feet away from other people, I masturbate until I cum, trusting that even if someone passes in the hallway, or even looks inside the room, she won´t know.
Insatiable. Pervert. Nymphomaniac. “You’re not normal,” obsessed, sick, bitch. Insatiable. “You are not normal.” My feelings of inadequacy, which I fight with self-imposed isolation, are beginning to invade me. “Control yourself”. “Disguise”. “Ignore”. “Hide”. “Think about other things.” “You have a problem”.
During the ten years I took the pill (when I was addicted to progesterone and estrogen) my experiences were quite more moderate. I began taking it because I had polycystic ovaries. A couple of weeks ago I read that polycystic ovaries are one of the manifestations of “high” testosterone levels in women. My grandmother´s repression as a child: “you look like a boy”, “sit straight”, “draw your stomach in”, “close your legs”, “you can´t hold the cutlery like that”, “stretch yourself while you walk”, “join your legs aside”, “be more delicate”, “lower your voice”, “don´t eat this”, “don´t laugh like that”, “don´t sneeze like that”, “drink skim milk”, “let´s buy you some clothes”.
I eventually got used to pretending to be a woman. Diets, waxing, postures, gestures, everything constantly policed, permanently monitored. The moistures, the shampoos, the clothes, all chosen according to criteria that match the scam of ´being a woman` – a perpetual, permanent and internalized effort condemned to frustration from the beginning. Now I see it differently: my body was being modified by addiction. When I quit the drugs it was easy to notice the effects: weight gain, increased body hair, the shape of my breasts changed. At the same time an amazing increase of energy, of intellectual and physical performance and increased sexual desire.
I quit the pill by the time my readings on feminism began. I quit everything: anxiolytics, antidepressants, medications for the stomach (gastritis due to psychosomatic causes), the pill. I sought “naturalness”, a “reality” of me, a “truth”. Today, and particularly these days, I feel that there is none. I do not know how to know myself, everything seems a fiction, an external imposition, a forced interpretation. I feel empty of truths, even when I’m naked. [and what body is this, what is it made of, what shapes does it have, of what external chemicals is it made, what colors, what consistency.]