A woman’s womb is made in the incredible, wonderful and miraculous way. A woman’s womb is made for love and to welcome, cherish, protect life. Yes, I’m a man, I’m not ashamed of being a man, I never have been, I don’t change my mind about my sexuality as the wind blows, and I have an opinion about it. Above all, I have the right to utter it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A woman and her sexuality, a woman and her physicality, a woman and her being a woman are defined by a woman being a woman and nothing else, those who cannot define what a woman is notwithstanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A woman is woman the mystery, woman the beautiful, that reality that I, a man, will never be, but that completes and complements me, deepens and asserts me, defines me and never replaces me, exactly as it happens for her, a woman, with me, a man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then came twerking, which is that tribulated rather than tribal way of shaking the buttocks by rhythmically thrusting the hips to shove one’s rear in the face of others for the benefit of cameras and voyeuristic lenses, the very negation of dance, the very opposite of all sensuality, just the sabbath of disgust, the emancipation of the frustrated and the trampling of all sensuality, of all femininity, of all the magic of womanly beauty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Twerking creeps in, meanders. Tik-toks from the next door, beguiling the housewife, ensnaring the little girl, Instagram prudery worth a dustbin. Twerking is debauched communication<\/a> and the cinema of unraveling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It is the banner of misplaced corporeality, of mental unraveling, of the uselessness that sprawls, of the ugly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Today this tattered banner flies outside clinics where babies are being killed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n