Photo from my Towel Off series on Flickr.

Hugo Schwyzer evidently got flack the other day for claiming he’s in a “passionately feminist marriage.” The skepticism being fueled by ignorance verging on belief in vagina dentata.

But what do I mean when I say my marriage is “passionately feminist”? In the eyes of the anti-feminists, that may conjure up an image of a timid and fearful Hugo, walking on eggshells around his domineering wife, asking her permission for everything. Anti-feminists tend to think that any man who embraces real egalitarianism has essentially been emasculated, and has surrendered his capacity for action to his wife. Or perhaps they imagine that we have a little dry erase board in the kitchen, on which we keep track of how much time each of us has spent on domestic duties, in order to ensure that each of us is putting in precisely the same amount of effort as the other. And God only knows what the anti-feminists imagine about our bedroom. Perhaps they imagine my wife is some sort of dominatrix, or that our sexual behavior precludes penis-in-vagina intercourse, as that would indicate our acceptance of the “hegemony of the phallus.” Jeepers, the mind boggles at the possibilities!

He addresses the question, very well, here.

Sure, Schwyzer may be erecting exceptionally ignorant straw men to knock down, but then his accusers seem just as determined to bury him under straw-feminists. Well fine. If I may erect a straw man of my own, I get the impression that anti-feminists believe feminists treat their partners as sneeringly, verging-on-violently, force-the-to-walk-on-eggshells distainfully as they believe men treat women in non-feminist partnerships. Based, no doubt, on their own inches-from-a-restraining-order beliefs about what constitutes heterosexual domestic life. But in fact feminist partners are nothing like, say, hair-trigger Men’s Rights Activists. Seriously. It’s kind of cool.

Schwyzer continues through the litany. He has a funny, and illustrative, section on how when he and his partner fight he does sometimes wind up on the couch but as you’d expect from a feminist marriage other times she has to sleep out there. Like I say, illustrative and funny. Oh, and true. It’s not that you don’t fight, it’s that you don’t fight against a stacked deck, a set of rigidly confining assumptions about who should do what, or, especially, knowing that the man is not an interloper in the woman’s “domestic domain” and thus is no more obliged to sleep in the stereotypical doghouse than she is.

On to sex

Where sex is concerned, I accept the “diff’rent strokes for diff’rent folks” view. But there’s a common misconception that “heterosexual feminist sex” leaves little room for role play and excitement. Newsflash, folks: feminists have sex like a lot of other people do. Sometimes men are on top, sometimes women are on top, sometimes — oh heck, you get the point. I don’t know about YiddisheMama, but one sure-fire way to kill passion in a marriage in my view is to fall prey to any kind of routine. Permit me to be vulgar in the service of making a point: sometimes, it’s nice to have someone you love and trust push you up against a wall and “do” ya. And other times, that same person may need “to be done.” (Let me recommend, tangentially, David Schnarch’s magnificent Passionate Marriage – he talks a lot about this “doing and being done” thing, and it’s the best sex book I know for heterosexual monogamous couples.) Bottom line (pun intended), feminists have sex just like everybody else does: imperfectly and exuberantly.

Oh my. Almost all my kinkiest sex has been with passionately feminist — not to mention just plain passionate — women. First blowjob? Definitely. First invitation to fuck someone’s ass? An absolutely powerful, but gorgeous feminist who not only had never shaved her legs or armpits but wore Birkenstocks with wool socks… but never underwear. All the partner’s I’ve topped have been feminists. My office, college, or other work-related romances or affairs have been with feminists — some subordinates, some supervisors, mostly colleagues.

The trick, I think, is that feminists know better than anti-feminists that no means no… and consequently they’re a heck of a lot less hung up about what they’ll say yes to. And feminists clearly understand their own economic and social potential and so, less subject to anti-feminist pressure to “sell themselves dearly,” they’re not shy to have the kind of sex they enjoy. Even better, unlike too many people who are scared to death of what they’ve heard about feminism, actual feminists are comfortable doing their own research and bringing their own sometimes toe-curling hot ideas to bed… or bath… or elsewhere. The only downside is they’re not so keen to have the kind of sex they’re not interested in, but that’s only a theoretical downside. Only a clueless troll wants sex with someone who believes they’re obliged to pretend.

And everything else about feminist marriage? Sheeh, seems pretty much like a regular marriage, right? A lot of love, incredible opportunities to spend with my children, no unusual problems, way more flexibility in the chores department (my partner nags me about putting away laundry, I nag her, believe it or not, about not getting to the supper dishes before stuff dries to them), quite a lot of personal and professional respect, and, of course, confidence that if something happened to one of us the other, plus our children, would be taken care of since neither of us think it’s wrong that she earns as much or more in her profession as I can in mine. In other words feminist marriages are far more like partnerships where everyone pulls their weight, yeah, but where everybody shares the fun as well, without the fun being at the expense of anyone else in the partnership.

What’s not to get passionate about?