This book excites me. One of the tenets of my feminism is women unlearning the shame associated with our sexuality: women enthusiastically initiating sex; women exploring their bodies, finding their erogenous zones; women openly talking about sex; women explicitly stating how they want to be pleasured. This is important if we’re to end rape culture. Because when sex is constantly framed as something that is done to women, rape is inevitably viewed as some version of sex. When women can unashamedly say yes to sex, then maybe society will understand that no doesn’t mean “convince me.” Continue reading Season of Crimson Blossoms: A commentary.
You grow and change but some things stay constant. My writing still is for people who’ve felt invisible at some point but more than anything I want it to be obvious that for me, that demographic is black women. Man, it’s mad how aware my nineteen year old self was. This excerpt is a smack in the face, proof of how powerful my subconscious is. I may have figured out which group of people I want represented in my writing, but my sexuality has freshly become a riddle I’m extremely hesitant to solve. Because when I said queer, I thought I meant weird. But now, I am not so sure.
I knew I was going to write about Brooklyn 99 the first time Jake Peralta made the title of your sex tape joke. If you know me, you know that is my kind of humour. For context, the premise of this recurring joke is double entendres: Jake takes something the characters say and turns it into the title of their sex-tape. It is almost exclusively used on Amy Santiago to poke fun at her love life. Continue reading The men of Brooklyn nine-nine.
So if a man decides to unlearn his sexism, the first item on that agenda should be the idea that being pro-women is an act of benevolence on his part. Men don’t deserve rewards for believing in female equality. This is the bare minimum and we’re not in the business of rewarding fish for swimming. Because really, what is the alternative? Believing women are inferior things that deserve rape and mass murder? Continue reading I don’t trust male feminists.
Schmidt is such an annoyance, Nick once told Jess, “you are not emotionally, mentally and spiritually prepared to throw these d-bags a party” when she suggested that they throw Schmidt a surprise party for his twenty-ninth birthday. In Nick’s defence (and for context), Schmidt once went to a party named “bros before hoes on the moon.” The dress code was yacht-flair. Another one of Schmidt’s friends legally changed his name to Doin’it. Schmidt once threw a party to celebrate his healed penis; an announcement of sorts-he was ready to have sex again. And the theme,-wait for it-danger. Continue reading Schmidt: the lovable douche-bag that gets me through hell.
I am essentially a womanist, and if we’re being specific, an afro-feminist. My feminism is about and for African and black women. I still do however identify as a feminist which is a lot broader. This is probably because African and black men keep trying it and even though white women (and white feminism) are problematic, It’s sometimes a lot easier to identify and empathize … Continue reading Women: but my privilege…
Trigger Warning: this post contains content and links to content on sexual violence from sexual harassment to rape, subtle and overt. A while ago, being unable to write the sequel to I’m not quite sure, you will ask guys to comment/ send you emails of the first time they wanted to know if he fucks the way he talks. Your friend (God bless her) concerned, texted … Continue reading Meh…
“If you’ve ever tied to put your finger up a straight guy’s ass during sex, you’ll know that they actually understand ongoing consent, withdrawal of consent and sexual boundaries very well. They act confused when it’s our bodies.” –@Neo_url(twitter) I know guys. That was one hell of a starter. As you may have gleaned, this post is about the infantilization of men especially in the … Continue reading Infantilization of men.
I lie prostrate on my bed, my whole body engrossed in the act of waiting. Idle hands trace patterns on my quilt while listening in to the conversation going on in the living room. My room is dark and quiet. I try to pace my stuttered breathing with the ticking of the hands of the alarm clock on my bedside table. A memory replays in … Continue reading Dad, the misnomer
Read part 1 here. Now obviously, I couldn’t get pregnant just by looking at him. For the most part, this is hyperbole, but it still does remain a kind of reality for me. In the innocent, less plagued by darkness parts of mind, I believe this irrational conviction. Sometime last year, I was binge-watching The Daily Show. Trevor Noah was doing a bit about the … Continue reading “I just want to know if he fucks the way he talks.”