This morning I was directed to a publication in which a blogger, Ferret Steinmetz (I know. Ferret.), writes an open letter to his daughter, in hopes that she has fucking awesome sex. He’d been exposed to a silly internet trend (think chain email circa 1997) that outlined “10 Rules For Dating My Daughter.”
Sidebar: the original write-up I read linked to all ten “rules,” but required, for whatever reason, users to log in to the site to read them. My curiosity got the best of me, so I made an account. I thought it was weird that the site asked my sexual orientation, but I continued signing up, because I wanted to read the original piece before reading Steinmetz’s rebuttal. When I finished my login, I realized that I’d accidentally signed myself up for a fetish website, and was immediately directed to the profile of a man whose first interest was “Don’t you dare cum without my permission.” Not only was I in the wrong place, but my source no longer seems to be linking to the weird kinksite. Twilight zone. Taking it as a sign I should call him.
With a quick google search, I found the actual ten rules. That’s not a link to fetlife, I promise. They had the typical “She’s my little girl. Don’t touch her. Definitely don’t hurt her. I’ll consider murdering you in cold blood, but will at the very least make you my bitch” feel. It seemed like something my father would have probably emaiedl to me with an “I love you, princess. I added $200 to your account,” whether or not he took it seriously. My dad, however, is not the dad in question. Ferret Steinmetz gave his daughter much more (or less, depending how you look at it) than a little cash in reaction. He wrote this open letter, titled “Dear Daughter, I Hope You Have Fucking Awesome Sex.”
There’s a piece of twaddle going around [the Internet] called “10 Rules For Dating My Daughter,” which is packed with “funny” threats like this:
“Rule Four: I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilising some kind of ‘barrier method’ can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.”
All of which boil down to the tedious, “Boys are threatening louts, sex is awful when other people do it, and my daughter is a plastic doll whose destiny I control.”
Look, I love sex. It’s fun. And because I love my daughter, I want her to have all of the same delights in life that I do, and hopefully more. I don’t want to hear about the fine details because, heck, I don’t want those visuals any more than my daughter wants mine. But in the abstract, darling, go out and play.
Because consensual sex isn’t something that men take from you; it’s something you give. It doesn’t lessen you to give someone else pleasure. It doesn’t degrade you to have some of your own. And anyone who implies otherwise is a man who probably thinks very poorly of women underneath the surface.
Yes, all these boys and girls and genderqueers may break your heart, and that in turn will break mine. I’ve held you, sobbing, after your boyfriend cheated on you, and it tore me in two. But you know what would tear me in two even more? To see you in a glass cage, experiencing nothing but cold emptiness at your fingers, as Dear Old Dad ensured that you got to experience nothing until he decided what you should like.
You’re not me. Nor are you an extension of my will. And so you need to make your own damn mistakes, to learn how to pick yourself up when you fall, to learn where the bandages are and to bind up your own cuts. I’ll help. I’ll be your consigliore when I can, the advisor, the person you come to when all seems lost. But I think there’s value in getting lost. I think there’s a strength that only comes from fumbling your own way out of the darkness.
You’re your own person, and some of the things you’re going to love will strike me as insane, ugly, or unenjoyable. This is how large and wonderful the world is! Imagine if everyone loved the same thing; we’d all be battling for the same ten people. The miracle is how easily someone’s cast-offs become someone else’s beloved treasure. And I would be a sad, sad little man if I manipulated you into becoming a cookie-cutter clone of my desires. Love the music I hate, watch the movies I loathe, become a strong woman who knows where her bliss is and knows just what to do to get it.
Now, you’re going to get bruised by life, and sometimes bruised consensually. But I won’t tell you sex is bad, or that you’re bad for wanting it, or that other people are bad from wanting it from you if you’re willing to give it. I refuse to perpetuate, even through the plausible deniability of humor, the idea that the people my daughter is attracted to are my enemy.
I’m not the guard who locks you in the tower. Ideally, I am my daughter’s safe space, a garden to return to when the world has proved a little too cruel, a place where she can recuperate and reflect upon past mistakes and know that here, there is someone who loves her wholeheartedly and will hug her until the tears dry.
That’s what I want for you, sweetie. A bold life filled with big mistakes and bigger triumphs.
Now get out there and find all the things you f***ing love, and vice versa.
A lovely sentiment. A little strange coming from dad, but instilling in a young girl that her sexuality is hers, not her father’s to protect, not her boyfriend’s to steal, but her own, to do with what she pleases, is just dandy. Here’s to you, Ferrett. Tonight, I drink away my daddy issues in your honor.
[via MSN]
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Veronica Ruckh
Veronica (@VeronicaRuckh) is the Director of Total Sorority Move for Grandex, Inc. After having spent her undergraduate years drinking $4 double LITs on a patio and drunk texting away potential suitors, she managed to graduate with an impressive GPA and an unimpressive engagement ring -- so unimpressive, in fact, some might say it's not there at all. Veronica has since been fulfilling her duties as "America's big," a title she gave to herself with the help of her giant ego. She has recently switched from vodka to wine on weekdays. Email her at veronica@grandex.co
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