Sex, Gender, Politics, and everything in between
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I just saw the video you posted about hymens and I just wanted to say that there are so many different kinds of hymens, and if you don’t know which one you’re dealing with then you had better find out. I thought I had “broken” it a long time ago, but when I was fooling around I hooked my finger around something. I found out I had a septate hymen, and because of a hymens elastic nature it wouldn’t break and was uncomfortable during sex, so I dropped by the gyno and then two weeks later I was in the OR getting it removed. I am not advocating this, in fact I hope you never have to do it. What I’m saying is familiarize yourself with your body so that you know the best way to enjoy it. I felt a lot of shame having to do this, I felt like I wasn’t normal and that there was something that had to be fixed about me. But I shouldn’t have. Societies norms have told us there is only one good way to lose virginity.
But Fuck them.
or Butt fuck them idk what their preferences are.
And it doesn’t matter.
The following day, I attended a workshop about preventing gender violence, facilitated by Katz. There, he posed a question to all of the men in the room: “Men, what things do you do to protect yourself from being raped or sexually assaulted?”
Not one man, including myself, could quickly answer the question. Finally, one man raised his hand and said, “Nothing.” Then Katz asked the women, “What things do you do to protect yourself from being raped or sexually assaulted?” Nearly all of the women in the room raised their hand. One by one, each woman testified:
“I don’t make eye contact with men when I walk down the street,” said one.
“I don’t put my drink down at parties,” said another.
“I use the buddy system when I go to parties.”
“I cross the street when I see a group of guys walking in my direction.”
“I use my keys as a potential weapon.”
The women went on for several minutes, until their side of the blackboard was completely filled with responses. The men’s side of the blackboard was blank. I was stunned. I had never heard a group of women say these things before. I thought about all of the women in my life — including my mother, sister and girlfriend — and realized that I had a lot to learn about gender.
When I’m on the train, I read my favorite gay magazine. I can’t remember having ever seen someone who looks like me on the cover. When I read it I see more ads - for underwear, cologne, cruises, hotels, and clothes - with people who don’t look like me. None of the writers look like me, nor are there any stories about anyone who looks like me. When I finally see an advertisement with someone who shares my skin color, the advertisement is for HIV medication.
While I’m waiting for my friend in the gayborhood hotspot I notice that none of the bartenders, DJs, or waiters look like me, nor do most of the clientele. Out of boredom, I fiddle around with the Grindr mobile dating app on my iPhone. My screen is filled with different faces, bodies, and torsos of men in the area. One particularly handsome man attracts my attention, until I read the “NO ASIANS” typed in angry capped letters on his profile. I wonder how I would feel if I were Asian.
After having a few drinks with my friend, I walk home through the garment district in midtown Manhattan. I see a gay male couple walking hand in hand down the street. They also do not look like me. In fact, they look like they could be in one of the gay cruise ads I see in my favorite magazine. Their relaxed and happy faces turn frightened when they see me, and they immediately cease holding hands and separate. On this late night in an unfamiliar area of the city, I am not seen as a member of the LGBT community. I am black. I am male. I am a threat.
Alie arrived at our 1st-grade classroom wearing a sweatshirt with a hood. I asked her to take off her hood, and she refused. I thought she was just being difficult and ignored it. After breakfast we got in line for art, and I noticed that she still had not removed her hood. When we arrived at the art room, I said: “Allie, I’m not playing. It’s time for art. The rule is no hoods or hats in school.”
She looked up with tears in her eyes and I realized there was something wrong. Her classmates went into the art room and we moved to the art storage area so her classmates wouldn’t hear our conversation. I softened my tone and asked her if she’d like to tell me what was wrong.
“My ponytail,” she cried.
“Can I see?” I asked.
She nodded and pulled down her hood. Allie’s braids had come undone overnight and there hadn’t been time to redo them in the morning, so they had to be put back in a ponytail. It was high up on the back of her head like those of many girls in our class, but I could see that to Allie it just felt wrong. With Allie’s permission, I took the elastic out and re-braided her hair so it could hang down.
“How’s that?” I asked.
She smiled. “Good,” she said and skipped off to join her friends in art.
‘Why Do You Look Like a Boy?’
The Story of Stuff
From its extraction through sale, use and disposal, all the stuff in our lives affects communities at home and abroad, yet most of this is hidden from view. The Story of Stuff is a 20-minute, fast-paced, fact-filled look at the underside of our production and consumption patterns. The Story of Stuff exposes the connections between a huge number of environmental and social issues, and calls us together to create a more sustainable and just world. It’ll teach you something, it’ll make you laugh, and it just may change the way you look at all the stuff in your life forever.
©Tides Foundation & Funders Workgroup for Sustainable Production and Consumption
![knowhomo:
LGBTQ* People You Should Know
Dorothy Thompson
* American Journalist
* Time magazine named her one of the two most influential women in America in 1939 (the other was E. Roosevelt)
* Known for her column “On the Record”
—> printed thrice-weekly nationally
—> was read by millions and one of the most popular columns of it’s time
* Thompson interviewed Adolf Hitler in 1931 (for Cosmopolitan)
—> first reporter to write about the threat of Hitler
* Though married to Sinclair Lewis, it was well known that their marriage was not a happy union and Thompson had many affairs with women.
—> including writer Christa Winsloe and Gertrude Tone
No people ever recognize their dictator in advance. He never stands for election on the platform of dictatorship. He always represents himself as the instrument [of]the Incorporated National Will. When our dictator turns up you can depend on it that he will be one of the boys, and he will stand for everything traditionally American. And nobody will ever say “Heil” to him, nor will they call him “Führer” or “Duce.” But they will greet him with one great big, universal democratic, sheeplike bleat of “OK, Cheif! Fix it like you wanna, Chief! Oh, Kaaaay!” — Thompson, 1935
some information taken from the text: Queers In History: The Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Historical Gays, Lesbians and Bisexuals](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lqw3zx7cYA1qghfy5o1_400.jpg)
LGBTQ* People You Should Know
Dorothy Thompson
* American Journalist
* Time magazine named her one of the two most influential women in America in 1939 (the other was E. Roosevelt)
* Known for her column “On the Record”
—> printed thrice-weekly nationally
—> was read by millions and one of the most popular columns of it’s time
* Thompson interviewed Adolf Hitler in 1931 (for Cosmopolitan)
—> first reporter to write about the threat of Hitler
* Though married to Sinclair Lewis, it was well known that their marriage was not a happy union and Thompson had many affairs with women.
—> including writer Christa Winsloe and Gertrude Tone
No people ever recognize their dictator in advance. He never stands for election on the platform of dictatorship. He always represents himself as the instrument [of]the Incorporated National Will. When our dictator turns up you can depend on it that he will be one of the boys, and he will stand for everything traditionally American. And nobody will ever say “Heil” to him, nor will they call him “Führer” or “Duce.” But they will greet him with one great big, universal democratic, sheeplike bleat of “OK, Cheif! Fix it like you wanna, Chief! Oh, Kaaaay!” — Thompson, 1935
some information taken from the text: Queers In History: The Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Historical Gays, Lesbians and Bisexuals
This man, James Verone, robbed a bank for one dollar.
Why only one dollar?
Because he knew that in prison he could get the medical care he could not afford with his part time salary as a convenience store clerk. He was approved for food stamps, but they did little to help his finances. Between his back problems, carpel tunnel, and arthritis, he simply couldn’t handle the pain any longer.
On June 9th, he sent a letter to his local paper, the Gaston Gazette, that stated: “When you receive this a bank robbery will have been committed by me. this robbery is being committed by me for one dollar. I am of sound mind but not so much sound body.”
He then took a cab to the RBC Bank, and handed the teller a note asking for one dollar and medical attention. He quietly took a seat in the lobby and waited for police to arrive.
Since Verone only stole one dollar, he was only charged with larceny. His bail, which he doesn’t plan to pay is set at $2,000, reduced from the normal $100,000. He’s scheduled to see a doctor this Friday, and hopes to get foot surgery, back surgery and to have a protrusion on his check treated.
To me, this is the perfect example of how disturbingly corrupt and unjust our health care system has become under HMO’s. For this man, or any person for that matter, feels that he needs to be imprisoned just to see a doctor, is ridiculous.
I honestly can’t even think of words. The story says it all.
The other day I was talking to someone who happens to be a white, heterosexual, able bodied, upper class man. He remarked about how little privilege men like himself hold. I listened as his tone grew more intense; I could tell this was an issue of great seriousness to him. “It’s so hard for the white man to get into the Ivy League Universities these days,” he exclaimed, “but if you’re black or Hispanic, they let you right in!” I sat quietly as he continued on. “And what about those stupid pride parades? Or black history month? Or minority magazines? Where’s my straight parade? Where’s my white history month? And god forbid I get a magazine for white men! Nooo. That’s racist.”
I interjected, “You know how when we were kids we were jealous that our moms got presents on mothers day and we asked why there wasn’t a kids day?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” He asked skeptically.
“Well, what did she answer?”
“Every day is kid day.”
“That’s the same principle to why there aren’t parades and month’s for the white man. Every day is white, heterosexual, able bodied male day.” I said plainly.
“That’s stupid.” He bluntly blurted out.
You know, he’s right. That is stupid. We as a society as well as individuals should be doing a lot more to cater to the white man. They’re really struggling. In fact, they’re a dying species. In order to help them out, we should recognize them more.
For example, we should put more emphasis on white history. My suggestion would be to issue all school aged children a white history book. This summer, while all the books are still being printed, we can slap the word “WHITE” above the “American History” book title. It would be the same history book as always, but we would make it clear to them what the subject of the book really is.
My next idea would be IVORY magazine. This would remedy a large problem we in America face: not enough white faces inside of magazines.
Lastly, a straight pride parade would be organized. It would consist of heterosexual men and women walking down the street together holding hands. You may say, “But Lauren, this sounds a lot like any given afternoon in a busy city,” au contraire. This would be quite different for we would issue a “shades of gray striped flag” for each couple to hold.
I hope you really take my suggestions to heart. We the minorities and women really should be more sympathetic to their cause. I propose we call up some of the major text book companies tomorrow morning to get the first glimmer of hope and change instituted for the white man. Who’s with me?
In fact, I think we should also put into consideration setting aside some land reservations for them; I hear it’s hard for them to find areas that aren’t flooded with minorities these days.
I’ve never heard anyone talk about this ever, but this is something I enjoy a lot. It happens to me from time to time when I masturbate. Just after I came, when my cock is still hard and throbbing, I realize there is a pubic hair that has lodged itself just between my foreskin and the dickhead. What I do is that I simply grab the hair with my fingers and pull it out very slowly. The sensation on my dickhead is AMAZING. But only at that precise moment, just after coming, otherwise it isn’t sensitive enough to really feel it.
Anyway, I just felt like sharing this. It’s something I enjoy, and maybe you could try it too!
By Robyn Shepherd, ACLU
Last month, the Center for Liberty’s Louise Melling blogged about how street harassment shames and humiliates women, and is underreported because of the stigma attached to it. While that blog was making the editing rounds here at the office, I shared my own story of how I dealt with a particularly obnoxious harasser, and my esteemed colleagues suggested I share it. Since April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, after all, here it is. And there’s gonna be swearing. I’m really sorry in advance (Mom).
I was walking to work last April, listening to a friend’s CD and not thinking of much besides that I was a little late to work, and really ought to hustle to make my train. A dude passed me as I walked, and I didn’t think much of that either.
All of a sudden…WHAM! Dude WALLOPED me on the backside and ran off.
No one saw it happen. But the gentle denizens of the Upper East Side sure knew something happened, because I let out an unholy yell and a good, throaty “FUCK YOU!!” I turned to see the dude hustling away in his blue and tan jacket and tan backpack.
I hesitated a moment. Did that really just happen? What should I do? Just go on with my day? I’m not sure I want to do that. And I’m pretty sure that if I just let this go, and act like it’s no big deal, or it was “just a smack on the ass,” I’m gonna feel pretty rotten about it for a long time to come. And my butt was really sore. He really went for it.
So I ran after the dude.
It’s possible this guy was crazy. This was something I needed to determine, and also I wanted to get a description, since by this point I had decided that if I was going to be late to work pursuing this mofo, I was damn well gonna call the police. I caught up to him as he was going into the Citibank.
“Hey asshole!” He looked up. He was about 20. Clean-cut. Like he was on his way to school. He did not look crazy. I think he was surprised. I think he figured the five-foot-tall redhead in the sundress and Mary Janes would have just said “Oh my stars!” and scampered away. He does not know this five-foot-tall redhead.
“You think that shit is funny? You like hitting women, huh? You think that’s the correct way to act? Whatsamatterwityou?” All of a sudden, I was Joe Pesci. I swear a lot when I’m nervous. It’s a terrible habit. Perhaps you’ve caught on.
“Ma’am I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know goddamn well what I’m talking about. YOU DON’T HIT WOMEN, ASSHOLE.” At this point I was screaming into the bank. The whole lobby was looking at me.
Dude got in my face. And this is where it gets kind of hilarious. “How dare you disrespect me in public?” he said. Oh. My. God. He. Did. Not. “I mean, call the police or something, but don’t embarrass me like that. Fuck you.”
It was now clear I was not necessarily dealing with a lunatic. But I was dealing with a moron.
“Good idea, buddy. I WILL call the police.” I called 911 and told them about the incident and the coordinates.
While I was on the phone he got in my face again. “Fuck you, bitch.”
Me: “Fuck ME? Fuck YOU!!!…
Me (to operator: “I’m sorry, ma’am it’s just he’s antagonizing me.”
Him: “You calling the police?”
Me: “Goddamn right I am.”
Him: “Fine. Fuck the police. Fuck you.”
Me: “Tell ‘em so yourself!”He started walking away after that. The 911 lady advised me to stay put. Good call. I figured I had enough of him without backup. The police came a few minutes later, and I told them the story. I told them I knew they dealt with bigger things than this. But if it doesn’t get reported, it will keep happening. And maybe we can scare this dude enough that that will be one less guy hitting women in the street. The cops had me ride around in the car with them to see if we could find them. (Incidentally, those squad cars? Absolutely no legroom to speak of. In case you ever need extra incentive to not get arrested. Not comfy.)
We couldn’t find him, but the cops (there were four of them by the end of this) took my statement and contact info. They commended me on my description. Which is good, as that validates a lot of Law and Order viewing.
I’m realistic. I knew they were never going to arrest this guy. But here’s the thing, and the point to this whole long, profane story. I know there are a lot of people who think it wasn’t that big a deal. But the truth of the matter is, what this guy did was sexual assault. “Forcible touching and harassment,” if you want to get specific.
Sexual assault doesn’t always necessarily mean something as horrible as rape. And too often street harassment is unreported, and douchebags like this think they can get away with it because the girl is gonna be too embarrassed or too meek to do anything about it. Or they think it’s “just a slap on the ass.” And that’s not right, you guys. I don’t know how other women feel about their posteriors, but you don’t very well get to smack the hell out of it willy-nilly because you feel entitled to do so. There will be repercussions.
To the NYPD’s credit, they did follow up, and the detective told me that if I really wanted to press charges, she would help me do that, even if it meant looking through a lot of surveillance tape and looking at lineups and all that stuff. I opted not to, figuring that they had this guy’s description, and if he did it again, he’d be in a lot of trouble. But something tells me he’s not going to. I think I scared him. Or as the detective said, “So you ran up and confronted him and screamed at him in a bank.”
“Yep.”
“…Awesome.”
I know what happened to me could have been a lot, lot worse. But someone doesn’t have to be raped to be humiliated, violated and hurt. Sometimes, all it takes is a smack on the ass.
I learned of my intersex as an adult. It was a huge family secret that took a really insightful therapist to help me uncover. Before that, I was a straight guy. I had a beautiful, brilliant girlfriend who I asked to marry me. When news spread that we were engaged, I had a half-dozen girls who weren’t happy with that. They were all queer girls, and I was really surprised that they weren’t happy for me. I asked one of them why they were unhappy and one of them said, “I thought we might end up together some day.” That confused the hell out of me, because well, she liked girls, so how was that supposed to work? Eventually the engagement fell apart. After that was when I dug up my intersex past and began identifying as the female I should have been. Two things happened. First, my ex became my best girl friend. Second, those half dozen girls that were unhappy with my engagement were suddenly very interested in me. At some level people (especially women) knew this whole time, even though I myself could not come to terms with it. One of these girls I actually ended up with. I asked her (not the same girl I asked years ago) how that worked. She said, “You were willing to change for me. Guys don’t do that.” I didn’t think anything of it initially, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that I’m with a queer person. This means that I’m queer. I guess my coming-out freakout was typical. I bought a rainbow necklace that I wore every day. I read things like, “I’m a femme but didn’t know it, what do I do?” and hung out on Jezebel (well, I still do) all the time. I guess the odd thing was that my interest in people did not change. The girl I ended up with was a girl I tried to be with years ago but I was a straight guy and she was a queer girl and we weren’t compatible. But now that we were both queer girls, everything clicked.
Story from http://fuckyeahintersex.tumblr.com/
this is me, I study anthropology, I consider myself an anarcha-feminist (if your wondering what that means, follow this blog!) ...oh and I love sex, photography (still & film) and asking way to many awkward and defying questions. that should suffice for now...
For comments, suggestions, submissions, complaints and not for spamming, you can write to me at anarchofeminist@gmail.com
