Wolverina

It might be time to rename the blog. “Ireen’s obsession with Wolverine and Gambit.” And last night I seem to have tried to fuck my boyfriend like Schreibertooth. With teeth and claws. But do not worry – it’ll pass. I am like that. And no boyfriends have been harmed.

That said – it hasn’t passed yet. So let’s take another minute to ponder high levels of testosteron.

A while ago I read a thriller by Lee Child with this Jack Reacher character, who apparently is “Clint Eastwood, Mel Gibson and Bruce Willis all rolled into one”, as the book wants to make me believe.  I had no other expectations than to be entertained and so I was. Until I turned the book round and read what it says on the back.

Jack Reacher.

Men want to be him.

Women want to be with him.

And I just wanted to rip the fucking book apart. What, in the name of sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, is this crap? Why would they think that just because I have a vagina I don’t want to imagine myself in the place of the “fearless and capable loner”, “the enigmatic stranger who rides into town to sort everything out with a fist and a gun”, ” a wonderfully epic hero, tough, taciturn, yet vulnerable”, “ballsy, dynamic and not for the faint-hearted” yadda yadda?!

Who do I want to identify with then, feeble angsty creature that I am? The poor women who need to be saved from the ebil Russians/South-Americans/Italians? Why yes, let’s make the villains not quite so white;  let’s add a little racism to the sexism and surely it’ll sell like hot Leberkassemmerl. (If you don’t know what that is – DON’T EAT IT if you happen to come to Austria. Because nobody does. It translates as “liver cheese”, which not only sounds particularly mouth-watering, but is also a full on lie, because neither of which is part of the ingredients. I think.)

Jack Reacher is not just “utterly irresisitible” because he’s “a superman of our time”, who “gallops along with the pace of a bullet from the muzzle of a Colt Magnum”. No, no. He’s the kind of cop “no woman could help falling for”. “Reacher knows how to strip a gun and how to strip a lady”. Sweet – I love being put in the role of the hot accessory. What a handbag is to a woman, that’s what a woman is to a man, especially to our “battle-hardened, footloose, sexy and compassionate action man”. (Unless you’re The Ramos.)

So apparently my greatest desire is to sit back with my new and shiny handbag and bake some cake and watch the children play while Jack sorts out the world with his wit and his fists. Is that true, Lee Child? Oh no! Actually, the women who fall for Jack do work! A little, at least. Aspiring journalist at the local TV station waiting for a story. Looks hot. Young lawyer, waiting for her first case. Looks hotter. Of course both fall for Jack. And somehow manage to get themselves in trouble and Jack needs to save them. Yaaaawwwwnnnn….

Let’s discuss this on a nicer subject. Wolvie. And sex, since this is kind of a sex blog. See, I got kind of obsessed with this trailer. I had to watch it very very closely so I could do a good description of Wolverine in my dirty little stories. I had to watch it over and over again because that’s how hard my life is. Since we’re on it, let’s give it another go.

Now, not that I actually want to be Weapon X. The point is: Nobody does.

It’s kind of… painful. In the bad kind of way. Nor would I want to be anyone on the Lost island or Han Solo or Jack Reacher, for that matter. But I still watch the films/series/read the book and identify with the characters and imagine to be in their place, to live a different live, to have their strength and power and be a hero and what not. I want to think about how cool I’d look in my leather jacket and my boots and the cigar in the corner of my mouth, riding along on a motorbike and blowing up a helicopter. That’s what stories are for, right? You get to imagine to be someone you’re not. Someone you cannot be in this life because you’re not actually indestructible and you’d rather have a job and a home and a boy/girlfriend instead of being on the run all the time and because you’re actually scared of trouble and well, things are always a little more complicated than in the shiny movie world. But that doesn’t stop us dreaming about these things and enjoying these stories.

And hell yes, I want to identify with that roaring animal. I do not – NOT! – want to identify with Kayla Silverfox who tries to safe her sister by teaching children and having to fuck a man who puts her in mortal danger every night. Even if that man is Hugh Jackman with a healing mutation, which, given the nature of my sexuality, would come in handy. I don’t want to identify with Kayla Silverfox because she gets killed twice in the movie. I don’t want to identify with the voice of reason – “you are not an animal, Logan!” – as if all women were only there to civilize the men. This is a dream world and I want to be uncivilized! So weighing the options, an indestructible superhero vs a mutant who doesn’t actually use her powers until before she dies and doesn’t seem to have a plan of her own throughout the whole film… you know… I’d just rather opt for the man with the mission.

But that doesn’t mean I opt for him because he’s man. Give me a Wolverina and I’ll be her. And with Wolverina I mean: Just change the pronouns. Do not, in god’s name, change the character! And don’t put her in a skin tight latex suit because I’m allergic to these things and as Ranat has pointed out, you cannot fucking run, fight and do crazy flips in these things. I doubt you can actually breathe in them. Whereas jeans and boots and a shirt seem to be just fine for that. Not so hard, is it? Or, you know, make Kayla Silverfox survive fucking the man with the healing factor. And write her in a way so she does more than just what other people tell her to do. Because I just lack that submissive streak. The woman-gene that makes me want to be saved. Or serve. And I’m so sorry if the world of the big white man starts crumbling because he loses all his motivation, but yeah, here’s a great big FUCK YOU to whoever is responsible for those storylines.

But all that is not what I actually meant to write about. I wanted to write about kinky sex and Wolverine and submission until Jack Reacher got in the way. So let me give you the short version: I had kinky sex and I switched and while I got beaten up, I had a mask over my face. So I started entertaining myself with making that face Wolvie makes when he comes out of that tank, equipped with a new and shiny adamantium skeleton, with veins and sinews bulging out and gritting teeth. I like to think it’s my orgasm face. Obviously, it’s not. It’s more my all sweet pain and rage and totally not submissive face. My I’m-not-behaving-very-feminine-face and I’m loving it, too. Because as much as I love pain, I don’t give a shit about serving and kneeling and whatever and I’d rather growl than whimper. Which is not to say that being submissive is bad. I’m just very very tired of the assumption that all women are submissive. Because I’m not. I fight back. And it feels fucking good and it is incredibly hot, playing the animal. So there, that’s what I actually wanted to tell you. I fuck like I’m Wolverine.

Now where’s my cigar and my whisky?