This Will Get Ugly

Unraveling disempowering relations with men

On a recent Tuesday night, I was dancing at my favorite salsa spot in San Juan — they’ve got live music and an outdoor dance floor that’s always packed. It’s the kind of place I might dance with more than a dozen people in a couple hours, most of which are “just” dances. You’re feeling the music, doing the steps, maybe there’s some polite chit chat. Más na’.

But on this particular night, with this one particular guy… it was different. He danced with more energy, more skill than the average — I was loving his smooth direction as he guided me into unfamiliar moves, the double spins, how he dipped me so low my hair brushed the floor.

I felt some physical chemistry, he was kind of cute… I got curious. When the song ended, we took a break and chatted. But it didn’t take me long to figure out I wasn’t interested.

He constantly joked, deflecting my sincerity; I sensed some deep insecurity he was trying to cover up. When he asked me questions, he had this exaggerated look of interest on his face, like he was forcing it. Not more than three minutes in and I was ready for the conversation to end.

But I couldn’t break away.

Maybe because the dancing was so fun… we danced together a few more times and I enjoyed myself until the third or fourth time when he pulled me uncomfortably close. As the song finished, he went to kiss my cheek. I turned away. Rattled, I tried to explain I wasn’t interested… too much too soon. He held his hands up, a dramatic surrender, said he didn’t know what I was talking about. Jokingly — but also seriously — gaslighting me.

I was deeply uncomfortable and increasingly annoyed at this person.

But somehow, still, I couldn’t break away.

Later, he asked me, “Cuando vamos a salir?” When are we going out? Despite fully knowing that I Did Not Want To Go Out With This Person, I said something like, I don’t know, I’m pretty busy, I’ll have to let you know…

Take my number, he said, let me know you got home safe.

I’d known within a few minutes of chatting that I was not interested; I definitely didn’t want his number. And yet there I was, typing it into my phone.

Still, I couldn’t break free.

Unfortunately, that’s not the end of the story, but I’m going to leave it there for now. Because, honestly, I can only write this kind of stuff in small doses. It’s painful to really see this insecure, timid me I’ve tried so hard to grow from.

The salsa night interaction came on the heels of another experience with a guy during which I could not break free when I wanted to, could not say no despite Not Wanting to be there with him. And both happened around the time I was finishing my recent series focused on erotic power.

What the fuck?

Interestingly, I had intended to include past examples of similar experiences in the series. I kept writing these sections about disempowering relationships/sex with men… and then I kept editing them out.

I’ll get to that in part two, I told myself.  

… Okay, part three.

I guess it’s going to be part four…

As I worked on the last piece, I still couldn’t figure out how to tie in these stories. Honestly, I didn’t want to. I just wasn’t in the mood to wade in the muck — I wanted the last piece to be a celebration of the reclamation I had done alongside an amazing community of women via Pussy Empowered Dance.

But there I was, trying to celebrate, while being made to see very clearly, yet again, that this is the context in which I find it most difficult to remember my agency. In my interactions with men, I have given up my power, lost touch with myself, my desires, my needs — over and over and over again.

These last couple experiences left me feeling deeply angry. Then the election happened and heightened the rage, and the grief. Reminded me of the nauseating, centuries-old, oppressive forces at play here. That, really, this is about trying to untangle from generations of impacts of this shit while living a nightmare in which hard-fought-for progress is being rolled back.

In the last couple weeks, the paragraphs I edited out of the erotic power series have started to haunt me. The half-told stories of me losing myself — both a symptom and a cause of my struggle to act in the world in an empowered way — want my attention.

But the resistance is strong. And my mind has been real crafty, trying to trick me into believing it’s best to just press delete on these partially-written stories and “move on.”

This is going to be exhausting, and you’re just wallowing. Can’t you come up with a less painstaking way to break these patterns? I’m already so sick of thinking/talking/journaling about it...

But I’m even more sick of Living it.

The process of laying bare my least empowered parts can be so bitter I find my mind wandering to the kitchen pantry, wondering what kind of sweet, delicious cookies might be there to counteract it (for real, that just happened); but I’m beginning to see that this bad taste is self-rejection. That’s what makes me want to edit it out, hit delete.

So I’m trying to muster the self-compassion required to not just skip this part — to be able to look at it, to say it, to reveal it.

I think it’s what I’m here for. To go into the cave and shine a light into the shadows. Because I know there are also crystals in this cave — parts of myself I need to reclaim and treasure — but I won’t find them unless I turn my ass around and tread back into the darkness.

Shout out to Jen Forshee for capturing the descent

Maybe the election helped me reach this breaking point. In the face of the ugliness, I’m even more motivated to alchemize this shit and I can take refuge in my capacity to do internal work. As Alyssa Aparicio put it in her super insightful recent essay, to dismantle the patriarchy within.  

So, for a while, I’m going to be here unravelling the personal experiences, generational and societal impacts that have shaped my interactions with men. Digging into what’s been operating in my subconscious, trying to get to the roots of why I continue to give my power away.

Even though I’m tired and frustrated, I’m doing it because I know I’m not alone.

I see so many incredibly powerful women around me tied down by a sense of obligation to men.

Or held back by a compulsion to heal or fix or put up with men who don’t have the capacity to nurture, love, honor, even fully see them.

Or caught in this-isn’t-good-for-me-but-I-can’t-say-no situations.

Or constantly distracted, trying to boost self-esteem by seeking the appreciation/admiration of men.

This is not about not loving men, or not trying to be in relationship with men. It’s not about blaming or being a victim.

It is about re-committing to a vision of physical, psychological, emotional and spiritual freedom from colonial patriarchy, especially now. It’s about working towards full agency over our decisions, supporting ourselves abundantly, not saying yes out of a fear of what might happen if we say no.

It’s about growing our capacity to feel the deepest self-love and respect for ourselves — including all the women we have once been — so we can move forward in profoundly whole, powerful ways.