I hope I will not shock anyone reading this by admitting that I am not a straight woman—nor for that matter a woman of any kind—nor have I ever desired men. And yet I found myself reading Phoebe Maltz Bovy’s The Last Straight Woman: On Desiring Men with great enjoyment.1
I should say upfront that I tend to be mildly allergic to the kinds of woo-woo that often prevail in public discussions of female sexuality (FWIW, I am also allergic to dumb manosphere stuff). I can still recall as an undergrad seeing Naomi Wolf give a deeply stupid talk full of all kinds of earth-motherish paeans to female sexuality. And while I was not in principle opposed at all to this stuff (I was extremely pro-female sexuality at the time and my only quibble was that it was insufficiently directed at me, specifically), the manner in which it was presented was just banal and insipid, and I subsequently observed her descent into highly public lunacy with no small amount of amusement.
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