Buried Alive


Blogging the “No” by pisaquaririse
April 1, 2008, 4:41 pm
Filed under: anek-doting, Grab a shovel, Interconnected!

via Editorializing the Editors:

“… my “no” needs to be heard. My “yes” is taken for granted already.”

And that is what I call a preciselyism–poignantly pointed. Prickly prick!

Using that I will clarify a little about this blog:

I blog for the “no.”

I cry for the “no.”

I want the “no.”

I take quite seriously the “no.”

My “no” is often ignored, often not heard or, at most, watered down into maybe/possibly/probably/she is just lying or kidding or prudish or a bitch or too [insert typical insult].

The “no” is commonly the cry unheard round the world.

The “no” is mocked.

The “no” is sexualized.

The”no” is muted in the daily lives of millions and millions and millions (…) of women.

In a patriarchy the “yes” sounds louder, the “yes” has more reverb, lasts longer. The “yes” is reinforced at every turn by media, by advertising, by men, by personal exchanges, by orgasms/smiles/serotonin, by nearly all public appearances. And at the fault of no woman: one woman’s “yes” counters twenty women’s “no.”

No is the after thought: the how-could-anyone-have-known , the too-far-away-to-care, the too-late.

No is not in the forefront. No is the shadow, the two sentence blurp in the news right before the cut to commercials where Revlon or a sitcom vignette tells us yes. No is the painful memory we must only tell in secret, in special meetings, in therapy groups, with psychiatrists who can provide enough forget-me-pills to drown out “no.”
“No” hides.

“No” delays.

“No” has no place.

“Yes” medicates the “no” away from itself. “Yes” blurs lines, blows smoke, masquerades, silences.

“Yes” is part of the entitlement infrastructure of patriarchy. Men are entitled to my “yes.” Women are entitled to my yes. Much of my life has been structured around the “yes.” I am lost in “yes” and smothered and beaten down and forced by “yes.”
I cannot count how many times I’ve been in a situation where I am three “yes’s” in by default, before I knew what was going on–before “no” was even presented as an option. I cannot count how many times my “no” never occurred to me, or how faintly it cried.

Now years later my memories speak louder the “no” I had all along, the “no” that now only baits pain in its own hindsight.

I want to yell “NO” louder with more blog posts.

I want to yell “NO” louder in my own life (and often that strength comes from this online community).

I want to listen closer so I can hear the “NO!” that shames itself into a whisper in the voices of the women around me.

I want “NO!” to startle and affect.

I want with everything I have to compensate for the everywhere-allthetime-everywoman “yes”–not a balance, not a crowd pleasing 50/50 but unapologetically, not even beginning to teeter on evenness, NO.

In this space, on this blog, under my moderation, NO gets the mic. NO is assumed, is admitted, is discovered, is the obvious, is the default. NO is shameless and forthright and annoyed and understanding and scared.

NO is loud. Listen.



RadfemPhobia by pisaquaririse
March 17, 2008, 6:35 pm
Filed under: anek-doting, gender pimps, Grab a shovel, Interconnected!, WhatAboutMEEEE

According to the phobia list, my mom has “Gephyrophobia,” or, fear of bridges.
This is from, what she recalls, an eerie telepathic (or something? parasensory?) experience when her twin sister’s car was nearly thrown off a bridge during an accident. My mother claims to have those *twin feelings* where experiences are shared. When her twin sister’s car threatened to brim a high coastal bridge, instilled in my mother was the fear her life would be taken by a bridge some day.

My mother drives over very few bridges, if any, no matter the added distance or time to her trip. For over 30 years now she’s had recurring nightmares wherein she cannot make it over a steep bridge and reaches the top only to be staring down a hundred foot drop to the sea–one of those right-before-you-die’ers.

I have claustrophobia. Elevators are not my friend, or closed small rooms or crowded buses or concerts. I avoid them at all costs as well. Staircases are wonderful and businesses with enough decency to not sound a fire alarm if I use the stairwell make me a repeat customer.

When I was 4 it was darkness and under-the-bed phantoms.

I still freak out about heights.

But, you know, transpersons?

And phobia? Are you serious?

Listen I’m writing a pseudo book that I am going to post on this blog called “Radical Feminist Mis-characterizations.” I anticipate it will have endless contributions and I cannot wait to find out who, in whatever respect, I offend by laying out the mis-characterizations of radical feminists.

Are you calling *me* a MIScharacterizer pisaquari??? Have you forgotten I’m a PERSON!?”

Transphobia— it didn’t even make the phobia list and I can’t imagine why not. As much as it is thrown around you’d expect the Medical Association to have a book out on it by now–Janice Raymond on the cover or something, with doodled devil horns and a strap on.

“Transphobia,” just to give you a taste of the pseudo book’s brilliance, will cover radical feminists and all their “transphobia” for about 9 chapters. There will be account after account of radical feminists recoiling at the sight and presence of transpersons, Dworkinites melting at the touch of lipstick and lash curlers, separatists throwing bombs at “transition” surgeons.

(Forgive me! You will need boots to walk through this snark)

I, for one, am a big ole transphober. Why, just last week, an exciting suggestion was made by Deb about organizing some sort of Radical Feminist Conference. The conference, as laid out in the post, would be woman only, of the female born and raised variety. All but a few seemed down with it. I’m down with it. And since I cannot speak for all radfems let me give my account for wanting to make this trans exclusive.

I am not comfortable being my radical feminist self amongst transpersons. Reading transperson accounts online and in books does not help it either–in fact, it heightens my inability to speak freely. How can I, a gender abolitionist, feel comfortable speaking out against gender and its manifestations in the company of a transperson? How can I, a gender abolitionist, feel comfortable talking about my frustrations and hardships with the idea that what our bodies are born has anything to do with how we should express ourselves, in the company of a transperson? I think gender is woefully destructive and I put it to blame for so much of what pits us against our bodies. But what I am arguing for and about smacks against what transpersons feel is their reality and experience. In recognizing their daily trauma and very real oppression they receive I don’t have the *guts* to sit in a room and speak the truths I feel about gender with a transperson.

And why would I? What have radical feminists ever gotten by speaking their minds about gender as it applies to transitioning besides a stinking diagnosis? Add “transphobia” to the list of reasons why I am not down with trans at a radical feminist conference. (Perhaps we could come to some bull shit truce yes? Wherein you agree to label the problem accurately and we let you keep your silly name call: “genderphobia.” Because I wouldn’t dare ask anyone to part with “phobia.” How would you get through your day without vilifying radical feminists as hateful panicbots?)

I should have you know there is a P word I give to instances wherein a group of dissenting women are “diagnosed”–hysteria of some sort usually does the trick–and then told their paranoia can/must be solved by forcing the very thing/person they “fear” around them (5 homemade brownies in the next life to the person who gets it). Even if I did believe such a condition as transphobia existed amongst radfems, I certainly would not be cool with the triggering persons persistent imposing of themselves on the fearing (out of kindness, my loved ones take the stairs with me–they don’t push me onto elevators).

I cannot think of any other time in my life, besides a radical feminist conference here and there (the one proposed by Debs would be my first), where I would want to be in a trans exclusive environment. It took me years to find like-minded individuals on the internet–it would mean the world to me to meet them in person and speak openly about my ideas. Even the city I live in has a pretty thriving underground trans scene, places for trans to meet up and share their experiences and I think that’s great. But I have never heard of such a place for radfems. As it is, I would have to shell out some serious dough to make it to the place where I could be with such a like-minded group.

And I’m guessing, looking into this further, me and the radfems I run around with, are super cruel–I mean, have you considered this is also radfem only? I seriously doubt Phyllis Schlafly is invited. I wouldn’t invite my mother. Is this event also Nonradfemsphobic?

I have said elsewhere on my blog, in comments, that I agree radical feminists need to take more time to address the oppression transpersons receive and I hold to it.

But I can’t lie that it becomes hard to take that position when so much of what radfems do on this front (as with others, like the sex positive ordeal) is damage control. People spend more time being offended by radical feminists than engaged. Reasonable, productive discourse is shot at the outset.

And I don’t have a solution, as much as I wish I did. I also can’t lie that I am thoroughly irritated with the micro-management of radical feminist ideas and events as if WE are the fucking enemy!

As it stands, the Conservatives don’t like us, the Liberals resent us, the “alterntiave”communities make fun of us–trust me, we’re not getting any coverage, or making a lot of friends with all our “hateful” ideas. ( patriarchy and everything will stay intact after such a conference, much to our own disappointment and, many times, depression).

So you know, if a group of radfems (and I do mean group) want to get together and make a day of it exclusively then what the hell is the problem with it? What life shattering thing could possibly result that would have us labeled transphobic and the Grand Haters of transpersons?

Should we start slinging the same shit?

I mean..are you RadfemPHOBIC or something????



!!! Radfem *Come To Hay-Zeus* Meeting!!!! by pisaquaririse
February 24, 2008, 7:02 pm
Filed under: Grab a shovel, Interconnected!, Nail the coffin

All right radfems of the Radfem Conspiracy Movement please answer the following… 

Have you or any other radfem you know ever done the following things:

1.  Said those involved in the sex industry do not deserve protection and safety.

2. Shamed or blamed a woman for her sexual behaviors.

3. Shamed or blamed a person for his/her activities or behaviors simply on the merit that they partake in those behaviors or activities.

–Extra credit to those who layout what they define as “blame” and “shame,” and how one manages to hate the system but not the individual.

Go little post…



Sociology 101: Innate vs. “I can’t help it…” by pisaquaririse
February 23, 2008, 7:10 pm
Filed under: Grab a shovel, Interconnected!, WhatAboutMEEEE

 (This post has been in draft stage for a while on the computer–needing some sort of catalyst to finish it.  I found Laurelin’s latest strikingly similar–my post being more a microcosm as hers.  So I have linked in suggesting you go read it!)

 My last semester of college, as an elective, I took a general sociology course.  For two days out of one week we talked about gender and what it meant to be a “girl/woman” or “boy/guy/man” (<<notice how they get the in-betweener “guy” stage so the poor dears don’t have to be infantilized/considered weak for TOO long). 

You can’t believe how progressive it was: the males assuring the females “I don’t mind splitting the house chores!” and the females, “I’m going to be a working mommy!”–the class was really on to something.

Then the teacher, brave as she was, brought up the topic of the intersexed.  This sort of stopped conversations, cue: uncomfortable vibe.  She asked the class if, as parents, they bore an intersexed child, how would they handle the gender.

Unsettling quiet. 

One white male in the room who sort of always unnerved me–you could cut his privilege with a butcher knife–snidely looked around the room:  his progeny would never bear such a “defect!”

Then a hand in the front row.  The guy that always bragged his girlfriend was “!!so totally awesome!!” because she “let” him play video games said, thoughtfully:  “I would paint one side of the room blue and the other side pink and see what side the baby crawled to.”

Teacher thinks for a minute.

Still alert portions of the class nod their heads slowly.

Pisaquari dies.

 .

.

.

 Kidding,kidding,kidding!  I didn’t die (you wish!).

Nope and to be completely honest I didn’t say anything.  The teacher just two weeks prior had made some unintelligible remarks about “extreme feminists” (ewwwww) not shaving or wearing make up.  So I busied myself in the back row braiding my armpit hairs…

Because, you see, what did this awesome class teach us the first week of the semester? 

We learned: “What is a social construct?”                                                                                    

And why did we learn this? 

Because, as the course was set up, social constructs would be foundationally responsible for all that we’d learn about human behavior, sociologically speaking.

And what the hell happened, you think, during *EVERY* class discussion?  Of course, someone brought up that people can’t help doing X because YandZ are genetic/inherited/have been happening since men were using clubs on their wives/the birth of baby Jesus (right around the time we got prostitution and Earth).

And no, I don’t think the teacher agreed with everything.  The impression I got was that she was non-confrontational. 

(Believe it or not: the moral of this story is not “college students are getting dumber and dumber.”  Though I wouldn’t fight it.)      

I would have been a real pisser had I been all “Actually–there is no scientific proof we come out of the wombs preferring colors due to our genitalia” or something equally offensive because these people had proof: They always liked their assigned whatever for as long as they could remember. And they still do–they *can’t help it*.

Can’t-help-it became synonymous with innate/genetic in the class and I don’t see it so much differently on the internets.  What often feels like an impossible change usually manifests as our perception of our “natural selves” or the way nature has MADE us, separate of our abilities to change.  But what isn’t taken into consideration is how largely those feelings can be/are connected to some very strong social constructs.  And I do mean strong–as in, my increased risk for a certain kind of cancer is seen as big a biological truth as my early attachment to dolls. 

I conjecture, what might be complicating this, is that normally we don’t *feel* our biology or genetics so much.  Of course as we age or, as certain inherited diseases take over, this changes (and even then I would argue our experiences of those are still affected as sifted through social constructs).  What we feel a majority of the time about a majority of our experiences is based in, and relying on, social constructs. 

And my point isn’t that those constructs are always bad or doomed–all it means is that they are subject to change (as so many have) and are game for discussion/modification/obliteration.  It also doesn’t mean I think anyone is a *bad person* or to *blame* for feeling as if they cannot change what is being discussed.  I can imagine much of what happens in our formative years seems quite dormant and innocuous–the subsequent effects manifesting in ways we still have trouble measuring.

But we cannot assume that *feeling* as if we cannot  help something means it is our biological truth.  In fact, as I explained here, I would argue it works the opposite way. 

And if we are going to argue for change or revolution, naming our *feelings* as innate will be a massive undertaking of Square One-ing.  That is, an immobile approach to improvement.   Our feelings are important to evidence where we stand on certain matters, how far we have to go, how far we are willing to go in a certain lifetime, etc….  But they are not evidence of our possibilities or capabilities.

That they keep getting misconstrued as such is both insulting and limiting.



Grown Ass Kid by pisaquaririse
February 2, 2008, 8:16 pm
Filed under: Grab a shovel, Interconnected!

Short Rant: 

Why oh why of why’s is “adulthood” a hands-off status?

Why do “adults” think, when going about justifying an action, mentioning their departure from childhood matters?  That they now have the golden ticket to great decision making, or, more, that such decisions are above questioning because they are “adults”?

*When*, and at *what point* in history have “adults” totally gotten it right??

(I’m probably just blind–are toddlers the ones oppressing now? I know we are getting close but still…) 

 If you are a person you are not above questioning.  Alive or, even dead, your existence is imposing consequences on the rest of us and when you mark even part of your life/actions untouchable/unquestionable for WHATEVER reason you are aiding in the problem.   

Partriarchy in all it’s ageism will have you think your legal status/age is somehow equivalent with your ability to “do the right thing.”  But that’s a covert operation to keep you and others down, and hide the mechanisms being used against you. It means we turn off, turn away, stop thinking, and acquiesce. 

It means we keep playing dress up believing it is our (T)ruth. (re Gender)

 It means we keep playing house, only to depressingly become emotionally and financially invested in props.



Not Anti-sex. Anti-SEXY. by pisaquaririse
January 25, 2008, 3:42 am
Filed under: Antibodies, gender pimps, Grab a shovel, PUKE, rape extinction

I cannot imagine dedicating an entire post to why I am not anti-sex.  No one should have to be so bored, so futilely engaged.

 If what I am about to object to is seen as synonymous with sex then you and I live on very different planets heading in two very different directions.  And I am not averse to telling you I think mine is more right.  If right is free, if right is a right turn out of Patriarchy Lane, that is.  

 I am anti-sexy. 

Anti ANYTHING that takes a form as sexy or trying to be sexy, or, only-succeeds-when-found-sexy.  I am anti use-sexy-to-get-rewards sexy.  Anti want-to-be-considered-sexy sexy.  Anti want-to-consider-others-as-sexy sexy. 

I don’t agree with jobs that rely on sexy.  I don’t agree with exchanges that rely on sexy.  I don’t agree with sexuality that relies on sexy.  I don’t agree with institutions, businesses, constructs that need sexy for existence. 

You might not be surprised then to find I am anti porn, stripping, BDSM, prostitution, hotness, objectification, cosmetic surgery.                                                                                                                                    I don’t need to hear about how you reclaimed sexy in porn, BDSM, stripping, prostitution, hotness, objectification, cosmetic surgery.  Sexy is not in your hands.  Sexy is the invasive appropriation of each others’ bodies and externalities.  Sexy is the lens you are forced to look through.  Sexy is the lens your are forced to be seen through.                                                                                                                  Sexy is a constant state of against-your-will, without-consent, what’s-yours-is-mine, without-permission.

I don’t need to hear how you feel sexy when you are reading a good book.  I don’t need to hear how your so-and-so thinks you’re sexier when you don’t have on make up or haven’t worked out in a little while.  Sexy does not care.  Sexy is only accounting for the role you play when you ignore your full human capacity.  Sexy assumed your role all along.  Sexy will still be there when you want out. 

I don’t need to hear how you are helping young girls who have otherwise been abused and tortured and slain by patriarchy regain their “sexiness.”  Sexy will not help. Sexy entitles our pleasure centers to others.     Sexy is the visual rape primaries.   

Stop with the Sexy already.  

To those caught up in trying to Save the Sexy, reshape The Sexy, regain, reclaim, refresh The Sexy—please, we are feminists—we’ve got enough to do.

To those enslaved by sexy, beaten by sexy, afraid because of sexy, hidden by sexy, appropriated by sexy, employed by sexy, abused by sexy,… my sincerest apologies. We are working on it.



Word Price Index by pisaquaririse
January 23, 2008, 7:22 pm
Filed under: Grab a shovel, Interconnected!

 FREE SPEECH 

DOESN’ EXIST.

And I think for us to move forward with certain necessary changes we will have to stop using that phrase.   

We wouldn’t use speech if it were free—if it didn’t have meaning or value.  Then what would be the point?  (If you think you are bubble on Mars or that your levels of consciousness occur somewhere in the 6thdimension of time and space separate of your affective-ness then I’ve got a tinfoil hate with your name on it*.)

Humans have not reached droid status yet–predictions on when we will, however, are fodder for the comments section.

What the first amendment is really saying is that we should be able to use speech freely and without government interference.  I agree with that.  But people actually think speech is free–that it is practically void of its own currency.  (Or more, likely, they want to believe this rubbish because they are irresponsible toads without concern for others).

For radical feminism, the value of speech is set by how far it will take us from patriarchy.  Because speech was essentially made by Man we already have some parameters in place that make this process difficult.  But let’s compound that with the rest of reality: the majority of people on this Earth do not think like radical feminists/feminists, or are in anyway concerned for women’s condition, and a good many claiming to be so are more concerned with how many men find them sexy then how many women can rid themselves of the terror.

So what does that do to the speech that we use daily to try and explain our situation, or appeal to and help others?  It fucks it up.  We must constantly navigate this Feminist Word Market, making more words and concepts expensive or valuable so that when they are used they relay the kind of distance from patriarchy we are going for.  (For example, I wish I could put the word “liberate” in a vault for a thousand years with the combination inscribed on some rock on Radical Feminist Island found only by using the Radical Feminist Treasure map.)

So let us do a little exercise that includes a short economics lesson (this will not be a perfect analogy).   

Inflation= the consistent rise in prices that leads to each dollar being buying less and less of a good/service.  Basically, a decrease in one’s purchasing power.

Analogous definition:

Inflation= consistent overuse of words that leads to a decrease in ability to convey desired level of patriarchy-distancing.  Basically, words lose ability to “purchase” certain distances from patriarchy. 

Okay, I will start a list (obviously, you can contest this list, and-please-explain why–the exercise is the point). 

Inflated words

choice

consent

freedom

want

right

ownership

empower

liberate

fantasy

pleasure

woman

rape

* “Dumbass”



Man and his dog, a flash memoir by pisaquaririse
January 9, 2008, 1:48 am
Filed under: Earth companions, Grab a shovel

The other day, as I am helping my mother take down her Christmas decorations outside, I hear a distant angry voice–across the creek and up a long hill, the neighborhood that runs parallel behind.  It’s far enough away to make out very little of the houses but the sloping hill carries sound well enough.

A man and his dog.  The man in his best mighty voice is reprimanding the dog.  “Come here!  Get up here!”

“Now!  What are you doing?  GET UP HERE.”  RARRARAR I AM MASTER FETCH ME MY HUGE DICK FURBOT (you know, that kind of tone).

Then I hear it followed by a !*SMACK!*! and I can tell the dog has been hurt.

 I run to the edge of the yard, so upset I want to yell back at the man or go take the dog or both or take a branch to a certain someone.  (I hate the feel of violence in my hands, my impulsivity towards eye-for-an-eye.)

I did nothing.  Instead, I thought about what I’d like to do.  What I’d do next time.

Dumbass and his dog.  Dumbass, getting his meager masculinity-gasm for the day.  Dumbass-would-never-own-a-cat, something-sometimes-synonomous-with-“pussy” and, really, what could be lower? Dumbass hurt because dog won’t lick his balls for volunteering himself as dictator over everything the animal will ever come to know or love. 

Coercion lauded as “loyalty.”  

Bruises like “because I love you.”      

My heart goes out tonight to the dog who is only across the creek and up a hill.  A house, though faint, with its lights still on, where lives man and his dog.  I can see because of the sliding glass door I am looking through.  And the bell jar.



Continental Divide by pisaquaririse
January 6, 2008, 5:43 am
Filed under: gender pimps, Grab a shovel

 What is the significant difference between the fundie war on porn and the radfem’s?

 Hope.

(ok, there are many–this one I find to be of great importance.)

You see in the “Jesus is my anti porn” camp, there is a frightening flaw: resisting porn means resisting temptation.  Temptation, not being the socially constructed variety, but the ohmygod-that’s-hot-no-matter-how-you-slice-it—justdon’tlook! variety. 

That’s bloody hopeless.

Why does porn have to be tempting?  Is sex trafficking tempting?  Are people in gendered clown suits tempting?  Is a bunch of obnoxious noise/fuss about peepee/poopoo holes tempting

Who the f*ck is sending all these lascivious memos to my paper shredder!?

(I’m of the idea that, in a more perfect world, nothing would ever be tempting in this way but I’m just so boring you can’t take it).

While surfing the anti-porn internets this evening I of course find myself being linked to Conservative sites.  And I’m not going to go running just because the site is run by Debbie from Minnesota, the Christian wife of a former addict, whose homepage is the family photo with exporn lover Bill looking all reformed and shit with those crazy eyes wired on God Cola.

Substance and content are my first interest.  If they include information on how porn affects the mind, who it exploits, the nature of the very beast, I’ll keep reading.  Where I get so eFFing confused is when they, after all this despicable info, say one must resist such temptation.  How do you have the nerve to call it that now?  Talk about perversion. 

(Am I splitting hairs?  Call it “dehumanizing,” “destructive,” “exploitative”–make the names match the facts.  But tempting??????????????????????????)

Everywhere I go, every fundie site I try give a chance there it is: don’t look!, avert your eyes from this succulent devil!, resist this temptation!!  Well hey I agree your eyes shouldn’t be having an extended vacation with the lingerie mag but, surely, if you don’t think the white elephant exists you won’t feel it in the room.

This is the kind of attitude that’s got America so fucked (I’m just sure of it).  We’ve sexualized power (submission/dominance).  We’ve sexualized lack of consent.  We’ve also sexualized our own hopelessness. 

In the radfem camp, however, we say: you don’t have to want porn.  You’re not innately aroused by it.  You can be anti-porn and anti-want-porn.  We allow intent to sit in the same room as want.  It’s a beautiful thing.



U.S. “astonished” there is something called rape–and other “feminists” I don’t call allies by pisaquaririse
December 19, 2007, 9:01 pm
Filed under: Grab a shovel, rape extinction

Just another traipse down Rape Culture Way.

A Saudi Arabian woman, who was sentenced to 200 lashes for being with an illegal property owner, has been pardoned by the King Abdullah. Apparently, the young woman was sitting in a car with another man whom she was not married or related to when a group of seven other men abducted and raped the pair. The original sentence was 90 lashes but more than doubled last month as the sentence for the rapists was set at 2-9 years.

This noble gesture by a King over a piece of Saudi Arabian real estate gave me a much-needed dose of negotiated-to-lowest-common-denominator joy. But imagine the nervous laugh-cry I gave* when I read this:

“the White House has expressed its “astonishment” over the woman’s sentence. Canada called it barbaric.”

Now, clearly, I understand the international public relations crapshoot that is Bush&Good Ole Boys, Inc. And Canada is no Consent Revolution either (rape convictions at a going rate of 8%). So when countries tsk tsk other countries for an act they hardly criminalize in their own country I have to call bull shit.

The White House is no more astonished Saudi Arabia decided to lash this woman (over sending her here as a mail-order bride) than they are to learn there is something called “rape.” You see, here in the United States (and elsewhere), nonconsensual piv sex is hot. People fantasize about it—masturbate to it–meet up with each other off networking sights to act it out.

If you can wrap your head around this mess you’ll generally understand it to work something like this: sexual acts are really hot when people have consented to suspend the disbelief that what they are engaging in has not been consented to.

The overall wtf-ness of this only escalates when these same-often “feminist” toting- rape fantasizers get wind of yet another “rape” trial gone terribly wrong here or abroad (think: “what was the little slut wearing/drinking” variety).

Outrage! they cry. Who would do such a thing!? That’s soo fucked! Disgusting/pathetic/horrifying. I mean, like, UGGH!…gonna be sooo hot to act out later though…”

Listen, I get it. You “consented” to indulge in the very thing that keeps your sisters down. And somehow you also claim to be a consent crusader. But I can no longer take anyone seriously when they claim to want to preserve the righteousness of consent while simultaneously getting off imagining it’s not there.

I mean…Have you read the rape statistics? Have you any idea about South Africa? The Congo? Comfort women? Your deep-ceded dominance/submission conditioning to patriarchy’s whims? Have you ever thought about what consent would look like without all your social constructs? Do you know nonconsensual acts destroy lives? Are keeping you down right now?

Why in Lucifer’sHotTub do you think we are in a position to muddy these waters?!?!

Seriously…Cut that shit out.

-No “feminist” who defends these acts as salvageable for womynkind is an ally of womyn.

-No “feminist” who conflates what gives her genitalia pleasure with the liberation of womynkind is an ally of womyn.

The amount of cognitive dissonance it takes to even maintain these sorts of positions within feminist spheres is incomprehensible.

So listen Saudi that’s very progressive of you, identifying a victim of rape and all. You see, because, here in the U.S. and elsewhere there simply is no such thing.

*A note on the “nervous laugh-cry”: I do it often, unbeknownst to myself. It sounds like a good hearty HAHA and can be quite off-putting for those who maintain (how?!) a straight/sad face while relaying horrific tales of oppression. No, no, not me. It is a survivor technique, a release of temporary serotonin so I don’t temporarily go insane while absorbing the very Real and Disturbing nontemporary situation that is The Patriarchy**.

**Normally I don’t extend such defensive explanations but I understand there are a lot of SICKO’s out there who get their funnies off rumblin’ over some good ole rape tales–I won’t be associated.