I know creeps.

There’s the too-shy dude. The “nice” guy that “can’t catch a break,” who’s actually a dick that invalidates his own “girls like assholes” theory. The undiagnosed dude who’s running around with autism or OCD or sensory processing disorder or even face-blindness. The dude with the questionable mustache. The dude that is nick-named after a lovingly-crafted Vampire: the Masquerade character from 1994, which he used to vLARP, and has since built an entire false persona around, and for the love of all that’s holy, he’s never, ever going to shut up about it.

Then there’s the scary guys. Lord Dom Thunderfart who threatens people at clubs in a only-barely veiled way. Old guys that zone in on 16 year olds. Guys that are always bringing up sex out of context.  Guys that make you shudder. Creeps.

Creeps run a wide continuum.

The main character in my last short story is a creep. (Note: I HAVE NO BUSINESS WRITING PORN. “What? Red-headed Adonis Billionaires in silk suits are hot? Pshaw. Bring on a subby fanboy living in squalor!”)

“Right. No, you’re right. Sorry. You may be Creepy Sean, but you pay your bills.” She nodded, and she shoved the check into her bra strap.

He tossed the checkbook on his desk, knocking over a can, which destabilized a book, and sent his phone, a screwdriver, and some change cascading to the floor. He shook his head. “I am not creepy. You’re shallow.”

“I didn’t name you Creepy Sean. My friends did. Because you’re so warm and inviting.”

He swiveled idly in his chair and popped his knuckles. She grinned at him. “You’ve got a flaming skull tattooed to your tits. You really wanna talk about warm and inviting?”

She screwed her face up and shrugged. “Dude, forget it. You’re not creepy. Fine. Marinate in the cock cave with the porn bots until the dirty laundry and Cheetoh dust become sentient. I don’t fucking care.”

“Your friends are idiots.”

Creep, in most contexts, involves a certain level of unconscious (or maybe conscious) misogyny.

Not all the time.

But, most of the time.

Most of the time, Creepy Dude scared someone. Worried them. Made them uncomfortable. Or, made them cry at a convention, by whipping his penis out in an inappropriate place, time, context and universe.

So. Yeah. I once knew a guy that was banished from convention forevermore for running around asking people to sign his nuts with a felt-tip pen. Dude wasn’t autistic. He was just a jackass.

This morning I ran across an argument between Ryan Macklin and Chuck Wendig (and some other people.)

The gist is that it’s Super Mean to assume that any given creepy dude can tell when he’s being creepy or not.

Wendig re-tweeted:

Always concerned when guys worry if their behavior at cons is “creepy.” When I go to a con, I just don’t do creepy things.

To which Macklin replied:

Often, when a guy says that he is concerned, he’s really saying a variant: “So, I see that other dudes are able to chat and flirt with women, and I want to do that as well, but I don’t know where the lines are. See, I have a neurological condition or I was awkwardly socialized, so the natural thing I perceive this guy doing is really fucking alien. I’m not a bad human, at least I don’t think I am, but I’m obsessing over this situation to paralysis. It causes me a lot of strife because I’m doing nothing — which, admittedly, is better because I’m not bringing a toxic moment into another person’s life (which is my fear), but I see that I’m missing out of some part of the basic human experience and I honestly don’t know what to do. I would like to be a normal person, please.”

The conversation at g+ is decent. It hit twitter, went a little nuts, and Macklin emo-parted right at about the time I sent:

I’ve got autie loved ones. I get it. But every unhousebroken fanboy ain’t worth tilting at neuro-diversity windmills over.

I am okay with the use of the word creep, in that it can keep women and girls safer. It’s shorthand; it’s currency in inter-female news-sharing at the younger end of things. It is more important for women and girls to be safe, than it is for every dude to get all the vagina he longs for. There’s very little room in the Creep Debate for women to have their cluelessness acknowledged, too. If “creep” works, it works.

Even if it works like a sledgehammer on a walnut.

A continuum that starts at “he has no game and girls make him nervous,” and ends with “coyote-otherkin that eats people and wears their lungs as hats” is probably not… efficient.  It’s not fair.

I get that it’s not fair.

And I understand that it’s frustrating.

Recently, I got into a conversation about frats and how frat parties are the Everest of Male Privileged Consent-crossing, yadda yadda. Only, really? Convention parties are safer than a frat party, how? Given the recent shenanigans in the perv-0-sphere, where people are being violated on stage? It’s not safe anywhere. It’s just not.

And, so, we’ve got this weird lack of specificity in our language that sets up a few ideas:

First: that “creeps” are “awkward” and that the awkwardness is interpreted as “possibly dangerous” in a consent-violating way.  It may be intentional, it may not be, but it doesn’t matter because Lennie Small only wanted to pet the rabbits.

Second: that being socially adept minimizes your chances of being labeled a creep.

Third: that the apex of being a consent violating jerk is  actually at the top end of the socialization scale.

This is nonsense.

The truth is that it doesn’t matter where you are on the social totem pole, you are getting the same messages about “women as conquerable things to fuck” that every other person out there is getting. It doesn’t matter if you’re Greek or Geek–you’re socialized to put up with aggressive men. To excuse them. To write off the stories that accumulate. Every sexual predator out there has had a friend say, “But he’s an okay guy, he’s just loud/quiet/clueless/a player/a joker/etc. Etc. Etc.”

He’s always an “okay guy.”

The problem with creep is that it means we’ve left women with fucking Spidey Sense as their primary means of defense, then, we, as a culture, minimize and actively hide bad male interpersonal behavior. We hide it with social fallacies and misogyny about lying, drunk, crazy, slutty women.  We hide it with Not My Nigel. We hide it with myth and half-truth. And “he’s an alright guy.” And then when a woman has a failure of Spidey Sense, we blame her for it.

That’s a cruel set up for failure.

There are ways to cut down on a given individual’s creep factor.  Skillsets can be acquired. Rules, hard and fast and free of gray areas, can be learned.  A greater tolerance for neurodiversity can be taught, so that someone can be all, ‘Hey, I’m not a darty eyed weirdo, I’m on the spectrum and I mean you no harm.’

But it’s difficult to justify crying over the unfairness of creep, when we’re offering shelter to predators with endless excuses for boundary violating actions. You take away “creep,” and you’re leaving women no actual alternative besides the never-ending demand to trust, trust, trust and never, never judge.

That is just not going to work, until we’re all willing to label the real creeps.

Very few people will admit they’re looking for someone dumb.

It’s no longer fashionable.

“I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.” (The Great Gatsby.)

Something like this?

Wouldn’t really fly today.

Usually the list is something like: smart, funny, good taste in media, a childlike sense of wonder, etc.

A wide-eyed pretty-thing that will mirror all the things I admire most about myself and gently correct the things I like least.

You’re supposed to want your equal. You’re supposed to find the librarian sexy–or, at the very least, you’re supposed to want to subdue it. Rip off the glasses, take down the hair, and reduce her.

I’ve run across the random dude who flat-out states he can’t stand to date someone as smart as him–heaven forbid he stick with someone smarter. It’s a wee pathetic, but I can admire the honesty.  I’ve also run across the Best Friend that’s pissed off his pal is dating someone that’s running around with a female brain that works like mine.

And, there are boys that dumped me for my expansive vocabulary.

I’m not even a MENSA genius.

I’m not even formally educated.

But, hell.

A girl who writes is scary. A girl who will argue with logic is even scarier. A girl who tells you exactly why you’re wrong? You might was well give up.

There’s the guy that’s up for the challenge.

But, I never really trust the challenge-type guy.

The worshipful thing? The bit where they want some teacher lover? Fuck that.

The boy who doesn’t know he’s out of his league? Worse. A thousand times worse. Unless he’s pretty.

The boy who’s unimpressed? Close to acceptable.

But, mostly?

You giggle. You keep that vocabulary at bay. You resist the urge to tell his best friend that “string theory” doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

You giggle and wait.

I won’t lie. I couldn’t finish Twilight. I got halfway through. Edward wasn’t going to drink Bella’s blood, then throw her corpse into Puget Sound. I just couldn’t hang.

So, knowing that Fifty Shades is actually Twilight fan fic, I had low expectations.

I will say that Anastasia Steele, though hilariously named, isn’t nearly as insufferable as Bella Swan (Also hilariously named.  When I make a zillion dollars on a book, my heroine shall be named Aurora Starborn Specialcakes, and she will have purple eyes and have no idea how beautiful she is.)

Newsweek is doing stories.  This is one of those books that is supposedly capturing the erotic imagination of Grown Assed Women nationwide.

Grown. Assed. Women.

Anastasia is a 21 year old virgin that never masturbates.

Let me repeat that:  this is a novel about a 21 year old virgin that has never masturbated.

What the hell is that?

I understand the mechanics of Twilight’s success. Bella is a Mary Sue, and she’s…. well, she’s pants. You put her on, like you put on pants, and you get to have creepy vampire Adonis fall in deepest lurve with you for no good reason. You get to be be super smart without having to know anything. You get to be beautiful, without having to be all those pretty chicks you hated in high school. I rationally understand the elements that cause the fandom.

But, it doesn’t work for me.

And, so now we’ve got Grown Assed Women trying on new “pants.”

Anastasia is pretty but doesn’t know it (like Bella.) She’s got multiple dudes pursuing her (like Bella.) So far as I can tell, her only flaw is that she’s slightly clumsy (guess what that’s also like?!  I know!  Bella.)  She’s hardworking, plucky, and smart. And, she’s virginal.  She’s never even held hands with a boy. She’s never so much as been attracted to a boy.

Until, DUN DUN DUN, she meets Our Hero.

And, then, despite knowing nothing about sex, or her own body, or men’s bodies, she’s a multiorgasmic champion cocksucker. And, he loves her just because she is… her. All innocent and useless and pure and plucky.

What the hell is this?

I don’t understand.

This is fantasy sex for the modern Grown Assed Woman in 2012?

Really?

No, I mean…. Really, really?

I can’t really even parse out how depressing that is. I can’t. I try. I sputter.

When Kathleen Woodiwiss published The Flame and the Flower in 1972, she found an audience of women that were basically from Betty Drapers’ generation. My grandmothers, really.

If you’re not familiar with the history of romance publishing:

The Flame and the Flower was revolutionary, featuring an epic historical romance with a strong heroine and actual sex scenes. This novel, published in 1972, sold over 2.3 million copies in its first four years of publication and is credited with spawning the modern romance genre, becoming the first romance novel “to [follow] the principals into the bedroom.”

It’s the original “bodice ripper” that launched a million heaving bosoms, including the career of Rosemary Rogers (who sold everything as both “sweet” and “savage.” As in Native American heroes. Savages. Get it? You can throw up later.) Like Fifty Shades, Flame had the super virginal heroine who’s sexual appetite is passive. 40 years ago, romance novels basically had to get the main characters to the penetrative zenith via rape, ravishment, and “being swept away.”

That was the industry buzz phrase in the 70′s.  ”Swept away.”

It’s not her idea, see? She’s not a whore.  She’s overcome, overpowered, like a tidal wave has pulled her out into the deep dick sea.

The “swept away” mandate dominated romance novels into the mid 80′s. “Swept away” justified a million lady tingles.

And, that is what happens in Fifty Shades of Grey. Anastasia is “swept away.” At least so far. I’m only a third through. She’s not a born dirty pervert with deviant desires, see? (Hell, neither is beastly Mr. Grey, actually. It’s Yet Another BDSM Title where the main character is traumatized, abused, and all fucked up. The world’s tiniest violin will now play a jaunty tune of surprise.) She wants love and vanilla sex. But! She’s not out looking for sex. Because she’s a good girl. She’ll let him lead her into kinkery, but only because of love, see?

The same way Grandma Draper could only enjoy unmarried sex in a romance novel if it was just-this-side of rape. Or, just plain rape. Because then she didn’t want it. It was just something that happened to her.

What do women want? That’s the cliche, right?

Do we want to be virgins? Forever virgins? With no self-awareness? Loved to the point of creepy stalking and exacting control by freakishly attractive men who are mysteriously captivated solely by our appearance and personal tics? And, maybe the healing power of our vaginas will fix him a little? Really?

This can’t be right, can it?

Please. Someone tell me it can’t be right.

13:27 joan @ dude.
13:27 joan @ if i wrote gay porn, it would be… NOT THAT
13:28 joan @ it would be all, RAWR MANLY
13:28 joan @ and then there would be MANLY DUDES WITH MASSIVE PEENS
13:28 joan @ BEING MEN.
13:28 xanth @ you would write bear porn
13:28 xanth @ I know it
13:28 joan @ no
13:28 joan @ not bear porn
13:28 xanth @ aw
13:28 joan @ that’s always bear/cub. i need no cubs.
13:29 joan @ that wouldn’t be MAN PEEN WITH MAN PEEN. BEING MANLY.  It’d be like, two adorable dudes in love. Sharing a moment.
13:29 DartV @ gay angel porn with wings?
13:29 joan @ i want like, two grizzled pissed off bikers, roving the apocalyptic wasteland with giant guns and giant biceps and terrifying mustaches and grenades and flamethrowers
13:29 joan @ with the biggest dicks in the universe
13:29 joan @ frightening local wildlife
13:29 joan @ with their EXTREME MANLINESS.  THE KIND OF MANLINESS THAT ONLY ANOTHER MAN CAN HANDLE.
13:29 xanth @ yes
13:29 xanth @ YES
13:29 joan @ (and this is why i don’t write gay porn.)
13:30 xanth @ the industry is worse off for the loss
13:30 joan @ i don’t know. i think they probably lucked out.

Because, honestly? I am not down for a really long “erotic romance.” Being stuck with two characters for 50 thousand words sounds more like a prison sentence than any fun at all.

The first story involves multi-penis.

I tried to Google Image search it. If you know where it came from let me know.

I am not really sure when I got stuck on the MMF threesome idea. I will tell you, though, I am not one of those girls that fixates on adding extra girls to the scene. Not that girls aren’t soft and fun and whatnot. But, when left to my own mental devices?

I’m an enthusiastic fan of cock.

I don’t dream of vast oceans of pussy.

Years ago, after a medical mishap. I was banned from sex for 6 weeks.

At about Week 3, the dreams started. Sex dreams. Lots and lots of sex dreams.

Nary a girl to be seen.

I was still somewhat undecided on the Whut Am I question. Was I bi? Seemed like I could have been. Was I secretly a lesbian, and had no idea, because I hadn’t met the Magical Vagina Owner that opened up my Mystical Box of Lesbos? I have a somewhat fangirlish adoration of masculine women. But, like most fangirl situations, that doesn’t mean I wanna actually encounter the reality of doing them. It just means I I’ve got a silly infatuation. I think they’re awesomesauce, and I want to cheer for their team. I am, I suppose, a genderqueer “shipper.” And, like nearly everyone in Western society, I fetishize the female body, due to a lifetime of media conditioning.

The sex-ban dream period cleared up any lingering sexual identity confusion I might have had. I am definitely nine tenths straight. Girls don’t gross me out or anything, but I do sort of think of them as sexual parsley.

For a woman my age? Coming from my social background? It’s sort of a disappointment.