or Unto the Rapey All Things Are Rapey
Okay, now he was close, tried to domesticate you
But you’re an animal, baby, it’s in your nature
I wrote a song about a free and spirited woman chained to a chauvinist and over-possessive madman.
She started out madly in love with him. And because of the depths of that desire, she might have misled him a little at the beginning. Promised him things that she couldn’t give. Might have led him to believe things about her nature that weren’t entirely true. Time passed and eventually she had to be herself again. And who she was was a wild woman. An animal.
She began putting out feelers to other men, the sensual, ravenous kind of feelers. A sane man picked up on these late one night, maybe at a party, maybe over drinks.
You’re far from plastic
Talk about getting blasted
She was an honest woman. She told him right out that she had someone else in her life. Had a lover. Had a boyfriend. He was nonplussed. She was obviously a wild creature. A free spirit that a madman was attempting to cage. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, she wanted it.
I know you want it
(I know you want it)
Maybe she didn’t want to make the break with her first man entirely, just break up with his chains. Have her cake, then eat it, then go back for another piece of cake. And no matter how staunchly feminist you are, you can’t fornicate with yourself. There has to be another participant.
You’re an animal, baby it’s in your nature
Just let me liberate you
She couldn’t liberate herself. It wouldn’t be liberating and she would be no freer from her madman’s imaginary hold if the liberating act involved only her. It had to involve someone else. The sane man begged her to let it be him. To let him be the one with whom she sought her liberation. The one with whom she would, after being shackled to a madman for so long, commit her first liberating act.
The way you grab me
Must wanna get nasty
Go ahead, get at me
He knew she wanted it by the way she was grabbing at him. If there is any rapey in my song, it is the raping of him by her grabby fingers. Fortunately, they were both adults, and believe me, they were very much consenting.
You’re the hottest bitch in this place
I feel so lucky
She was the hottest bitch in the place. It wasn’t a dis, it was a fact – a filthy, dirty, sensual fact. If you have a problem with dirty talk, maybe you would be perfect for the other man in this scenario. He is also old-fashioned.
I hate these blurred lines
And then there were the blurred lines. These involved two people’s very different definitions of what did and didn’t count. Sex, to him, was a very broad, openly-defined scenario. Sex, to her, was one very specific, narrowly-defined act. Did a little open-ended flirting count as cheating? what about a kiss, just a little peck on the corner of his mouth? What about a little grabbing, a little clutching at belt buckles, a few buttons? Did it count as cheating if there were still layers of fabric between the two sets of skin? What about his neck? What about her collarbone?
Where was the right place to draw the line? It was all looking a bit fuzzy.
What about her bra? You know how loose it always seemed to be. It was always slipping out of place at the most awkward and the most fortuitous of times. What about a bit of harmless skinny dipping in the electric-blue glow of the warm pool? It was all in good fun anyway. Did it count if there were still layers of water between their two naked bodies? What about his fingers creeping her up leg? What about her fingers creeping down his stomach?
You see, if it counted for him but not for her, well let’s blur up those lines a little and take us one tiny step closer toward being free from our would-be zookeeper. Who was to say what did and didn’t count?
And anyway, who’s counting?