#when really the desire to penetrate or be penetrated is wholly unrelated to one's inclination towards aggression

[modify-and-sever]

that post telling people we need to get more normal about dicks. yeah. thinking about how a penis can absolutely never be a neutral body part in the way that boobs or even a vagina can be. while you'll get some weirdos telling you that your shirt is immodest or quietly whispered suggestions that you perhaps try a new style of pants if you have a visible cameltoe, there is truly no stranger a reaction than the visceral disgust and fear of even the mere implication of a penis. seeing an outline in someone's pants - even briefly - is akin to an assault. being made visually aware in any way that someone has a penis is this unique horror and indecency to a degree that simply doesn't exist to the same degree for a vagina. because we put so much weight on it, because penetration is given so much social meaning that is not inherent to it, the penis itself becomes a tool of violence, in the eyes of society. even the fact that we have different words dictating whether a sexual assault involved penetration or not - while useful in particular contexts - feels like an extension of this unique fear and weight put upon the act of penetrating someone. this even extends to people who willingly partake in penetrative sex - women with vaginas and gay male bottoms are stereotyped as "feminine" or "submissive" by nature because to be penetrated is to submit to the inherently oppressive and dominating nature of the penis.

this is. hopefully unnecessarily said - fucking weird.

it's hard not to notice how weird everyone is about dicks. anti-kink people love to post about how seeing a man in a speedo or other article of clothing that more strongly outlines a penis is some form of sexual assault. anti-trans people love to post about how you can "always clock" a trans woman by looking for her penis in her pants. it's something alien - something domineering and suspicious, a warning of danger.

I'm not sure how we go about fixing this issue, societally. but I just think that the way we perceive and talk about penises has got to be more normal.

[triviareads]

To Want is a Dangerous Thing For a Woman

For Bridgerton Appreciation Week, Day 1 Prompt: do it, be bold

January 1841

The air felt heavy tonight, a thick, languid sort of heat that was suffocating every sense.

It was not a new feeling, not for Charlotte Bridgerton, at least.

For weeks, she had felt as though she were swimming- languorous, over-practiced motions- through every ball, every party, every conversation. She’d once enjoyed playing this game that came with being a debutante, the pretty falsity, the vicious competition hidden under a veneer of sweetness.

Lately, she had began to wonder whom this game was for the benefit of, whether it was even a game at all, if it was a performance all along. There was a frightening sense of passivity to it, and now she felt it bearing down on her, this heat, its weight, unrelenting, oppressive, and she never felt more caught.

“Clairmont’s looking at you,” Lady Frances Cowper murmured behind her fan.

Charlotte knew better than to turn immediately. She had learnt enough in her two seasons as a debutante to understand the power of subtlety.

Instead, she looked to her friend and feigned indifference. “Is he?”

At twenty-one, Lady Frances was an equally-practiced debutante. She had served Her Majesty Queen Victoria both as a train-bearer during her coronation and a bridesmaid during her wedding to Prince Albert, and as a beauty of the ton, she was expected to make an excellent match, particularly if her mother Lady Palmerston had any say in the matter.

“He won’t look away,” Frances said, sounding close to amused now.

“I hardly know him.”

“Well, he is one of my uncle’s people.”

Charlotte’s interest piqued somewhat. Frances’s uncle could only refer to the lately-embattled Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne.

For a moment, she imagined turning, beckoning him with her eyes, the smile that would grace her lips as she played the game, as she had done a thousand times before.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her clan occupied, huddled together near the refreshments like one giant mass- her mother, father, the Hastings, Uncle Colin, Aunt Lucy, Uncle Gregory, Aunt Penelope.

Satisfied, she finally turned.

Oh.

She’d expected lechery in his eyes, hunger, a desire to possess-

But Clairmont's gaze was warm, gentle, penetrating-

Suddenly, she felt a rush of air and desire sweep through her, breathing life back into her.

Yes, she vaguely thought. Yes, you.

(She wanted. She wanted, and she wanted this).

It should have terrified her.

But she only felt determination.

Her body moved of its own accord, no longer swimming, but striding, through the crowd, through the assembly of dancers-

Until she was in front of him.

The Earl of Clairmont was tall, elegant, and had a certain calculating air he hid quite convincingly behind well-bred ease. He was standing besides a friend Charlotte recognized as Frederick Fitzalan, but they were not speaking.

Clairmont was still looking at her.

"Dance with me,” she said.

He peered at her with that curious warmth of his. "I'm not in the habit of dancing with women I've not been introduced to."

Interesting.

There was no outright rejection in his words. Instead, he had chosen to hide behind social mores rather than the obvious outrage most men would feel at a woman asking them to dance.

She was emboldened by this.

"Perhaps you'll make an exception."

"Why?"

She felt her lips curl upwards in a sharp, little smile. "Because you've been staring and I daresay you could do it far better from up close."

He laughed a low, appreciative chuckle.

“Hold my drink will you, Fitzalan?” Clairmont said to his companion. A look passed between them- swift, heavy- but it was gone in an instant. Fitzalan amusedly obliged, and Clairmont offered her his arm.

She took it with the oddest sense that she’d captured him in some way, and they made their way among the sea of dancers.

A slow, stately waltz began.

“My first instinct,” he said after some minutes, “was to ask whether you often swept poor, unsuspecting men off to dance, but something tells me that’s not quite true.”

“There is nothing poor or unsuspecting about you, my lord.”

Another all-too-knowing smile. “You flatter nearly as well as you obfuscate.”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I don’t- I’ve never done something like this,” she admitted.

“Why now, then?”

She wanted to tell him it was because he had indicated some interest, however passing it had been, but that was not quite it. She could have behaved in her usual manner, smiling at him, beckoning him through her coy gaze, perhaps even arranging a formal introduction through Frances or Cousin Caro- but she hadn’t.

She remembered that oppressive heat, that weight upon her, the feeling that she was

“I felt caught,” she confessed, wondering how she could explain this. “Caught, captive, as though I were some… thing, but when I saw you, I wished- wanted-” she broke off, unable to say the last words, how she could no longer bear this feeling of stagnancy.

“There is nothing wrong with that,” he murmured. “Wanting.”

But there was- everything was wrong with that. To desire, for a woman, was a dangerous thing.

“What do you want?” he asked her.

Everything.

You.

“Another dance.”

“And if I am already taken?” It should have sounded playful, but something in his tone indicated anything but.

“Are you?” she pressed. She would have been amused any other time, that he was playing coy while she was on the prowl, but not now. Not when she felt as though she were on the precipice of… something.

“Not wholly,” he permitted at last. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, swift, loaded. He was looking at someone else.

“I would ask as to your meaning,” she told him, “but I’m sure you can expound on it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“When you’ll call on me.”

There were no questions on his behalf. He merely inclined his head, smiling.

She felt thrilled at this show of submission.

The music swelled in a crescendo.

“Your father is glaring at me,” he observed. “As are your brother, uncles, and… a cousin or two, I believe.”

“Oh, they’re just overprotective,” she said vaguely.

“Or proprietary, perhaps.”

She looked sharply up at him, to open her mouth and retort, but she could not, not when that weight was creeping upon her once more, insistent, heavy.

“They love me very much,” she attempted, willing the oppressive air away.

He could sense her discomfort, and said smoothly, “I’m sure they do.”

She tried to regain some of her earlier manner. “You can expect an interrogation from them as soon as you step off the dance floor.”

He raised a brow. A challenge. “And if I escort you back to them?”

“That, I’m afraid, would be like walking straight into the lion’s den.”

“Come now, my dear,” he said almost affectionately, and she flushed at the term of endearment, “I’m sure I can handle them admirably well- really, you’re the only consistent surprise here.”

“But you won’t handle me.” It was an observation, a warning, whatever he chose to make of it. The music came to an end.

“No,” he said quietly, “I daresay anyone who tried would be a fool.”