To me, the Fuck Doily stands for every subject I want to discuss that no one around me can discuss.
How pretty must we make a topic before we can discuss it?
And now I’m coming out with Our Taboo Museum that’s all about what? Talking about everything taboo?
Whaddya know … Our Taboo Museum is the latest incarnation of The Fuck Doily.
I’m such a Sherlock.
So that’s what it means to me.
But over the seven years I’ve been out with that doily, I’ve heard many reactions to it.
Not everyone sees it as I do, as is to be expected with any object or action, news report or smirk.
Many have laughed at the incongruity of the delicate pretty lace work sporting such a fricative.
Some think I’m trying to be rude and in their faces.
Still, others are sure I’m asking to be fucked.
The first time I heard that, it was from a business casually dressed 30-something guy at a professional dinner meeting. As I tried to deny it, our conversation didn’t go very far. I wrote it off as a fluke.
In the next couple years, I had two more guys in similar but separate situations say the same thing. One even clarified, “Why don’t you add a question mark at the end? That would be more truthful.”
Well, ok then, this is not a fluke. And isn’t it interesting what can be revealed with a tangible Fuck Doily as a social object.
My immediate first take of this particular doily doesn’t have anything directly to do with sex or fucking (although this one does, but it’s all about the deft hand action takes to lay those beads just as you like them; it has nothing to do with the word).
A particular scene from my teens immediately flashes across my mind. I see myself walking into the kitchen where my mother stood at the sink washing dishes. As is most kids’ MO, I just walked in and said with no preamble, “Mom, I don’t think I want to have kids.”
Without missing a soapy swipe, she said, “You’re not supposed to think about that.”
What?! I was livid in the brain! I had so many points to discuss on each side of my argument and she just shut it down. “Well, I AM thinking about it and I’m your daughter and don’t parents always want their kids to come to them to talk about these hard issues and so here I am and you can’t discuss it?” I thought for exactly one second. Then I saw it – here I stood in front of her, one of four reminders that she didn’t think about it. Ouch.
I spoke none of this and left, furious.
To me, this is not so much about my mom as it is just how we can get in with the wrong crowd on some levels, even from birth. Some people are just not cut out to dig into this stuff. And some people just are. Mixing it up for the sake of it, unless you have a Williams-Sonoma quality social whisk, isn’t gonna result in anything to anyone’s tastes. And forcing it, like happens in families can be as combustive as gasoline and open flames. So she and I don’t talk much.
But I Need these sane conversations, even today, about many other issues. And I find many many people who, for whatever reason – sometimes I understand, sometimes I don’t – don’t want to engage. So I’m on my own hunt to find those who need the same. There might be only one of us per every ten square miles but now we have the web and we can find each other!
That’s what I see in the Fuck Doily. What do you see?