Imagine that it’s a warm spring afternoon. You sit somewhere in the middle of nature (a park, the woods, maybe the top of a hill). You enjoy the touch of grass on your skin, the smell of greenery, the breeze. The reason you do this is because you love to watch butterflies flocking together. You love the way they fly from one spot to another, their wings, the colors, all that graceful movement, almost as if they were suspended midair, not for anyone’s gaze but for their own pleasure.
Then one of your friends finds out about these little moments you indulge in, observing the butterflies and they realize how important these moments are to you. They decide that they are going to give you a present. So, they go out and catch as many butterflies as they can and pin them on a cardboard. They then frame the dead butterflies and cover them with glass. And they present you with this gift so that you can evoke the pleasure of observing the grace of butterflies flocking in nature.
That is exactly how I feel when I read most of sex positive feminist discourse.
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