Book excerpt: Rhythm of a broken heart: The new feminine mystique

I’ve always been surrounded by strong women. My maternal grandmother marched in the streets of New York City in the early 1900s, protesting for women’s rights . She was one of the original Suffragettes.

My mom was brought up in the 1920’s-1940’s in a very progressive non-traditional household at that time. Nana, Marion Sager, was the founder and president of the Oceanside Free Library. She ran the family, had her own accounts and checkbook. She voted, she smoked cigarettes and drank alcohol. All of these freedoms were achieved through the women’s movement.

The latter two vices caused her major health issues as she grew older. My mother also ran our household. Other than her inability to reign in Dad’s drinking, I grew up with non-traditional family dynamics.

For whatever reason, I’ve always liked girls more than boys. I have generally had closer female friends than males. I’ve always been very shy and I was never able to relate to the infantile antics of boys my age.

I didn’t like the playground wrestling, the mean tricks, the over-competitiveness and loudness of most boys. I never understood the reasoning behind pulling up girls skirts, calling them names and generally berating them as a sport for these hooligans.

I was never shy about talking to girls and I appreciated their more demure interactions, sensitivity and intelligence.

As I get older, it becomes sickening watching some of my male friends turn into predators. As I reach my early teens, the women’s movement is taking hold throughout our society.

There is a diverse social movement advocating equal rights for women across various aspects of life. This includes economic activities, personal and sexual freedom and political representation.

These changes did not affect my family dynamics in any way. From the point of view of a young man reaching puberty, I began experiencing some interesting female interactions.

Recently, our neighbors of many years moved away. In their place, a whole gaggle of young Hippies moved in.

There were two guys and four women living there. They were over the top with parties, drinking, and smoking weed. But they did play hip music. All through the summer, they partied on the rooftop balcony.

One early evening, I was mowing the front lawn. A loud party was going full bore on that balcony. As I walked towards our backyard, all four females came to the edge of their porch.

All of them were stark naked except maybe a bandana or two. They waved and bounced up and down as if they were departing on the Queen Mary. My red faced response was a polite wave and a quick escape.

Mom, just by chance, witnessed that event and immediately went over to put the kibosh on those activities.

The miniskirt revolution stormed into my Junior High School. They were becoming so short that the principal would come into our classrooms with a ruler. He would measure the height above the knee on the most daring girls. If they were too short, they were sent home to change.

Some girls started the day with one length and by the end of the day, they had rolled them up to exceptionally high levels. To me it was a distraction and the dawn of my adult male life as a leg man.

Most days, my classrooms consisted of rows and rows of exposed young thighs. To a late-blooming, naive young man like myself, if they chose to create the scenery, I enjoyed the views. I don’t think it was exhibitionism as much as an expression of their concept of beauty.

Maybe they would have been more discrete, if they had known what was on the minds of the male animals all around them. This phase has been ongoing in our high school.

Now, the female teachers themselves are starting to wear short skirts too, so they will not be outdone by their competing female students.

One in particular is my Russian teacher. For whatever reason, in sixth grade, when they gave me French, Spanish or Russian language options, I chose Russian. My high school Russian teacher is a dark-haired, slender sweetheart, with green eyes and a perfect figure.

She is in her early 30’s, give or take. The course work is very tough. She is a task master, and her authoritarian methods were actually kind of a turn on.

Due to the difficulty of the language, our class count dwindled to about nine students.

It’s my last class of the day and she always chats with me before class about the world of music. I participate well and I am always attentive. Her skirt length seems to get shorter by the month. I sit three rows back in the middle facing her desk.

She lectures at the beginning of every class. She then nests atop her desk facing us, to finish instruction, for a precious half hour a day.

The short skirt, striking green eyes, perfect curvy legs and thighs wrapped in stockings, are displayed before me. It almost reads like an R-rated storyline. I do try hard to keep my eyes focused upon her eyes.

If they wander to other areas, which may happen a little too often, if she notices, she crosses her legs and shows off even more of her thighs. She doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination.

In fact, with her, my imagination went on tour. Needless to say, I never miss her class and I make sure to study very hard. I achieve straight A’s every semester. I do suspect that possibly that was a lot of her strategy.

To hold my and others’ attention in class. I have no idea how the girls felt about this. She is also to blame for making me a truly dedicated leg and eye man. These times and events are pointing to the end of women’s sexual repression.

All of these interactions with the new sexually liberated female were from a mostly visual voyeuristic standpoint.

It wasn’t until my experience at Kathy’s party, that I received firsthand a dose of the truly sexually aggressive female mystique. Here I am again, awkwardly trying to avoid her at school.

I was so grateful for Richie who had my back when I needed it. I think I was high for eight hours. Today I have to be in chorus class with her. Oh man, this is going to be awkward and there she was waiting.

“Hi Sam! I’m sorry about the party. I think I read you wrong. I feel bad about that.”

“Kathy, there is just so much wrong about that night and what you just said. I made it clear that I had no romantic intentions with you. Then you drugged me? That’s just wrong!”

“Well, sorry you feel that way.” I hope you can and will forgive me.”

“Let’s just keep it casual going forward. You know I have someone I’m committed to. I will not compromise that in any way. Your friendship is important, but nothing more personal.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way. I appreciate your honesty and I will respect your boundaries. I want to still be your friend, Sam.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad Kathy. You are very attractive, talented and stylish. You can have any other guy you desire. I’m truly devoted to someone now. Thank you for understanding.”

I guess that went as well as could be expected. At least we can move on. I don’t like having something as uncomfortable as this, hanging over my head. With what occurred that night, I’m convinced that I am a victim of the 60’s sexual revolution.

Women have been repressed since the beginning of time.

The breakthroughs and revolutionary women’s movements have changed the course of history. With the advent of the birth control pill, women are free to explore and indulge their sexuality, without the fear of pregnancy.

Our societal mores were changing, removing most if not all of the stigma behind women’s liberated behavior.

Women were beginning to control the narrative. What is missing for them in the “free love” counterculture, is the acknowledgement of a female’s actual needs.

A woman’s satisfaction is not only physical as it can be for males. A woman’s sexual desire is a complex melding of emotional and sexual stimuli. This fact is something men need to learn and nurture.

What women are learning is that the “casual sex” aspect of this new freedom sorely lacks the desired feelings of intimacy, closeness and connection.

What Sarah, who is older than me and Kathy, who is liberated, doesn’t know, is that I am still a virgin. Something that at my age, I’m learning is a rarity.

The person with whom I choose to be intimate with, will have created a meaningful emotional bond with me. Someone who accepts me for my strengths and weaknesses.

It’s like having a favorite song you both love and want to play on repeat. Relishing every note that brings you closer together.

Kathy is likely incapable of going there yet in her young life. Sarah has already shown me a well of love of infinite depth.