Moist & Me - A Tale of Repugnance

I am affected by the words of others. It isn't hearing about the war or the rampant wild fires consuming California that bother me. Surprisingly, the invitations for sex I receive from street people daily aren't so bad either. (See below entry for more information.) I shudder at the most careful, delicate usage of one single word: moist.

Moist. Say it out loud. Allow co-workers in neighboring cubicles to hear the shape your mouth must take to accommodate its round, damp existence. Say it slowly, extend the word to two/two and a half syllables - my mode of execution because of my speech impediment. I mean, because I'm from New Jersey. Let them shudder, too. Are you thoroughly disgusted?

Good. (If not, keep reading. I promise there's entertainment below.)

So let's talk about why moist gets me down. I learned yesterday that many women actually experience repulsion upon hearing that word; I didn't feel so alone. To think, I was about to check out yahoo groups for support. But no, an article on Salon.com's broadsheet titled "Linguists: 'Moist' makes women cringe" addressed my concern.

A very brief synopsis: Carol Lloyd, the writer, contends that women's distaste for "moist" links to their discomfort with their own and all female sexuality. She writes, "One possibility: The word 'moist' straddles the same cultural polarities of shame and openness that still haunt modern female sexuality." She suggests that a Victorian-era modesty regarding sexuality has re-emerged (how post-modern) or has never exited from contemporary discourse on sexuality, and accesses an incident regarding a moist-happy male Shakespeare professor who wielded the word to the critical amusement of a handful of female students:

According to professor [Charles] Doyle [of the University of Georgia], the women offered no explanation for the word's bad juju, but one male student suggested that it might have something to do with female sexual arousal. To which I offer the following comment: No, duh.

Isn't her usage of juju the best part of the quote? (Pretty much.)

Okay, Lloyd's got a point, sorta. Of course, America isn't the most sexually open Western nation, in general, and for some women (not all, not necessarily many), the virgin/whore binary may feel like the only choices. Maybe Lloyd's onto something.

Except I don't personally agree with anything she said in her article. This is my vision of moist:

A DAMP DISGUSTING SPONGE

"MOIST" CHOCOLATE CAKE

MOLD - Still have an appetite for the cake?

When I hear the word moist, an equation suddenly appears within my mind (which should tell you that this is a completely logical response and not linked to a discomfort with arousal):

sexual arousal + warmth + non-cotton panties = yeast infection

Does it sound like I am ashamed of female sexuality? That's for you to decide.

Lloyd also mentions wet and wonders, "Why moist and not wet?" Well that's very simple, Ms. Lloyd.

When I think of wet, a different equation lights up my mind:

sexual arousal + sexual act + no panties = only good things

My roommate and I talked about the differences between moist and wet. In a sexual situation, moist, she thought, described what is more for the benefit of the other person, so to speak. It can be considered as a polite gesture, like holding the door for a stranger (my words, I'm not holding her accountable for this). I told her I thought wet was the real thing, a signifier screaming, "It's actually working!" Using wet is a proud proclamation of the arousal that occurs in tandem with the female sexuality long departed from Victorian secrecy and shame. A genuine embrace of a woman's ability to be sexual!

The moral of the story is that wet is raw, real, and accurate, whereas moist is a disgusting word that can only bring various forms of fungal growths to mind. This truly may have been the problem with Lloyd's example involving the professor and students. Were the female students worried that Ophelia or Cleopatra might have gone for a run (before the river, the asps), not worn the right underwear, and then sat around for a few hours? Were they concerned that Monistat may not have been available for them at CVS? What if there was no CVS?! Witness the anxiety brought about by moist!

It has nothing to do with sexuality, but connotation instead. Reserve moist for discussions of mold and cake - never together, please - and take up wet as the new word of empowered female arousal.

M60 Update: ALL Services Included?

Hello local friends and faraway dreamers! Welcome to New York City--site of retail, riots, and private hells. It's also the place where the homeless, surly, and otherwise strange find and target me, where they invite me into their worlds.

Don't get me wrong, I regard this incredible knack for connection as a true gift from above. Or below, or everywhere within and without my body: Shantih shantih shantih, Amen, and all that jazz. People of all orientations and shades of mental illness flock to me in great numbers. Like shit on a stick, if I do say so myself, since in this scenario (only), I'm the stick.

Right.

Let's discuss my recent trip on the great M60. On Friday nights, this strolling, express-stopping White Whale of a bus eludes even the seasoned MetroCard holder. It's the truth. Try following its schedule and you'll quickly realize that the bus itself yields to no such parameters, not even the ones specifically designed for its route.


Look! There's the M60 now, laughing at your 20-minute wait!

No, in all honesty, the M60 looks like a gigantic white shoe box. The diesel hybrid electric bus-box careens around corners and onto wide-set streets such as 125th on its way to LaGuardia Airport.

This is a better representation:



I finally caught the great beast and gave it my card. I sat in a single seat beside a window so I would remember where I was. I sometimes forget the order of the streets, or if I don't forget, I have anxiety that the unstoppable M60 creature will take me to the airport and drop me on a plane to some distant beautiful place. Or wait, is that my deepest desire?

As I moved forward with the jaunty thing, other passengers joined me on my passage to Lenox. Or India, if my traveling wish were fulfilled. One distinguished character entered the bus, sat down across the aisle from me. He looked about 50, donning a cowboy hat, and a carefully chosen button down shirt accented by a crisply starched collar. He wore corduroys and brown leather shoes. He was well-put together, and different from the other men I had seen in my neighborhood. For a moment, I wondered if he was gay.

Minutes later, I discovered he was not. As I watched people pass on the sidewalk, I noticed his gaze fixed on something in my direction. The window, he's looking out the window, too, I told myself. We stopped at a light one avenue away from my destination. I absentmindedly turned in his direction, startled. He stared directly into my eyes, not out the window. No, he was not creating romantic fantasies about the ambling passersby. If he imagined anything romantic, it had to do with me.

How did I know?

I noticed his left hand on his thigh. I saw the bulge. I observed the pressure, the rhythm, the certain thumb-and-forefinger grip he had on his growing member. He didn't pull it out, no. I imagined him as a traditional gentleman, a fine upstanding, church-going community member who single-handedly (literally) stunted gentrification through bouts of public gesturing at white women.

Slightly rattled, I pressed the button to let me off. I wondered if he would follow me or if working it on the bus was enough for him. I became increasingly more disturbed as the hours passed. If only I could avoid the M60 or any bus or public transportation in general.

To think, I took the M60 home from Labyrinth, a bookstore on 112th Street. To think, I was at Labyrinth to hear Naomi Wolf read from her latest book. To think, this kind of sexual assault would come about as an indirect result of my participation in a feminist-y forum.

Oh, what's all this thinking going to do. I'd recommend for you to watch yourself on those buses, but I'm sure "they'll" find me before they get to you. Thank me later. With a food processor.