Sometimes I Wish I Had Had an Abortion.
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My Last Leg.
Today I could feel myself longing for the past. For the people who occupy the shadowed corners of my mine that I'm too ashamed to talk about with the people of the present. I miss homes that no longer exist, clothes that I no longer fit, hair that I no longer have. I miss feelings that I've built up in my mind so much that I'm not sure if they ever existed, or if it was just something I made up in my head after the fact.
I'm a sucker for romance, but the kind synonymous with suffering. I don't love things until I let them go, I don't leave places until they feel like home. It's stupid, I know, but I need it. I'm addicted to nostalgia, addicted to cliches.
I spent some time walking on the beach today, and especially watching all the baby sandpipers running up and down in the approaching waves, rushing into the foam for a quick bath or darting their sharp beaks forward, catching creatures so small that I couldn't even see them, perfectly framed by a raspberry pink sunset behind them. I noticed that not one but two of the little baby birds were missing legs; they skittered awkwardly on a single painfully small leg. I wanted to scoop them up and cry because I pitied them, and I assumed that they would be dead within weeks; if they couldn't dart around fast enough to catch food, they would just wither and die a slow and painful death. As I walked towards them however, they were lost in the frantic pattering and rushing around of their siblings. In the heat of the moment, when trying to evade me, they looked no different from any of the other baby birds.
I think sometimes I feel like those little birds with only one leg to hop on. When I can bury myself in a rush of activity and stress and frantic keeping up, when I barely have time to think and almost no time to catch up with friends, that is when I feel safe. It is in the still moments that I can be found out to just be hobbling around on one leg. It is in the still moments that I feel like other people can see me as incomplete, as barely hanging on, as missing a vital part.
That is what I've started to feel in Florida. I've taken two months off my job in order to reset and unwind, from a hellish year that oftentimes caused me to scream into my pillow in the middle of the night, to burst into tears while watching a funny tv show, or caused me to be snappy with people I really cared about. I felt burnt out. I was suffering from compassion fatigue, and overwhelmed by a hard re-entry into a pre-Covid world and mindset. I needed to regroup before I moved on to the next stage in my life and so I settled into an apartment on the beach with my partner and did nothing for a month and a half but read books, go for long bike rides, walk on the beach, and do puzzles for hours on end.
It was in this time that I became aware again of the lack when I looked in the mirror. All I could see what a phantom missing limb, a sense of being incomplete or broken. I've experienced a lot of insecurity and anger in the past six weeks because this was the first time in a year that I allowed myself to feel things, to settle into my grief and to start to heal from a year of sprinting full tilt. It's easy to hide your brokenness if you're running too fast for observation, but it's also easier to fall.
Even here, I feel like I'm barely holding myself together, that I'm still pretending that everything is okay while inside I am hurting, I am heaving. I am processing being forcibly penetrated during a casual hookup last year, with a man who didn't use protection and had the gall to look me in the face while doing it, and convincing me afterwards that my eyes were giving consent. I am processing my trip to Iceland, where I fell in love with my partner all over again, and then in the Reykjavik airport we held each other close and said goodbye. I am processing my brother's arrest and imprisonment for a crime that seems so violently implausible for him to commit, but yet has surprised me that it took him so long to do it. I am processing a complicated and terrible relationship with my stepmother, who asked me for forgiveness for the way she treated me over ten years ago. It was the first time we had talked and the last time as well, because she died from cancer six months later.
It's hard because I know I need to talk about this, but I don't feel like I should give this information up just yet. There's a part of me that is ashamed to admit it, but I secretly enjoy feeling broken, enjoy the taste of blood in my mouth. If I'm hurting, I know I am still alive.
When the Monster is Inside the House.
This week I got wind of another sad and infinitely maddening and yet all too common occurence in the sex work world. A rather well known and long-standing male sex worker was accused of stealthing a client, in this case it was a female sex worker who had hired him for off the clock fun.
I have a long and weary relationship with stealthing. I perfectly understand when men say that sex is uncomfortable, or not as sensitive, when they have to wear a tight latex sheath around their penis. I get it, and it sucks to be you dude. What I don't understand is when they complain so loudly about the lack of sensation, and yet when the condom mysteriously 'falls off,' they claim they didn't feel it happen, or that they couldn't tell the difference. There's been several times when I've been with someone where the condom broke; most of the time it's with a man who is a little bigger down there, and I don't happen to have magnums on hand (keeping magnums in stock is the worst form of wishful thinking) and after years of doing sex work, I much prefer men who are average anyways. But in all of those cases, when it did broke every man knew immediately and instantly, and we would take a break to fetch a new condom. I've never been stealthed during sex, but I've been cajoled and whined at and manipulated and bullied into having sex with a man without a condom on simply because he made himself so annoying that it was less of a hassle to fuck and get the STD test a week later. That I used to do this always bothered me, and I used to think I was better than that, but earlier this year I invited a man over to have sex and while we were in the middle of foreplay he suddenly and forcefully plunged his penis into me. Later on, he told me that he had no intention of doing that, that he had come to my apartment with an entire box of condoms in his bag. As if that would make me feel any better about the situation.
Stealthing is about exploiting trust, about taking the tender intimacy that has been offered to you and ripping it to shreds. It is about someone saying "I want to give you half my piece of cake" and you saying "I'm going to eat your whole cake just because I can." At the same time, I don't think stealthing is a good word to describe it. A lot of the men will stealth a girl in the act; by flipping her over, fucking her from behind, hiding it from her face or obscuring the process of putting a condom on, but more and more I see accounts where afterwards, guys won't bother to hide the fact that they had taken the condom off, or had never bothered to put one on at all. covers this in her incredible show, I May Destroy You, where she plays out a scene with a man who casually mentions to her while he's putting his clothes back on, "oh, I thought you knew," simultaneously putting the blame on her for not policing her own boundaries well enough, and letting himself off the hook by implying that it was therefore a mutual decision. They don't care about getting caught, they want you to know that they overstepped a boundary because it's not just about the sensation of an uncovered dick in a pussy; what makes them feel good is knowing they took something from you that you didn't want to give. It reminds me of a quote in a book I read once. "Men are rarely true voyeurs. They want you to know that they're watching."
The male sex worker who is the center of this weeks scandal wrote in his own words and in screenshotted texts that he took the condom off "because he could see the look in her eye that she wanted it," even though he says that they were fucking doggy style when he took it off, and that her saying that the sex felt good was proof of consent. I won't bother to outline specifically just what is so disgusting about both of those statements, but his behavior afterwards is even more cringy; threatening to out her to her family, sue her for defamation, and to pursue legal charges against her. You told on yourself in this one bro, and just because a girl is calling you out on it doesn't mean that you're the victim here.
I will write more about this later, I'm sure, but for now all I can think about is how tired stories like this make me; that when I thought about it in the context of my personal experience how many times I've been emotionally manipulated to have sex, or to take off a condom, or to not use them at all because they keep breaking, or are uncomfortable, or are ‘unnecessary’ or whatever other bullshit men come up with to get what they want. I also think of the times that I’ve gotten upset about this, when men have tried to minimize my anger or hurt by saying “well, I had condoms I intended to use,” which rephrased can sound a lot like someone saying “if it makes you feel better, I knew that I was going to take advantage of you,” and someone saying “I thought you wanted it,” can sound a lot like “I decided for you what you should want.” I will get angry and they will try to minimize my anger, and then when that doesn’t work, they accuse me of being irrational, they gaslight me into thinking I really did want it, or they say I’m blowing things up out of proportion. That used to scare me, being accused of being a madwoman. That has been trained into us for centuries, from the times of Joan of Arc or to the women who were burned at the stake for witchcraft. What a terrible thing, to be the witch, I used to think. How awful, to be the madwoman locked in the attic. But as I continue to learn and to grow, to see my body as my own, and to see the witchcraft as not being mine but as cruel and evil spells men try to cast upon me, I’m starting to think that being the madwoman isn’t that bad after all.
I hate writing.
Sometimes I read stories written by other people who are obsessed with writing. They feel compelled to do it, they stress when they don't, they miss it like it's a dog they left behind while they're on vacation or the mother who obsessively checks the baby monitor when she's walking down the driveway to get the mail. They feel taken by it, kidnapped and in love with their captors, they are gloriously in love with the process of creating.
I am not like that. When I try to journal in my online diary, I enter middle school-esque lists of what I did during the day; tedious, boring and mind-numbing recollections that fail to capture any of the things that made my day truly stand out. I find myself writing the same sentences over and over again, and looking back at my work pains me. I am not obsessed with writing. I wouldn't say I am addicted to it in the way that some people do; like it's a high they continually chase and feel satisfied by. I think I'm addicted to writing in the way someone might be addicted to heroin. The pleasure has long worn off, and now I only write so that I can avoid the pain that might come when I don't do it. But it doesn't give me any pleasure. It doesn't delight me, and I don't find myself inspired by the things I write. I put off writing to the very end of my day because, frankly, I can't be bothered with the process itself. What I miss, what I yearn for, and what I chase after within writing is something that exists outside it. It's the idea, the sweet and precious idea, of being a writer that appeals to me.
Like a businessman staring wistfully at the moon, remembering a long-forgotten dream of being an astronaut, I cling to writing because I don't want to face my fear that I am a boring person with nothing to say. The older I get and the more confident I become in myself in other areas of my life such as my day job, my relationships, my lack of a relationship with my father (typical), I lose confidence in this one. When I was 17 I won third place in a national contest, and my novel was published in a small print run that did moderately well. I tasted creative success too early, when I didn't appreciate it, and now at thirty-one I feel stale and outdated, ignored at the literary parties I make up in my own head. The other day I got really excited about a book idea I had come up with, about a couple made up of a rather conservative man and his retired sex worker girlfriend, whose relationship is rocked to the core when she's offered a million dollars to sleep with an old client of hers. I started scheming and planning it out when I was talking to a client who casually said, "oh, isn't there a movie already about that?" I immediately hated him and knew it must be true without even looking it up. When I did have the nerve to look it up later, it was all there, my idea for a book that had already been in print for decades. It was a week before I started to write again, pushing my giant stone up the hill and wishing I had picked a different vice, any other vice.
I think, though, my enjoyment of writing waned in graduate school. I hated my MFA program, which was really a joke couched as a fun study abroad opportunity, wrapped in debt. And I hated even more my PhD program, which was the first time I had ever hit an intellectual glass ceiling and thought to myself, "I'm not smart enough to do this." The only other time I've felt this way is when an ex-partner of mine would yell at me when he was drunk, telling me I was dumb. When he was sober, he would tell me that I was the smartest girl he'd ever met. Not person, mind you, just girl. When you have a body that fits conventional standards for attractiveness, men will compliment you all the time, hoping for freebies. Because these compliments are always said with alternative intentions in mind, I shy away from them. I don't believe them. I willfully and scornfully deny them to the point of rage. I hate when a man compliments my intellect, because mostly what he means to say is, "you're hot, and it's surprising that someone as hot as you can have a brain as well." As a result, I've noticed that I've purposefully dumbed myself down to avoid the compliments and the attention, and worst of all, the surprise. Men are more comfortable around me when I pretend to be an idiot. Maybe that's a part of it too, was that it started to become a comfortable and lazy skin I wore, a mental set of sweatpants that slowly became my daily wardrobe. When I am stupid, I am not threatening, and when I am not threatening, men give me things. I told myself this was my way of beating the system, but I think this is just my way of letting the system beat me without getting too bruised in the process.
I don’t have a lover’s passion for writing, or even a Stockholm syndrome relationship to writing. I have the tired habit of reaching for a cigarette that I feel is bad for me, and yet I still need it to get through my day. So keep me accountable, folks. Keep me present and here.
A Note About Texas
Sometimes when I write for this blog, I feel like I'm just another noise in an already massive echo chamber. I get discouraged, I feel invisible. I think to myself, 'maybe it's okay to be invisible, maybe you shouldn't have a voice in this.'
I've been writing since I was ten, and as a junior I started a magazine at my high school called The Voice. But I've always been shy about my writing; my poems are all small, crammed into tiny spaces as if someone was going to come and take up the rest of the page. My first chapbook was called Shy Knees. I rarely share my writing with other people, I rarely reach out to publications to ask them if I can write for them. I rarely even post on this blog. Some of it stems from fear. I don't want people to think I'm a bad writer. I don't want to read the mean and cruel comments that can sometimes follow the bottom of a post. I don't want to talk about myself. As a white-presenting middle-class woman living in San Francisco, I'm sometimes the last person in the world who needs to have an opinion on something. It's better for me to step aside and let other people have the floor.
I think, too, it's hard to tell when writing has impact. I've always loved to-do lists and I still have a bucket list I wrote over ten years ago that includes the missive "change someone's life." I wonder if I've ever done that with my writing. I wonder if anyone has ever read something I've put to paper and walked away feeling different, or feeling anything at all. Internally, I wonder if my writing has any impact on me. I've journaled nearly every day for the past three years, all of it introspective and self-analyzing, and I still feel like I miss the forest for the tiny trees; that I've made the biggest mistakes of my life in just the past week, and that while I wrote about being stressed at work or fights with my partner, my journal rarely touches on my sexual assault or my brother's incarceration, two of the most traumatic things that happened to me last year. I wrote about petty fights with my boyfriend, using words to store my bitterness in instead of using them as tools to break apart my outer hardness to find my vulnerability and gentleness inside.
I feel angry with myself. I feel like I've wasted time, or not been productive. I hate that I use the word 'productive' as much as I do. I take stress naps and wake up exhausted, and I check my bank balances every day because I have an anxiety that what I have will be taken from me at any moment. I feel shame, and I don't know for what.
I think this is all called exhaustion. I think this is all called being stressed and overwhelmed and not dealing with grief and taking too much on and ignoring the important things and losing the essential things and turning into the worst part of your parents and then fearing you're not turning into anything worthwhile at all. I want to be more quiet. I want to stare out the window more, I want to read on my couch for hours without worrying that I'm missing something. I want to put my phone in a box and put that box into the closet for the weekend. I feel guilty for not doing any of those things, and no pleasure in the things I am doing.
This is a long intro. This was supposed to be a post about how Texas is shitty and how, since The Voice, I've written about abortion access and rights. I wanted to write about how planned parenthood saved my life twice, by giving me information about my pregnancy that was fair and good and put me forward instead of the conservative agenda my dad put forward, that saw me as a sin and not a person. They saved me too, by giving me access to birth control I couldn't afford. I wanted to write something about all the different ways writing hasn't gotten us any closer to convincing people that maybe women shouldn't have to carry fetuses to term if they don't want to, that they exist as more than just reproductive machines.
But I just feel tired. So I'm keeping this space small, and safe. I am posting below some abortion funds that people can donate to if they feel so inclined, to help people access abortion care if it is no longer safe for them to do so where they live. And I want to hold space for the people who are exhausted and discouraged. It is okay to be like this. It is okay to want to stare at the wall for a little while. Let others take up the mantle when you no longer have the strength to do so. We will be coming back.
Abortion Funds:
The Whorticulturalist is the mother of this magazine. She is a sex-positive blogger and creative who enjoys rock climbing, dancing, and camping. In her spare time, she’s probably flirting.
A Love Letter to Andre Lancaster from Nick Hadikwa Mwaluko
Under the artificial but highly industrialized canopy that was the D-train running directly over our heads, we stood outside for our first heart-to-heart conversation. It was summer in New York City, distinct in humidity and activity from summers anywhere else in the world, and the workshop process for your Black queer theater group with its five playwrights under fellowship had begun. Monumental was the fact that we were Black writers commissioned for actual pay, read: real money; miraculous describes the dream realized and its impact on our creative lives well into our queer futures; “divinely powerful” is the phrase that comes to mind whenever I think of you, a young gay Black man whose ministry meant creating theater for queer Black playwrights when it wasn’t a thing, wasn’t trendy or an identity-marker to distinguish oneself at parties among the liberal elite or leftist intelligentsia who tend to populate if not dominate theater circles within America’s artistic landscape. But on that sweltering hotly humid summer afternoon in the city, we stood on that sidewalk like true transplants, non-New Yorkers hands-in-pocket not worried about our future, our relevance, our fragile egos or definite death through denial and Black artistic erasure thanks to White Supremacy, or even that we desperately craved two tall glasses of ice water plus a pair of fold-out beach chairs to shoot-the-shit authentically. Heart-to-heart was our conversation that went something like this:
YOU-2-ME: “What you’re writing is bullshit.”
ME-2-YOU: “Bullshit?!”
YOU: “Is there something I should know? What’s wrong, Beloved? Tell me.”
ME: “Gimme a sec to catch my breath. I’m still stuck on “bullshit.””
Then you quickly followed up with, “This is a safe, affirming space. Here, my trans sibling, you’re free enough to soar. We are your solid anchor, your queer family with wings, don’t you see that? Can’t you feel our feathers rooted to your bones?” The initial tenacity and accompanying paranoia that comes with a new ministry often masks the deep love and fragility of its first founder. I knew then but not like I know now, many years later, that when a Black gay man is pregnant with a vision, and when he finally gives birth to see his vision take its first step, nurturing that dream to maturity instantly makes him a marked man, a target destined to die multiple deaths within one lifetime. For support, for spiritual food, to make sure his vision-child survives this sick, toxic, racist, homophobic world, he must hold that baby tightly to his bosom for Mama milk because it is himself he is holding, himself he is nursing, himself he gently cradle-rocks to sweet silent safety, himself he is raising up from the grave that mark him and his baby wherever they go, whomever they grow up to become, no matter what they manage or are allowed to achieve.
Heart-to-heart conversations among queer folks of color are staple to our diet, not just for purposes of survival that craft heart-shaped solid bedrock into beautiful Black being, but because Loving looks like coming together. You know that moment when witnessing the arching neck on its way back before that burst of laughter painting a sunshine only heartstrings hum to warm Black queerness. Or the dramatically orchestrated giant step into the limelight at a groove party to prove your hairstyle, hot plate, and outfit mean so much more than style, transcend current cultural politics, make mockery of mainstream etiquette, throwback your throw-down. Pockets of conversation that drop truths to soothe you right after your partner, now ex, deadnamed you during otherwise hot sex,; the same truths whispered centuries ago among our Queer Ancestors when they gathered together for sustenance, groove-time, funk, gossip, touchy-touchy during their tribal meet-n-greets. So when you told me, “Write whatever the hell you want”, you were giving me permission to reclaim my Black queerness as foundational fabulousness; giving me permission—scratch that—mandating me to live fully free in my beautiful Black body, manifesting the miracle of my queer intersectional intelligence, uplifting my soul on and off the page which, in those days and now, is a miracle. Like you Andre. “Loving is Being” is what you were telling me, “Loving is Being.”
Being Black queerness is nothing short of miraculous, proof? I know Black queers who’ve walked clear across continents to free their dying lovers from homophobic hospitals, ensuring that last breath was taken together in dignity. I know Black queers forced to renounce religion to reclaim themselves divine. I know beautiful dark-skinned Black queers who pill-pop to quiet panic attacks from complex PTSD, massive anxiety and daily trauma just so they can host, perform and moderate events, ensuring the queer gospel’s rawness reaches their community free from coin. I know gay Black men who face emotional isolation for standing tall and unwavering in their complex queer truth, refusing to suffer in silence or fake it in order to “make it”. Kicked out of their homes; denied medical treatment; humiliated by a sick healthcare system that prescribes toxic transphobia wherever they remain boldly Black while trans-identified; sexually, verbally and physically assaulted and abused in homeless shelters; denied passports; violently harassed at borders; euphoric at 30 because it took three agonizing decades to finally, finally see their reflection in the mirror for the first time. Trans men-of-color who can’t rent an apartment without excess documentation; can’t drive a fancy car without police harassment; who walk the streets being misread as “thugs” robbed of their complex identities. Black trans femmes butchered to death by cis male lovers because “real Black men” aren’t queer enough to love trans femmes publicly. Black trans femmes beaten on the streets by cops then wrongfully convicted as whores, not sex workers, in courts with criminal laws, injustice sending them straight to male prisons because they proudly identify as women with penises. I know Black queers who swallow oppression; are medicated and institutionalized for mental illnesses that would not exist if they denied their existence, if they agreed to self-identify as cis and straight instead (of trans). Black queers pronounced demonic by a loving Jesus, their suicidal screams unheard for so long they set up a toll-free lifeline to stem the queer bloodshed, weaving magical unicorns and real rainbow flags out of generational abuse and social stigma. Elders, queer survivors press their ears to the telephone receiver, listening to queer family cry as only the oppressed can. For one pure moment of desire, one moment of unfiltered truth, Black queers whose resistance is resilience is each other because this world, with its racist, toxic, anti-queer culture, wishes us nothing but death. Loving is Being.
You moved with a young, hip, wild, risqué crowd of artists, mostly southern queers who lived loose, free, hard and on the edge of every conceivable border in New York City or along the East coast. Then you disappeared, dropped from their scene. Rumors began. Everybody heard tid-bits of something. They claimed they didn’t but in truth we all knew it just wasn’t right. You relocated: a cheap dump, rats with roaches, recently released convicted criminals for neighbors. By then your vision-child was dead, that theater group for Black queers cut. Lack of funding, plus some “established” theater institution “awarded” yet another “white creative” large sums of grant money for stealing your idea, gave them extra money for killing your baby. You moved twice in three weeks. Folks whispered, something about an addiction, possibly meth, maybe HIV-positive plus backsliding after rehab for the umpteenth time but during this intervention, this time you swore up-n-down you would conquer your demons, kick the curse to the curb for once and for all. Loyal friends kept up the faith, urging the rest of us to go visit, never mind the stench, that you smelled like fresh shit mixed with stale urine living in a tiny, dark coat closet and looked nothing like your former Self. Ex-lovers shook their heads, propped their coat collars upright as shield against wintry winds, walking speedily away from the gritty gossip soon swallowed by the boom, blast and brilliance that is New York City. That same night you took a tiny hit, not much, just a late night shoot to soothe the evening’s nerves. But then the Junky in Room 226 told the Crackhead in Room 225 there’s a strange smell coming from down the hallway in 224. Three days later, when the cops kicked open your door, they found you in bed with your most faithful lover, a meth pipe nestled sweetly between the sheets, smack in the middle of that open palm attached to your cold corpse.
Being Andre meant carrying the burden of other people’s fucked upness. Because racism. Because shame. Because homophobia, biphobia, queerphobia, transphobia, ableism, classism. Because transmisgynoir. Because you were so ahead of your time you gifted everyone else with a future. Because queer masculinity coupled with Black Brilliance like yours is butchered in this toxic society. Because the queer Black body is under siege. Because Black Love is as criminal as poverty is shameful in a hyper-capitalist shithole democratic dumping ground of a country like America. Because there is no such thing as celebrated, safe space for queers-of-color. Because we are forced to use English, a colonial language, to decolonize our dreams. Because being labeled “crazy” when Black and queer is the ultimate compliment. And still, despite what stood between you and (institutionalized) insanity, you claimed your identity, birthing new realities to transcend circumstance, sometimes bigotry. Fabulousness?, you?, yes of course. You dreamed big, dreamed brave, dreamed strong, dreams bound beautifully by queer Black pride.
How many times did they kill you before you died? I guess what I’m really asking is: How many times did they erase you, ignore you, lie to you, manipulate, gaslight you, rape you, shame you, ridicule you into tortured submission until you decided, Why not disappear? When did you notice the distinct difference between being alive and queerness? When was the first time you feared for your life? The first time the community failed you, what did you tell yourself to get up the next morning? When we failed you again, you got up yes, but was your pain floored or could you carry it past the doorpost out into this racist world? At what point did you stop performing to let the mask slip? They killed you after that, I know, but how many times? Did you die when they shouted “faggot” or the word “Art”? TV taught me how to love my queer body by hating my Blackness; you? How crazy is too crazy when you’ve never seen yourself? Never ever whole, never ever full, never ever beautiful, never ever man enough or woman enough or cis enough or Black enough or gay enough or queer enough, never ever human, never ever free. When the mirror is your rapist and society can’t stand you long enough to look, you must obsessively wonder if that’s why the future screams stigma. That sliver within Time, that breath between existence and eternity, what broke you Brother? What made it impossible to outlive your pain, Beloved?
Now, transition completed, you are among Queer Ancestry whose sole purpose is the exaltation of life divine as love supreme. Consciousness meeting consciousness, you have no material body. Think: how radical is that? For a queer Black gay man to finally, finally be free of his body, released from gender-based stigma, unbound by racist constructs, bathed by divine love that radiates core being. At the inner sanctum of which is your child, your vision of a theater group for Black queers, still pure, still enduring, now resurrected and alive among our queer Ancestors who live to fully honor their own. Finally, in death you have attained what life viciously robbed from you: significance, space, peace, acclaim, safety, above all, true love. It’s enough to celebrate the fullness of YOU and, in so doing, the Ancestors have nominated another tortured queer Black creative to your theater’s music ministry: Whitney Houston. There she stands, bathed in Black ancestral queerness, ready to crown your arrival with song:
Beloved
Sacred One
Peaceful stillness is your new home…
Full queer disclosure by way of naked honesty? In truth, we were scared shitless of getting too close to each other. Black touch, moments of intimacy, time and time again, are miracles because they can prove so dangerous, lethal, prove deadly. And, contrary to queer theories that center bodies in white space, no, that fear was not born during the HIV crisis and its ensuing epidemic. And no, that fear is not the organic byproduct of programmed instability during a shifty Digital Age. And no, that fear did not suddenly metastasize after September 11th as the defining apocalyptic event of our generation. Ours is a fear with an umbilical chord stretching back centuries, across numerous lands and oceans, weaving through multiple generations amplified through compounding traumas. When you are Black and queer, your whole Being calls out White Supremacy and anything, anything that does that in this world must die and keep dying multiple times until stamped “dead enough”. To reach out, to touch another Black queer is non-conformity, is affirmation of the unspeakable, is acknowledgement of the denied, is transcendent and transformational of all betrayals. That particular brand of Black intimacy is completely queer in that its focus is not to turn Darkness into Light but Light into Darkness because Beloved only Darkness, on this wretched Earth, only Darkness is powerful enough to contain all things. To contain the pain with the joy. To couple spiritual faith to human horror. To live in peace during the storm. To reach the social heights of Black celebrity while rooted to Almighty God. To manifest contradiction as an inevitable surprise. To push the original sin against Black people to the background of our Love Supreme as foreground. So is my spiritual crisis, and that of my tribal siblings, something like this; somewhere deep down, I knew if I reached out to touch you, I would have to reach for myself? And maybe, after years of trauma, after years of dying multiple deaths, I was scared shitless of where I’d gone and who I’d become to get there? Whenever I stared into the mirror, forced to stare back, to face a reflection that strips all the way to my Ancestors who question what I’ve done to and for my queer family, question how I’ve honored their power through community, question my place on Earth in the name of their precious blood, maybe that reckoning is the ultimate death stamp, the final kill among kills. In short, I never touched you Andre because somewhere deep down I knew I would have to survive myself to reach you.
The paradox is exactly what paradox is, glaringly obvious. Just as there are different types of murder—intentional, unintentional, reactionary, accidental, revenge fantasy, merciful—so too are there different types of death. Meaning what? Love kills. Our great Queer Ancestors intended it to be so. Coming out of the closet means dying to that person who was in the closet; going back into the closet means dying to the Self who is out. And life’s epic sweeping journey involves eternally going in and out of that closet’s revolving door unto the everlasting. As you die to yourself—forever moving through multiple closets, moving from who you were to who you are to who you were to who you are, moving from mask to face to soul combinations—as you do so, you get close to someone. And as you get close to someone, you assume a tremendous amount of power because you realize you can always get close enough to kill them—always. But are you willing to get close enough to love them? Are you willing to leave it all out there for them? Are you willing to be vulnerable to them? Are you willing to be there for them? To share their queer breath? To honor their queer Black body in a racist world? Are you willing to plant kisses that destroy the myth that Black space, our bodies especially, can only house stereotypes of self-destruction? Are you willing to snack on their queer asshole? Are you willing to die to your reality to live within theirs? Their soul music, their sound, their language, swim smack in the middle of their word soup, lose yourself in meaning that is their eternity? Are you willing to let go? Seriously, would you put your Truth to sleep? Are you willing to die to yourself to touch them?
Dearest Queer Brother, forgive me for robbing the majesty of our connection, dishonoring Black love. It was not alienation but murder. Forgive me for running away when you stood tall and strong to claim me. In the name of our queer Ancestors, please forgive me for labeling you fragile instead of championing the strength and power of your vulnerability. I turned my head to stab you invisible, making me unworthy to be of your tribe. Please forgive me for dishonoring my queerness and yours, and those of our Ancestors who shed their precious blood to hold firmly onto their integrity. Whose ascendance is proof not once did they sell their power to appease oppression. But I foolishly labeled my murder of you survival, believing that I had to deny and destroy my brother to get somewhere safely when Black and queer in America. Comfort is a lie, maybe an even bigger and more dangerous lie than the gender-binary because it’s consumed more communities. However today I give up comfort. surrendering to my grief to uplift you who were so much better than me, so much larger than this world. With love everlasting, I say your name as prayer eternal: Andre Alexander Lancaster, I love you.
Truly,
Nick Hadikwa Mwaluko
Nick Hadikwa Mwaluko (pronouns: he/they, Nick) is a queer, trans, Tanzanian-American. Nick's essay, 'XXYX Queer Africa: More Invisible' is in Best American Essays 2020 and Nick's other queer essay is currently nominated for a Pushcart Award (final results currently pending). Nick has published two queer books, Waafrika (2013) and its sequel Waafrika 1-2-3 (2016). Nick has written a third queer POC manuscript and is looking for a publisher and agent. If interested, please contact: nhm9@caa.columbia.edu
Public Perceptions of Sex Work are Changing, but that Doesn't Mean Sex Workers are Safe
“Rather than stand up for the stigmatized and vulnerable, OnlyFans made the decision to lose out on millions, possibly billions in revenue to bow to the pressures of the conservative minority, and to reinforce negative stereotypes about the sex work industry, conflating it with trafficking and child abuse rather than doing the basic work to support and understand the members of the industry they were serving. ”
In the past two weeks, we've seen one of the biggest names in digital sex work, OnlyFans, first vow that they were going to remove all adult explicit content from the site, and then after a week of getting butt-fucked by the press, by the hundreds of thousands of sex workers who they were ostensibly and suddenly forcing out of work in the middle of a pandemic, and by the millions of subscribers and members of the public who think sex work is work, OnlyFans then magically reversed their ban, having miraculously figured out a way to make their bank/payment processors work after all.
It was a cop out that everyone saw from a mile away. OnlyFans had long been hinting that they wanted to distance themselves from the very people that the majority of their profit comes from (99% of their top earners are sex workers) because of the stigma of being part of the adult industry. However, OnlyFans would be nothing without the sex workers who use it, and most importantly, the sex workers who started creating content on it during the pandemic, which established OnlyFans as one of the giants of the digital sex world industry. However, it was clear from the start that they were uncomfortable with the sex workers who used the platform, often banning or freezing accounts with little explanation given, and last year when Bella Thorne infamously started an OnlyFans account only to back out and explain it all away as some sort of joke or flimsy attempt to support sex workers, OnlyFans used it as an opportunity to change their terms to make it harder for sex workers to get paid out; which stymied the income of thousands. With the soft launch of their app earlier this year, OnlyFans saw the stringent ToS of the iOS store as a chance to once and for all get rid of those pesky sex workers that they made their fortune on. (Don't worry Apple, we haven't forgotten you and what you did to Tumblr and all the other apps like it. Your Draconian approach to gentrifying the internet via our phones won't work forever).
Any idiot with half a brain could've told you that yanking the rug out from under your biggest earners was not only a bad business move for your company, but that turning out thousands of vulnerable people and removing their sole source of income in the middle of a global pandemic was, ummm, not a good look. OnlyFans went from being a platform in which sex workers could reclaim economic independence and power to being reviled as a money-grabbing, selfish and cruel website that never cared about anyone but their own bottom line. And that was definitely true. In statements following up their initial announcement, they explained that the move was an economic one, motivated by how difficult it is to get banks and other financial entities to fund and process sex work payments/subscriptions. It's not impossible though, on Pornhub you can pay for premium content, give creators tips, subscribe to channels and all of that. Chaturbate, ManyVids, and other contemporaries of OnlyFans also show that it's not impossible to support and host adult content on your site. It took less than a week for news sources to find out that OnlyFans was just using money as a cheap excuse to cover up the fact that they didn't want to stand up against pressure from anti-porn groups that were campaigning against OnlyFans to take down adult content because "OnlyFans is host to the most trafficking of anywhere on the internet" (an unverified and completely false claim). Rather than stand up for the stigmatized and vulnerable, OnlyFans made the decision to lose out on millions, possibly billions in revenue to bow to the pressures of the conservative minority, and to reinforce negative stereotypes about the sex work industry, conflating it with trafficking and child abuse rather than doing the basic work to support and understand the members of the industry they were serving.
In the year of our Lord and of Covid variant delta 2021 however, public perceptions about sex work have changed. Increased exposure to sex workers through social media and news sites have led more people to understand that sex work is work, and that sex workers are just like us, people who are trying to eke out a living despite the iron hand of capitalism trying to crush us all. There is more understanding that sex work does not equal sex trafficking, and that for many, turning the patriarchal structures of objectification and sexualization into something empowering and economically viable can be very healing. The reaction to OnlyFans' decision to boot sex workers was swift and harsh. Thousands of people publicly condemned the company for betraying the very people who made them such a successful company in the first place, and after merely a week, OnlyFans was forced to abruptly turn around and change their mind. Many saw it as a victory, seeing it as David defeating Goliath, but by no means does it mean that sex workers are safe.
Many sex workers on Twitter complained that within the week of uncertainty, they lost hundreds, if not thousands of subscribers, costing them a significant amount of income. The abruptness with which OnlyFans magically found ways to process payments/deal with banking systems proved that it was never an insurmountable problem, just an inconvenient one. And OnlyFans has still not promised to never ban sex workers from the platform. They've 'suspended' the exodus, but by no means cancelled it. Sex workers online have been telling one another to move to other platforms, to publish their content upon multiple websites so that the cancellation of one platform isn't as devastating, and finally to try to offload their content entirely, and to move back to private websites by which subscribers can reach them personally. They are surviving the turmoil, not because OnlyFans is 'saving' them, but because sex workers are resourceful, resilient, and ever-determined to not be erased.
Accountability is important. Accountability and public shaming forced OnlyFans to reverse their decision on banning explicit content. But that doesn't mean that sex workers are safe. It doesn't mean that we've built a world that thinks about their needs, that offers them protection from predators or the religious conservatives who wish they didn't exist. Sex workers are still as marginalized and uncertain as ever, forced to continue using platforms like OnlyFans that they know will drop them at any moment. So while the OnlyFans reversal is a small victory, it is by no means a permanent change. We still need to be vocal and persistent, that sex work is not something that will go away or disappear or turn its head in embarrassment, but it is an intrinsic and important profession, one that carries its own risks, and that by consistently normalizing it can we really help protect and support sex workers.
The Whorticulturalist is the mother of this magazine. She is a sex-positive blogger and creative who enjoys rock climbing, dancing, and camping. In her spare time, she’s probably flirting.
Curiosity Killed My Cat
They say ignorance is bliss but once I get a hint, not knowing eats me alive.
Recently, I moved in with my boyfriend. We were humping like rabbits, spending time together while enjoying the process of making the apartment our own. You’d say everything was great, right? Yea I thought so too. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Everything was erased when I found out he had no respect for our relationship.
When we met, I was so happy that I finally found someone who not only matched my sexual energy but wanted the same things out of life as I did. At the beginning, we vowed to keep the lines of communication open between us. We would sit and talk for hours about the things we saw break our parents’ marriages and discuss the tactics we would implement to prevent similar issues.
I thought he was the one. I felt safe, loved and respected. I wanted to cater to him. I wanted to please him.
One day, I had this brilliant idea to do a video strip tease on his IPad for him to “stumble” upon while I was at work. But, boy oh boy when I opened his gallery, I was shocked by what I found. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, I wanted to rationalize the situation.
It was from his past. It wasn’t recent.
Pacing around the apartment, I struggled to figure out what I was feeling, a wave of emotions began running through my body. Curiosity first stepped forward. I had to know if the receipt of nudes was synonymous with the timing of our relationship… or worse, since we had moved in together.
Oh, fuck, it was worse. He was still receiving nudes from other women.
My curiosity continued to peak, I now needed to know what messages were exchanged. It just kept getting worse, the messages were endless and the content was disrespectful. Imagine your partner informing women that he had a girlfriend but was still open to receiving nudes. Imagine your partner disclosing the intimate details of your sex life with another woman for the purposes of sexual gratification. I was furious.
How could he?
Furiously stepping around the apartment, I impatiently waited for him to wake up. I was so devastated and hurt but most of all ANGRY. I had to confront him about this, I couldn’t allow this to be okay… After hours spent arguing, talking and crying - I decided to forgive him and cough the situation up to growing pains. After all, now he knew how his actions made me feel.
After that conversation, I thought we’d be okay. However, I was not prepared for the fact that the emotional wave was not finished with me.
Insecurity has entered the chat
I had always believed in myself when it came to my relationship. I thought I was sexy enough, smart enough, quite frankly I thought I was the best thing to happen to him. But being exposed to the content my partner consumed during his conversations with other women led me to question and doubt myself. I once felt special, now I just felt like a sucker. Recalling, the day he told me that seeing other women online gives him the energy to lay it all on me made intimacy difficult. I was put in a position, where I had to blindly trust that he had stopped interacting with the women and that I was truly enough for him.
I could not.
Ashleigh Harris is a recent graduate of the University of the West Indies with a degree in Political Science. She suffers from Epilepsy and as such she has become an advocate for the cause. She is extremely passionate about workplace equity for all and spends her free time relating to her peers on issues of sexism, racism and ageism. She currently works as a digital marketer and uses her platform to create content that spreads awareness of various issues. You can check out more from her at Instagram @ashlerenaee.
my sub
he feeds me rolls of twenties
sticky from his anxious fingers his eyes can’t land until i whip him with my tongue and then
so solid release carves him into a huMan
his nails curling around the toes of my socks the edges of his lips twitching and when he
texts me “sorry mistress” from the laundromat
i imagine him sitting in front of the machine that perpetual tear drop of a face
reflected in the undertow of the pay per use washer
&This is how he can pretend he is drowning in
my sudsy lingerie
Breton Lalama (they/he) is a queer, trans human who combines mediums to encourage sociopolitical dialogue and bring attention to the weird parts of everyday life. They really like tomato soup. In his work, they are currently excited by explorations of identity and multiplicity.
You can find their work in Harlot X Trans Sex Workers Zine, Feels Zine, Open Heart Forgery, Crush Zine, Saved By Sex Ed, Toho Journal. Breton is grateful to be part of Nightwood Theatre’s Write From The Hip cohort, 2020-2021.
Life in the Social Media Margins, For Better and For Worse
I’ve lived my best life in the social media margins. As a closeted queer girl growing up in a red state in The Middle of Nowhere, USA, my Effy Stonem stan Tumblr was the closest thing I had to a queer community. That community of online strangers – so full of love, creativity, and devotion to black and white GIFs of Kaya Scodelario – is what got me through my darkest times. I wasn’t there for likes or reposts or follows – but the serotonin those provided was an added bonus – I was there to see myself reflected on screen because I wasn’t seeing myself onscreen or IRL.
Now, a decade later, struggling with a dark degree of depression I haven’t grappled with since high school and unable to see friends or family in person, I am finding solace once more in a community of strangers. And this community has more queer representation than the entire Greater Area of Los Angeles (not a single lesbian bar, thank you very much). TikTok is full of proud and out queer and trans folx, activists, and eye makeup innovators – plenty of users are an intersection of all three.
What sets TikTok apart as a social media platform is the impression of democracy – anyone can go viral, as long as someone is recording and uploads it to the For You Page (FYP). Every TikTok user has a FYP, carefully curated by the TikTok algorithm, which suggests videos to your FYP based on all content you have previously engaged in, be it hashtags, creators or trends. This curation allows for users to engage with content they would probably like – navigating within a subsection of TikTok.
As the trailblazers of social media and finding community wherever we can find it, the queer community has a large subsection of TikTok. Between #lesbiantiktok, #bitok, #lgbtqtiktok, #gaytiktok and plenty more hashtags, we have found our own and made ourselves at home. Many users in queer TikTok – occasionally self-referred to as the “Alphabet Mafia” – have voiced their realizations that in some ways, the LGBTQIA+ space in TikTok has created a miraculous bubble where everyone is bisexual, kinky and mentally ill. Because of this, there is a shared concern that re-entering the “real world” will be a bit of a learning curve for those of us in queertok.
Like it or not, with easier internet access than ever before, kids have access to all the information and social media they could ever want to engage with. It is no coincidence that Gen Z has been labeled as the “gayest generation” because with information, there is less fear. This has created a presence of mass representation on social media and this is how we fight back: by merely existing, sharing our stories and supporting the voices of those that don’t have access to a TikTok account.
The visibility TikTok offers for members of the queer community often overlooked, combats homophobia, transphobia, biphobia and erasure of these identities – in turn inspiring others who might be struggling with their own identities to come to turn with their validity. This is a huge win for the community.
The system is by no means perfect. Creators like @anania – a Black bicon (bisexual icon), who has made a brand for himself of running around New York City yelling perfect Gen Z nonsense about getting railed in a Wendy’s bathroom or thinking up strategies for the impending race war, was very transparent about getting kicked off of the creator fund and being unverified by TikTok for no good reason. @hawkhatesyou – a successful bisexual sex worker – recently had her account deleted and all money in her creator fund disappeared along with it. Hawk has publicly made peace with being banned and called out TikTok for its homophobic censoring process that would ban her account but leave accounts that perpetuate hate speech on the app.
TikTok is notorious for flagging videos and putting them “under review” or taking them down even when nothing in the video violates the TikTok terms and conditions. This “arbitrary” algorithm often seems to target marginalized creators and does nothing to offer support. Proud bisexual Bimbo @chrissychapalecka has recently suffered from this phenomenon where TikTok flags every video she attempts to post, the result of an incel creator who has directed his followers to cyber bully Chrissy’s account. It is important to remember that TikTok – like any social media – will naturally benefit the privileged: cis, white, straight, rich, male creators – boosting the careers and voices that need no assistance.
Many users have connected their Instagram accounts to TikTok, where they can attempt to dodge the slightly less intense censors there. Over the summer, Instagram proved to be as crucial a social justice weapon as Twitter was during the Arab Spring in 2011 – activists such as @janayathefuture and @ospatrisse have used their profiles to fight white supremacy. @mattiv is now a viral queer icon thanks to his makeup artistry on Instagram and the social justice messages penned in eyeliner across their perfect cheekbones. Plenty queer Gen-Z TikTokers straddle the use of all social platforms, like powerful co-leaders of the Bimbo movement, @griffinmaxwell and @chrissychapalecka.
These queer creators, because of their visibility and the target on their back created by the blue check of verification, face a daily barrage of hatred in their DMs and hordes of thin-skinned SWM in their comments. Considering the emotional troll toll and the double standard of censors, it is a wonder creators stay producing content. But if there’s one thing that the queer community does, it’s survive.
Burch-Hudson was born in California with storytelling in her blood, as her mother and father are from the Deep South, where tall tales are still currency. She was raised in the Midwest where her creativity only managed to get her into plenty of trouble, but finally, the hell out of Dodge.
Burch-Hudson is now an award-winning filmmaker and writer based in Los Angeles. While her mind still gets her into trouble, she has learned to wrestle her demons into her writing and feminist filmmaking.
Thank You Furry Much
Last weekend, my best friend visited me in the city by the bay. It was the first time she had come to see me since I moved her, and it was nice. It's been a long time since we had spent this much time together, just the two of us, and I was looking forward to it. Even though we are nothing alike, we are also so similar that we've been mistaken for sisters before. So don't let anyone ever tell you that girls aren't complicated.
Saturday morning we were at the farmers market looking for ingredients to make a blue cheese tomato cobbler because we're gentrified dickheads who love to recycle and support local businesses, like the good ex-Christians we are. And while we took a break in the shade watching the cool boys on skate boards that we used to think were too old for us and now looked way too young, a literal parade of fucking furries walked past. There were foxes and mice and bunnies and a dragon, there were animals we didn't recognize, and some that we were pretty sure Disney had not given the license to recreate. It was great. Many a tail was being carefully held to avoid it being dragged along the dirty waterfront, and the faces of each character, frozen in a look of joy or blissful eagerness, made me feel like I was in a baseball stadium getting ready for a t shirt cannon.
Obviously, we immediately began speculating about whether *all* of the costumes were present.... i.e., if you fucked a furry would it be a human dick or a animal one? If a deer had a vulva, would it be au natural, and did that mean it bright pink fur? Our jokes immediately went to sex because that's what culture has grasped first and foremost; that furries were just people who wanted to be animals, primarily so they could fuck other animals.
But later that weekend I did a deep dive into the world of furries; visited some chatrooms, stalked some websites. Primarily, to be totally honest, it was out of a sexual curiosity. Out of all the kink and sex parties I've ever been to, I had never seen a single furry. Are furries part of the kink community, or were they something else all on their own? When I started to do my research, I found out they were a community all of their own; that people had been doing this since the 70s (and some even before that) and that it was so much more than just fucking someone in a mascot costume. People in the furry community carefully cultivate 'fursonas' which are animal figures or personas. They often have very specific avatars and personalities, and furries often make very complex and engaged stories surrounding their fursonas, and there's a LOT of furry art online. A LOT. Many furries make their own fursuits/costumes, which was often incredibly detailed and even include moving parts like swishing tails, blinking eyes, or twitching ears. A lot of furries participate in super active online chat rooms and often go to conventions. There are a lot of furry communities all over the world where people can share their interests in safe spaces, and play out being their fursonas without judgement.
When we don't understand something, we feel like we have license to make fun of it. We find ways to other it, to make it more maligned than it needs to be. We shame people for pursuing their interests, because they are not our interests. We often use sex to achieve these means, because sex is already such a shame-filled and taboo topic in our society. So many of us had crushes on characters in the Lion King, or Robinhood, or any other countless Disney movies. We call ourselves brave as lions, hungry as bears, lazy as house cats. We have no problem anthropomorphizing animals by calling them our fur children, and we have no problem acting ourselves like animals. We just have a problem with people who love it more than us, because we feel uncomfortable around things we don't understand, or don't identify with. So here's to the gorgeous furries of San Francisco, the confurence goers who see themselves as foxes or mice or lions or more. Here's to you guys living your best lives; I see you now, and I'm so happy that you've found a passion that makes you feel happy, and that makes you feel like you belong. Our planet may be a small one, but there's enough room at the table for everyone to have a seat.
How Sex Work Helped Me Reclaim My Sexuality
Trigger warning: this piece contains mention of stalking, grooming and sexual harassment.
When I first met M. P. at a Writer’s Meetup, I didn’t really notice him. To me, he was just another adult in a room full of them. The Meetup took place in the back room of a restaurant not far from my parents’ house. I was there with my mother, because I was still just a kid. At the time I was seventeen years old, a high school senior, and exceedingly sheltered for my age. My Catholic parents hadn’t given me “the talk” yet, and they’d opted me out of Sex Ed at school. Aside from a brief “relationship” (we only kissed once) with a girl at summer camp, I’d never really dated. My Asperger’s Syndrome made me something of a loner as well. I didn’t know what a serious, adult relationship was supposed to look like. Nor was I interested in one. I was attending Meetups to make platonic friends. Isn’t that what meetups were for?
M. P. began direct messaging me via Meetup. Before long we were messaging each other on a near-nightly basis (he worked the night shift at a local apartment complex, where he manned the front desk and waiting for something - anything - to happen). From the very start he made sexual comments and claimed to be in love with me. I knew that M was 33 - seventeen years my senior. I didn’t mind, despite the large age difference, because I was so glad to have someone to talk to. I thought it wasn’t too bad since my grandparents were sixteen years apart in age. Anyway, M claimed that our relationship was totally normal and I (foolishly) believed him. All kinds of perfectly ordinary situations - from hugging a relative to watching certain movies with the sound on - distressed me, thanks to my autism. So I generally relied on other people - friends, family, teachers, even strangers - to tell me what “normal” looked like.
M. P. soon began stopping by my parents’ house nearly every afternoon, bringing gifts. He also began to grope and touch me, as well as describing his favorite kinds of porn. When I asked him not to, he explained that - as his girlfriend - I owed him. Supposedly, I had to do what he wanted, no matter how uncomfortable it made me. He’d also tell me that my writing was horrible and that I ought to become a prostitute because I was too stupid for anything else (which just proves that M. P. didn’t know what he was talking about, given that sex work actually requires a fair amount of business savvy, emotional labor, and raw intelligence). Of course, I believed him. Many of our visits ended with me in tears. I became increasingly gloomy and miserable as the months went by. Yet I kept everything hidden from my family, fearing they’d hate me if they knew.
Finally, around my 18th birthday in May, I tried to break up with M. P. I did this at one of the Writer’s Meetups so that there would be witnesses. I also confirmed over text. He agreed that we were broken up. Then, the next day, he refused to acknowledge that anything had happened. The next few months were even worse. I felt increasingly hopeless. Finally, I decided to cut him off completely and block all of his accounts. I also blocked all our mutual acquaintances and stopped going out. Though M. P. managed to send a few more harassing emails using new accounts, he eventually gave up. I was free, though still shaken and frightened.
By then it was September. My parents had decided to send me to community college. I’d wanted to take a year or two off, to recover from everything that had happened, but they wouldn’t allow this. Even more frustratingly, my parents had signed me up for a kind of mentorship program. One of the mentors (a man in his 30s) began texting me nonstop, telling me I was sexy and that I should become a stripper. He’d show up everywhere I went at school, probably because (as a mentor) he had access to my schedule. He also kept trying to get me to meet him alone on an isolated part of the campus. This terrified me. When I went to the man in charge of the mentorship program, he was apparently fairly shocked, yet he didn’t seem to know what to do. The campus police weren’t any help either, because the mentor hadn’t actually broken any laws. I ended up dropping out before my first semester ended.
Soon after that, I began taking classes and volunteering at a local public access television station. It was there I met J. M., a handyman in his 50s, who produced a horror hosting show there. He cast me as one of the kooky characters. From the very start, his behavior was vile. He’d barge into the women’s dressing room without knocking, send me explicit sexual messages, and threaten me when I didn’t do what he wanted. When I insisted that I was uninterested in him and probably gay, he responded by becoming aggressive and angry. He’d call me various cruel, sexist names and say that most women would love attention from him.
Eventually, after about a year of this, I gave in to his heckling. I let him kiss me with his horrible mouth, I let him grope me. Though I promised, constantly, that I’d have sex with him someday (usually to get him to stop yelling at me), I never did. He soon became impatient. He claimed that I didn’t have the right to say no, not after “dangling” myself in front of him (I suppose he saw me as a piece of irresistibly delicious candy, rather than a human being). One day, while I was at his house, he convinced me to flash my breasts. I thought that if I did so, he’d leave me alone. Instead, he pinned me to the couch and licked my torso. He tried to take my skinny jeans off as well, though between their tight fit and my struggling he couldn’t, so he eventually gave up. I found this incident exceedingly traumatizing. I had nightmares for many months. Everything startled me. I was terrified of the dark, of sleeping, of strangers who looked like J. M.
Finally, a little more than a year later, the nightmares stopped. By then I was still living with my parents. Aside from a brief stint as a cashier during the Christmas rush and a number of unpaid internships, I’d never really had a job. My income came primarily from gig editing work and publishing my essays. My autism and shyness made it hard for me to get through job interviews. It was then that I began hearing about sites like OnlyFans and ManyVids. I knew that selling porn or nudes could be a fairly lucrative side-hustle. It was also something I could do from home, without having to see anyone or go anywhere. I also felt that no matter where I went or what I did, I’d be objectified and taken advantage of by someone. Sexual harassment seemed inevitable so, cynically, I figured I might as well find a way to profit from my youthful looks and curvaceous body.
I began filming themed striptease videos and posting them on ManyVids. To my surprise I actually enjoyed the process. For the first time, I felt as if I were in control of my sexuality and sex appeal. I no longer felt as if I had to look or act a certain way to appeal to aggressive, controlling men. Instead, I could wear costumes that made me feel sexy and act out scenarios that I enjoyed. I soon branched out, filming masturbation and fetish clips as well as more themed stripteases. I played a variety of strong, confident characters in my videos - from vampire countesses to drill sergeants. I also “invested” some of the money I earned in props, as well as fabrics which I used to sew more costumes for myself.
For the first time ever, being sexual was about me instead of the men in my life. Plus, since I did everything - from setting up the camera to editing the footage - I was completely in control of the content I produced. If I didn’t like how something looked, I could shoot it again or cut out a few seconds. If someone requested a custom video that made me uncomfortable, I could always say “no”. After years of feeling trapped by the vile men in my life, being able to have complete control over something (even something as simple as the videos I post) has been so helpful in helping me heal and regain some autonomy in my life. Not only that, I’ve been able to make a couple hundred extra dollars every month from my video sales. When I live-cam, I can make that much in only about five to eight hours. This has made me more financially secure, which in turn reduces my anxiety and makes me more confident. The fact that I’ve been able to run my own business and make a profit has also helped me. It’s proved to me that, with enough determination and hard work, I can be legitimately successful at something. I’m not the useless idiot M. P. insisted I was. Quite the contrary.
M. L. Lanzillotta is an AFAB transmasculine freelance writer from the Washington DC metro area. Before his transition, he dabbled in online sex work under a female persona and name. His many hobbies include painting, acting, cooking, and complaining via Twitter.
An Obsession with Non-Consent
While the US government grapples with whether it will continue to allow TikTok to operate within the country, thousands of women are questioning their position as creators on the app. A few weeks ago, the silhouette challenge went viral on TikTok, the latest in a long line of trends that accentuate the female form and empowers women to embrace themselves and their sexuality. But like all good and sexual things women indulge in, men had to ruin it.
The simple joys of a red filter and body confidence had to be destroyed by the greed and desire of men everywhere. The idea was simple, women would put on sexy music and dance or just catwalk in front of a camera - seems easy enough. Some women did it naked, others in revealing clothing, the common thread was the use of the red LED light filter on TikTok. The trend was gaining traction as thousands of women joined in to show off their moves, cute outfits, and sexy curves until it all came to halt.
On YouTube, in Reddit forums, and on other platforms hundreds of videos and how-to explanations were crowding the internet as men shared their hacks on how to remove the filter. Suddenly images and videos of the many women participating in the challenge were circulating the web for all to see. Their naked and partially-undressed bodies on display, their ability and right to consent stolen from them, and for what?
Everyone who participated in this vile invasion of privacy knows they can access millions of bodies that are consenting (at least in part) to being seen and enjoyed en masse. There are thousands of websites that offer the chance to view the women who are enjoying sex acts with their full consent, such as OnlyFans, and webcam sites. Some women even post on Tumblr and Instagram, indulging in their own enjoyment of their bodies in a way that is consensual and positive.
However, all of these women making racy TikToks didn’t volunteer for their nude bodies to be plastered all over Reddit and passed around between the various groups of men who were creepy enough to partake in this.
It proved what many women have long since known - many men aren’t looking for sex; they are chasing the taste of non-consent. Whether it's Janet Jackson’s nip slip or these edited TikToks, the thrill of the chase, of stealing from and embarrassing women seems to be the only joy men can find in pornographic or generally X-rated content.
Dozens of scholars have examined why men are consuming more and more violent porn, but this doesn’t cover the phenomenon we are observing today. This fascination with violence has taken men out of the passive role that simply delights in it and pulled them into the active. Instead of watching violent porn of performed non-consent, they are now pursuing betraying consent themselves.
Sure, you can see many female movie stars naked, or half naked on screen, but the excitement and thrill lies in leaking those photos. You might be able to access hundreds of videos of rough “non-con” sexual content online, but the thrill is in knowing it was truly an assault or at least that you watching it goes against her wishes. It makes women everywhere question - what is it about the flavor of female pain, embarrassment, and shame that makes an orgasm that much nicer?
Revenge porn, the rise of non-con erotica, iCloud leaks, and public shamings that all beg the question - why watch assault happen when you can participate?
It speaks to a bigger issue, the desensitization to violence against women. Men everywhere have become incredibly comfortable with the horrific acts of violence that continue to be enacted upon women all over the world. Whether it is leaking nudes as revenge or femicide, every day these issues persist men (and society at large) comes to normalize it. But uniquely, when it comes to acts of sexual violence, particularly digital acts of sexual violence, men are being encouraged to indulge.
There is a generation of young men who are coming of age in an era where sexual pleasure is tied to an air of suave non-consent that is deemed sexy. Even outside of the realm of sex, the abuse, murder, and assault of women continues to be pushed to the forefront of concerns for women’s rights. They are being trained by this era of internet culture, that makes sexuality intertwine with violence in profoundly unhealthy ways.
This mix is cultivating a culture around consent that prides masculinity on “knowing.” But no one can ever truly know unless they ask, so why is the patriarchy generating an image of sexual perfection that predicates on seeing imperceptible emotional, physical, and mental changes. Simple, the patriarchy isn’t truly concerned with the sexual liberation, freedom, and enjoyment of women.
When I spoke to a few men about their experiences with consent, they painted an interesting picture. Growing up in an era of readily accessible porn and media that actively reflects the kind of dubious consent that borders on the non-consensual painted a picture of sexiness that relied on simply “knowing.” Many of them echoed each other, saying in one way or another they or their partners shied away from questions of consent because it felt uncomfortable to voice these questions. Though many of them have abandoned this in favor of powering through the mild awkwardness asking, but for many years they too bought into an idea of consent that painted them as less than.
Ultimately we can see that the obsession with non consent is rooted in a patriarchy that both assumes ownership over the feminine form, and that assumes that all men feel that same sense of ownership. Correlating consent with inexperience shames men and hurts real women. The reason these men and their partners shied away from consent was because they both subscribed to an understanding of sex and sexuality that predicated on men being either indifferent to their partners feelings, passions, or desires, or somehow omniscient.
This is the breeding ground for the various forms of sexual violence that we see playing out. Young boys are taking one of two lessons and without the tools to know better, they are getting swept up into a culture of taking from women. Taking their private photos, taking their sexuality, taking parts of them they didn't welcome them to. This narrative feels unending, a cycle of oppression and impunity. A wheel that threatens to crush the women it runs over.
Hayley is an emerging writer and journalist who works hard to create work that is fiercely feminist, anti racist and anti oppression on a whole. You can check out more of her work and content on her instagram @hayley.headley
What Does Love Need?
I’ve been having some hard conversations with my primary partner last week. The wounds are still raw, with emotion still oozing out painfully with every breath.
The last time I saw him was in February 2020 in New York. We took the subway, went to bars, partied in a huge warehouse with hundreds of strangers, and in general acted like the virus that was currently exploding across China wasn’t going to affect us. I remember us seeing a man in a full hazmat suit sitting on the subway and we laughed to ourselves, thinking man, this guy is being a bit paranoid isn’t he?
I remember the moment I got into the cab that would take me to the Penn Station. I kissed him and hugged him and told him I would see him soon. We had our wedding to look forward to in May, a honeymoon in Japan in July, and countless other plans. It was going to be a month at most until I saw him again, just how it’s always been. But February 2020 was fifteen months ago, and I haven’t seen him once, outside of zoom, the occasional selfie, and the plethora of childhood photos that his parents sent me as a funny Christmas present.
Despite running a magazine about sex and culture, and despite being someone who constantly talks and thinks about sex, I realized recently that it had been months since we had sent each other big compliments or risqué texts, months since we had tried to have a digital movie night or a fun zoom dinner. It was horrifying for me, and I was so disappointed in him and in myself. How did we get to the point where we weren’t caring for each other in such basic ways?
It’s easy, we were spending our time just trying to survive. The pandemic made it almost impossible for anyone to think of anything else besides where to get pasta or toilet paper. We became occupied with the immediate in front of our faces, in the present moment of every day as we saw death tolls rising, and in the intimate details of our apartments; the only thing that was keeping us safe from a world that felt very dangerous and very real.
Recently, we’ve started a process of conscious uncoupling, even though that’s a term that both of us loathe. It is trying to figure out how to break up with someone you still love tenderly, who didn’t cheat on you, who didn’t start snoring or stop cleaning up after themselves. It’s made me ask a lot of questions about what relationships need to survive. Because ours survived for so long without sex or even physical proximity. Hell, I would’ve given a lot just to be on the same continent as him. It’s forced me to rely on conversation as the sole means of emotional connection, and in so many ways we are realizing that we needed more than that.
It’s in the end of relationships that you often think about defeat; about failures to launch and about the embarrassment and shame and anger of feeling; everyone else is getting it right, so why didn’t you? We are going through that though, with all the tears and resentment that go with that. Why can’t we make it a little longer? Push a little harder, wait for a little bit more? But I think sometimes when we push love, love pushes back. It’s understanding that you’re not entitled to someone’s love and attention, and that learning to appreciate it daily will go a long way in supporting them when they can’t always give it to you. Love is sometimes not demanding more from someone, but being satisfied when you get less.
Super Like
i want someone to wake up next to every morning
says a guy on tinder
i laugh so hard that i fall out of my bed
and tears fall out of my eyes
because
that was way too forward
jesus christ
and he says
oh my god i’m so sorry i didn’t mean to send that to you
and i continue to laugh
and block him immediately
a guy starts the conversation with
i want your babies
i want that dick
and i block him too
a guy starts with
i can teach you a thing or two about dating
and i say
wow that’s a way to flirt
he doesn’t respond
and two days later he says
wait so will you go out with me
a guy says
hey is that bread in your second picture?
i like bread too
we have so much in common
and proceeds to spam
with sexual bread jokes
literally all day
at midnight he says
come over to my dorm and i’ll knead your dough
and i
continue to laugh
at all these other
lonely gay men
even though i am
a lonely gay man
myself
it’s been almost three (3)
years
since i last had a boyfriend
but i’m so tired of swiping
and talking to strangers
when i know the dates
never go anywhere
and i don’t really
talk to guys i like
anymore
and i laugh
at how these men
can be
way too forward
sometimes
i understand
the desperation
but that doesn’t mean
it’s not uncomfortable
and hilarious
to receive messages
like that
here i am
feeding my loneliness
with
strangers
that i don’t care about
sometimes i laugh
missing
something better
than this.
Mercury-Marvin Sunderland (he/him) is a transgender autistic gay man from Seattle with Borderline Personality Disorder. He currently attends the Evergreen State College and works for Headline Poetry & Press. He's been published by UC Riverside's Santa Ana River Review, UC Santa Barbara's Spectrum Literary Journal, and The New School's The Inquisitive Eater. His lifelong dream is to become the most banned author in human history. He's @Romangodmercury on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
The Susan B. Anthony List: Lies and Misinformation
On Sunday, September 6, 2020, my local paper, the Scranton Times, ran a full-page advertisement paid for by the Susan B. Anthony List. The Susan B. Anthony (SBA) List is a non-profit whose goal is to end abortion in the United States. The name of the organization is supposed to be a tribute to the suffragist movement. The leaders of the SBA List contend that Susan B. Anthony was pro-life, a proclamation that has been disputed by the National Susan B. Anthony Museum and House, who argues Susan B. Anthony never spent any time discussing her stance on abortion. I offer little weight to the emotional connection the SBA List is trying to tie between the anti-abortion groups to the women’s movement; instead, focusing on the issue with the SBA List's misinformation is spreading.
In the advertisement, the question below was posed to readers, and they had three statements to choose from:
“Which is your view?
Abortion is TRAGIC but sometimes necessary
Abortion is INHUMANE, unacceptable, and wrong.
Abortion is ACCEPTABLE at any time.
The SBA List accentuates their beliefs by capitalizing the words “tragic” and “inhumane” to drive the pro-life viewpoints on abortion. Then they use “acceptable” to underscore the supposed pro-choice or Democratic beliefs. The ad elaborates that choice A and B align with 70% of all political affiliations based on the 2020 Marist Poll.
The first inaccuracy in the ad proclaims that, according to the democratics.org/where-we stand/party-platform, the Democratic Party Platform aligns 100% with choice C, Abortion is Acceptable at any time,
I searched the Where We Stand Platform for the claim that Democrats categorically support option C, Abortion is acceptable at any time. The official democratic platform states, “Democrats are committed to protecting and advancing reproductive health, rights, and justice. We believe unequivocally, like the majority of Americans, that every woman should be able to access high-quality reproductive health care services, including safe and legal abortion” they go on to state, “Democrats oppose and will fight to overturn federal and state laws that create barriers to reproductive health and rights. We will repeal the Hyde Amendment and protect and codify the right to reproductive freedom. We condemn acts of violence, harassment, and intimidation of reproductive health providers, patients, and staff. We will address the discrimination and barriers that inhibit meaningful access to reproductive health care services, including those based on gender, sexual orientation, gender identity, race, income, disability, geography, and other factors. Democrats oppose restrictions on medication abortion care that are inconsistent with the most recent medical and scientific evidence and that do not protect public health.”
The Democratic Party Platform doesn’t say that Democrats support abortion at any time during pregnancy. According to a poll on NPR, only 31% of Democrats agree that abortion should be legal at any time in a pregnancy with no restrictions.
The SBA List cannibalized the words of the democratic platform to spread inaccuracies. They make it seem like women are deciding to have an abortion at thirty-six weeks, and the Democrats are like, “Well, go on, we get it you changed your mind.” That’s not reality.
One of the most significant issues I have with the advertisement is that it forces people into two distinct categories: Democratic or Republican. Impelling people into a label doesn’t allow them to think on a spectrum regarding their abortion stance. In her book, Scarlet A: The Ethics, Law, and Politics of Ordinary Abortion, bioethicist Katie Watson discussed the moral value to an embryo and how someone assigns value is critical in deciding where you stand on abortion. To simplify, what rights you attribute to an embryo, and when you believe those rights pertain to a fetus are critical to determining your abortion stance. People need to give thought to moral value, and when they believe life begins, conception, implantation, viability are considerations. Many people probably fall somewhere on the gamut of abortion is Not Acceptable in any circumstance to its Always Acceptable. Pigeon-holing, all Republicans as never supporting a woman’s right to choose, is naïve. Conversely, suggesting that all Democrats are pro-abortion is not correct. According to the Gallup poll in 2019, 21% of Republicans self-identify as pro-choice, and 29% of Democrats report they are pro-life.
The SBA List goes on to espouse the Democratic platforms supports abortion in the following scenarios:
“Abortion permitted until birth;
A baby born alive after attempted abortion can be left to die;
Taxpayers must fund late-term abortion, even against their conscience.”
Let’s look at the claim that Democrats support abortion until birth. The Reproductive Health Act of New York doesn’t allow abortion up until the moment of birth. When abortions are performed after 24 weeks, it’s because the mother’s life is in danger or the fetus isn’t viable. The claim doesn’t consider that a doctor must determine that woman’s life is at risk or any fetal conditions that are incompatible with life. Someone can’t walk into a clinic at 39 weeks and request an abortion and expect it will be done no questions asked; that’s what the SBLA wants you to think. According to the Guttmacher Institute, only 1.3% of all abortions are conducted after 21 weeks. In most cases, a woman is faced with the decision to abort when she has learned new information later in her pregnancy that shows severe fetal anomaly or a risk to the mother’s health. The Republicans and Trump propagated misinformation that abortion is an option until birth in response to the NY Reproductive Health Law that allowed practitioners to perform abortions after 24 weeks in fetal anomaly cases and if the mother’s life was in danger.
Next, let’s dive into the claims that a baby born alive after attempted abortion can be left to die. The accusation of aborted babies being left to die is not valid. President Trump claimed in a tweet, “The Democrat position on abortion is now so extreme that they don’t mind executing babies AFTER birth,” stoking the fears that infants born after an attempted abortion wouldn’t have care. He doubled down on the older tweet recently when he tweeted about voting in Virginia when he claimed the Governor is “in favor of executing babies after birth-this is late-term abortion.” I don’t think he understands what he is talking about or doesn’t care since he is grasping for the pro-life vote. The claim that babies are executed after birth is wholly unnecessary since the “Born-Alive Infants Protection Act” passed Congress in 2002, reaffirming that infanticide is illegal. In the small instances, when an abortion results in a live birth, it is because of a fetal condition, and the infant would be given comfort care in line with parental wishes and the care team recommendations. The claim that babies born alive after an attempted abortion are ludicrous and pandering to the pro-life contingent.
Finally, the last claim that taxpayers must fund late-term abortion isn’t entirely valid, even against their conscience. The Hyde Amendment bars the use of federal funds for abortions, except in case of rape, incest, or life endangerment. However, states can provide funds to pay for medically necessary abortions. Currently, fifteen states have more strict restrictions and don’t comply with the Hyde Amendment to provide Medicaid funding for abortions in rape and incest cases. Some Democrats have said they will repeal the Hyde Amendment ending the ban on federal funds used for abortions. The Hyde Amendment prohibits poor women dependent upon Medicaid from getting abortions and furthers economic and healthcare disparities.
The SBA List is excellent at spreading fear, and I wonder if the pro-life sect realizes that the SBA List considers the emergency contraception pill abortion? If you visit www.sbalist.org, you can link to www.lifeissues.org and search under abortifacients; their stance is clear. Let’s take the scenario that a woman was raped on a Saturday and went to the emergency room. As part of her care, the doctors offered her emergency contraception to prevent pregnancy. If she chose to take the pill, the most stringent pro-lifers deemed this an abortion since the pill prevented implantation of a fertilized egg, which they claimed can happen within thirty minutes of sperm entering a woman’s body. I used the extreme example of rape instead of birth control failure or other consensual encounters. The rebuttal to those examples by pro-lifers is usually something along the lines of people consenting to have sex know the risks. But emergency contraception should be available regardless of the scenario. Other Pro-life organizations like Focus on the Family explicitly denounced any birth control method that interferes with implantation, such as an IUD and some birth control pills.
If the SBA List wants to spread false information, I hope people on both sides of the aisle are smart enough to do the research and think about where they fall on the spectrum of abortion access.
The death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg proved we must have a Superior Court judge that will uphold Roe V. Wade and a woman’s right to reproductive freedom. Those who support a woman’s right to choose must call out the half-truths and blatant lies spread by pro-life groups, such as the SBA List. The pro-life supporters are entitled to their opinion, and although I disagree with them, I ask that they educate themselves in facts, not fiction. There are studies, polls, and research articles that refute the lies that the SBA is spreading. If you are anti-abortion because of your religious beliefs or moral code, that is your right, but you have a responsibility to educate yourself. I challenge you to remove yourself from the cocoon of it’s never going to happen to me or someone I love; it’s a cozy place to stay until reality hits.
Maura Maros has a master’s degree in Human Resources Administration from the University of Scranton and Creative Writing from Wilkes University. In 2018 she completed her Master’s in Fine Arts at Wilkes University. Maura’s short story, Hidden Gem (February 2016), and her book review of The Self-Care Solution (June 2016) were published in Mother’s Always Write. Her short story, The Warrior, was published in the anthology I AM STRENGTH. Maura’s poem A Mothers Guide to Getting By is in the summer edition of the American Writers Review 2019. In November of 2019, Maura’s short story Calling Mum…Home was published on Mum Life Stories. Most recently, her poem Bloom was part of a collection of isolation poems and short stories on The Dew Drop.
Reap what you hoe.
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