quizzical pussy

One unpleasant side-effect of a campaign to start remembering your dreams is that when you dream about someone who’s died you wake up with their face burned into the back of your eyelids. They’ll gently pad beside you your entire day, drifting through your thoughts and darting into your peripheral vision when you least expect it. Thanks to your lucid dream experiments, you’re now being haunted.

I miss her.

We were roommates for one year in college. I always wished we’d stayed in touch, even though things were a little strained by the end of that year living together. She would get angry at me, she said, because I didn’t put as much work into my academics and writing as I did my part-time jobs and maintaining my long-distance relationship with Reginald. Even then I had to admit she was right, but I also felt like my priorities were my business. I also suspected she resented how effortlessly my good grades came to me. She was gifted, but also a very hard worker. Reginald also moved back in-state at the end of that school year, and he didn’t much like me having friends separate from him. Also, sometimes I’m just shitty when it comes to keeping my friendships together. There were lots of factors, I guess, but one way or another she and I talked a few times over the summer and then passively let our friendship lapse. When we met each other on campus during Junior and Senior year we smiled and were cordial, but we weren’t even a shadow of what we’d been.

What we had been was pretty awesome. She was the only real friend I made in college, considering Reginald’s gentle suggestions that I never talk to anyone but him. She and I, we challenged each other and bickered and then made up and had serious discussions and laugh-until-you-very-nearly-pee discussions. We shared almost everything. We danced together to Leonard Cohen. We competed and supported and comforted by turns. And no matter what, every night we’d read to each other before bed. Both of us being technical virgins, of course we usually read books about sex. Our favorite was (if memory serves) the hilarious¹ Reclaiming Goddess Sexuality, which followed a fictional young woman through what was probably a very historically inaccurate sexual initiation in an ancient matriarchal culture that I have never found any indication existed. It suggested that for first-time intercourse we be positioned side-by-side with our partners². Man-on-top sex is not very empowering, apparently. We sternly reminded each other when our attitudes weren’t goddess-like enough.

At times it was almost like we were having a romantic relationship, except the entire physical/sexual facet was trapped in books and we read it aloud instead of acting on it. Also, we both had boyfriends. But still, I sometimes wondered what it would be like to leave mine and have a girlfriend instead. A girlfriend with perfect lips and big eyes and a mop of short, wavy hair like hers.

And then, a couple years ago, she died.

I don’t know what happened. I was searching for her online one day, thinking I’d email her to see how she was doing, and I found her obituary. She was an award-winning poet. She’d been living twenty minutes from me. She was deeply loved and dearly missed. She was gone. I dreamed about her last night and I woke up and she’s still gone. And I miss her. That’s all I can really say about it. That’s the entire story.

She’d have written it better.

1. Just to be clear before I go into details: we knew it was hilarious. We were naive, maybe, but not stupid. [↩]
2. I’m guessing this meant spooning, but I will likely never know for sure [↩]

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Remember that bra color meme on Facebook? Okay, actually, I’ll probably have to back up for some of you. Remember when Facebook was a thing?

Early last year a bunch of people started posting random colors as their Facebook status, and it turned out they were referring to what colors their bras were. And it turned out that was for breast cancer awareness! Surprise!

I don’t know how effective this exercise was, mostly because I’m pretty sure most people are aware of breast cancer and are more or less against it. If it caused just one person to donate to breast cancer research, or prompted one person to start doing regular self-exams, or started one person on the path to learning potentially life-saving facts about early diagnosis, or anything along those lines, though, I’m all for it.

But something occurred to me the other day when sex education activist and Scarleteen founder Heather Corinna tweeted this link, an article from the Duke Journal of Gender Law & Policy that covers sexual harassment/assault, and what survivors were wearing. From the article (also quoted in Heather’s tweet): “While people perceive dress to have an impact on who is assaulted, studies of rapists suggest that victim attire is not a significant factor.” In fact, it may even be the contrary. The article goes on to say, “Instead, rapists look for signs of passiveness and submissiveness, which, studies suggest, are more likely to coincide with more body-concealing clothing.”

The cliche, of course, is the woman in the tiny skirt and the low-cut top who, essentially, sickeningly, people seem to think got what she was asking for. Now, I don’t think anyone is about to run amok with the above quoted statement and start telling women not to wear long skirts and Cosby sweaters lest they appear like they’re looking for trouble. That would be preposterous. I think the key takeaway here, for anyone missing it, is that whenever you’re tempted to blame someone for getting raped, you should shut your fucking mouth, take your fingers off your fucking keyboard, and think again.

Repeat as needed.

This is the awareness I’d like spread. And as I was thinking that, I remembered the bygone bra meme, and I wondered something. What if all the rape survivors with access to social media did something similar. What if we all posted what we were wearing when we were sexually assaulted? Would the world learn anything? Would people finally realize that in all the jeans and hoodies, microdresses, niqabs, soccer uniforms, Comme des Garçons couture, vinyl bra sets, three-piece suits, pajamas, and polo shirts, there is really only one constant: there was always, always a rapist nearby.

I’m not suggesting we actually do this. On most social networks it would mean potentially letting all your family, friends, and acquaintances know something very personal and raw, and I’m not sure I’m up to that myself. But still, I think it would be interesting, and I wonder what would happen, if it would make any difference in the way people see sexual assault. I’d like to think it would. I’d like to think that when faced with enough truth people eventually have to stop being assholes. But, you know, you’d also think that when a sex blogger is faced with enough truth about assholes she’d eventually stop being naive, and that might never happen either.

Still. Jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

(image source)

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Whenever someone tells me that sexism is basically over and feminism is a relic (and trust me, it happens) my brain tries to do a spit take inside my skull. This is one of the stranger head sensations to experience, so the look I give these people isn’t so much anger or irritation as utter discomfort. Because my brain is doing really weird things in that moment.

Because they’re so infuriatingly wrong, see.

I get it. When you start examining sexism you often end up confronting not-so-fun subjects like abuse, sexual assault, workplace politics, pesky healthcare dilemmas, or that old “body image” chestnut that feminists trot out to try to get us to stop looking at women in bikinis. And if you really think hard you’ll find it hard to avoid looking at other unsettling things too: racism, classism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. and then your whole day will be taken up having to think about how and why you’re privileged. Laaaaaaame.*

And very few people have all the possible privileges at once, so it’s easy to get caught up in the “Well things aren’t easy for any of us, little camper. But I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got, and you should too!” fallacy and start arguing that, for instance, sexism doesn’t exist because you are a short man, and height discrimination is very real.

It all gets complicated and messy, you know?

But you know what’s not messy? Popular music! And you know what’s not complicated? Numbers! And you know what perfectly parries any claims that sexism is dead in Western culture? NME’s Greatest Singers of All Time poll! Observe.

On NME’s website, readers are asked to rate various singers of the 20th and 21st Centuries, mostly in the pop, rock, and R&B genres, from one to ten. The selection ranges from Art Garfunkle to Beyonce to Mike Skinner (the garage hip hop phenomenon The Streets) to Patti Smith to Al Green. There are more male nominees, but not overwhelmingly.

So far (as of Tuesday afternoon in my time zone) two women have made it into the top twenty. Monday it was just Aretha Franklin, but Tuesday morning I noticed Janice Joplin had made it to the #20 spot (so maybe by the time this entry posts we’ll have three women on the list). And I think that’s fucked up, not because I think Joni Mitchell should necessarily appear above Kurt Cobain (although one could certainly make an argument for that), but because 18-2 cannot be an accidental, random, “just the way things worked out” ratio. It has to mean something.

(as of Tuesday 6/7/11 1:00PM EST)

If a great preponderance of people agree that men are better at something that’s totally subjective and impossible to quantify outside of pure taste, it means we’ve basically just decided we like women less. We might not really even know why, exactly, but they’re just not as good. Does this seem freshly tapped from the very essence of sexism to anyone else?

There is a problem. Sexism is not over. It is not mass hysteria. It is not liberal brainwashing. And feminism is me, as a woman, wanting to not have to deal with that vague, visceral dismissal of my work, or body, or voice, or abilities. There is a problem. And which singers we all like best is really the least of it, yes, but it’s an easy thing to point out and say: “Now tell me more about this post-sexist world we’re living in, please?”

That said, I still can’t really think of a better singer than Freddie Mercury.

* You thought I forgot ableism, didn’t you?

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I’m a slut. Maybe. Honestly, I don’t even know what a slut really is.

Identities that are defined by the opinions of others are weird, aren’t they? If a slut is someone who’s considered promiscuous or lacking sexual morals, that’s exactly what it means. Considered by whom? Who knows! I think my sexual morals are just fine. But I’m relatively sure your grandma would disagree (although grandmas can be sluts too).

But if we’re going to define slut as someone who enjoys sex and possibly has a more relaxed than average attitude about it, that’s me. I’m a total slut.

That just doesn’t mean I’ll necessarily sleep with you.

This is why I like the concept of Slutwalks. Because I feel that’s more or less what they’re trying to say. There’s a big difference between someone wanting sex and “asking to get raped”*. But you know who doesn’t realize that? A rapist. Also, to an extent, rape apologists.

There’s a Slutwalk being planned near-ish to me and soon-ish to now. I think it’s where I belong.

1. Must start designing a clever sign ASAP.
2. May also will coordinate a slutty outfit. Or not. My most debaucherous moments usually don’t begin with me in a sexy little outfit, oddly enough.

(image source)

*Which, just to be crystal clear, is a thing that DOES NOT HAPPEN.

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My new strategy for dealing with all types of intolerance, bigotry, and prejudice:

“Aw, honey, you’re just going through a phase. You’ll grow out of that.”

Foaming at the mouth because a mom’s putting pink (pink!) nail polish on her son? Because that somehow tells him it’s okay to be gay or transgender or something, and that’s somehow bad? Happens to lots of people your age. You’ll settle down once you mature a little.

Think you get to hold personal court over every woman who says she was sexually assaulted to decide whether she’s right about that or not? My cousin Denny went through the same thing (Denny’s always been a little off, truth be told), but he got over it and you can too. Not to worry.

Think you’re better than one fucking person on this planet? Feel innately more correct, important, or that you occupy a moral high ground over any one group of people based on sex, age, weight, race, religion or lack thereof, sexual identity, orientation, or, hell, political affiliation? Bless your heart, all toddlers think they’re the center of the universe! You’re just a tiny bit behind, darling. Once you grow up a little you’ll let go of that and be a normal, healthy person.

It’s not being condescending. It’s being optimistic.

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Warning: This post contains description and discussion of rape and its aftermath, including victim-blaming.

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While you’re being raped, you don’t get to feel like a person. Your personality, your history, your passions, your mannerisms, your interests, your pleasure, your protests: everything about you gets shoved to one side so your rapist can get to a hole.*

The violence is eloquent: you’re meat. People get to decline sex, so you must be something else. You realize through the fear and the horror that in that moment you’re nothing more than a flesh frame for negative space.

And hopefully one day that feeling goes entirely away.

When people say that rape is dehumanizing, that’s usually what they mean. To rape is to perpetrate an inhuman act that denies a person human dignity. But that only scratches the surface of what it’s like to survive a rape.

After you’ve been raped, you don’t get to be treated like a person. Your experience, your story, your anger, your grief: they’re all messy and unpleasant for everyone to deal with. Won’t you please put them away?

You’re going to be a statistic now. You’re going to be a cautionary tale. If you speak out or press charges, you get to be “the accuser”, whom people will likely suggest is trying to ruin your poor rapist’s life. Above all, you’re going to be a case to study and analyze so everyone can explain to each other why you were victimized. Because that’s more important than anything else.

See, if people can somehow figure out a way to blame you for being attacked, they feel safer. If rape is a crime of two wrongs, it can be prevented by scrupulously making rights.

You? You were asking for it. Or unprepared to defend yourself, or maybe your lifestyle put you in danger’s way. Or whatever. Something like this just wouldn’t happen to everyone else, or everyone else’s loved ones. It happened to you for a reason. Had to. Otherwise things get uncomfortable!

Apparently this time-honored system of rape aftermath management holds rock solid even when the person who was raped is an eleven-year-old little girl.

A little girl can be gang raped by at least 18 men and boys, and people will point out that she dressed provocatively to look older than her age. They will comb her Facebook account trying to prove that she engaged in transgressive behavior. The men who raped this little girl can take video of the rape and share it at school and on the internet, and some fucked-up woman will have the gall to comment, “These boys have to live with this the rest of their lives”. I want to believe that she’s referring to the soul-rot and gut-burrowing guilt that should encroach after committing such a vile act, but I don’t. I believe she’s referring to their reputations and the legal fallout. I believe she genuinely feels more compassion for the rapists than the eleven-year-old girl they brutalized. And I feel sick about the human race.

The New York Times and other news outlets repeated this victim-blaming bullshit without comment. NBC news invited someone to come on a TV program to say that this child was a willing participant in her rape. The way this story has been treated isn’t atypical, it’s only more dramatic because how can you blame an eleven-year-old for getting raped ARE YOU INSANE??

When people say that rape is dehumanizing, do they realize how much we as a society help it stay that way? Can anyone truly be surprised when rape survivors choose to remain silent?

We couldn’t protect and care for a little girl. We couldn’t work together to keep her safe. We couldn’t create a world where those young men would be sickened at the mere thought of hurting her. That would’ve been too much to ask, certainly. But why in the goddamn can’t we admit that she did nothing wrong, and they did?

Are we fucking animals?

*The mechanics of rape do not always work this way. I want to be very clear about the fact that I’m drawing from my personal experiences to express a feeling I believe may be communal, or close to. I’m not saying that my specific experiences are universal. Not all rape involves penetration. However, I believe it always involves some level of being involuntarily reduced to a body.

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So, today is International Women’s Day. It’s also Fat Tuesday. You know what that means, right?

Everybody eat pussy!

…As long as that doesn’t mean that we can’t again until Easter, of course.

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(…with not-so-quick explainy stuff before and after)

Do you seem to get into a lot of arguments about rape, and you don’t really know why? Have you ever wondered why your statements about rape get negative reactions from feminists and victims/survivors? If you’d genuinely like to understand what’s going on, and maybe even reevaluate your stance on sexual assault, please read on…

It has occurred to me that many people may not understand what being a rape apologist means versus someone willing to be an ally to victims. Like it or not, in a discussion about rape, you will usually come off as one or the other. There is no side of any rational argument saying “Rape is great! There should be more rape!”, so often when people think they’re representing a middle ground they’re actually the extreme side, the apologist side, against the “Rapists are made of pure, unadulterated suck!” side. Just accept now that “Rape is never okay, but what did the victim think was going to happen when she went back to that dude’s apartment wearing that postage stamp of a skirt!?” isn’t the cool-headed voice of reason between two equally valid arguments.

We tend to not see self-described rapists entering public, philosophical debates about rape. So an apologist ends up as the rapist’s de facto voice (most often not intentionally), representing the rapist’s interests and trying to divvy out the blame more evenly. This is why people, especially rape victims or those who empathize with them, don’t tend to exclaim “Thank you for your brilliant and original perspective! Bless my buttons! I’ve simply never thought of it that way!” when confronted with an apologist’s comments.

Rape apologists aren’t rapists (see: rapists), nor are they consciously trying to defend rapists (see: trolls). Blaming the victim or insinuating that the victim has some responsibility for an attack (a maneuver coincidentally known as “blaming the victim”) are rituals woven into the fabric of society. It doesn’t make you an automatic monster, or even rare. But understand, please, that because of this your opinions are also far from revelatory, marginalized, and vital to the discussion.

This type of discourse about rape can be very hurtful, and I can’t for the life of me figure out how it’s helpful. You might not know if you’re coming off as speaking from a rape apologist platform. You probably don’t feel like you are. “Rape apologist” isn’t exactly a self-identification. But, you know, there’s an internet quiz for everything these days, and ZOMG here comes one now!

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Quizzical Pussy’s Quick and Dirty Rape Apologist Quiz!

Read the following statements and try to react to them naturally:

1. Approximately 1 in 6 women is raped or otherwise sexually assaulted in her lifetime. Approximately 1 in 33 men is raped or otherwise sexually assaulted in his lifetime.*
2. Rape is underreported.
3. Nothing any rape victim does or leaves undone before, during, or after a rape can make the rape her or his fault or responsibility.
4. Rape can and does occur by means of physical force, coercion, and/or lack of the victim’s ability to consent.
5. Rapists are responsible for the rapes they commit, and they have the choice to not rape.

If you can fundamentally agree with these statements, not just here, but when you confront them on the internet or in real life, and (this is key) you don’t feel compelled to add a “but…” then we can probably have a productive conversation about rape. If you contest them or continually need to add a caveat, then the way you discuss rape might come off as more compassionate toward the perpetrators than the victims. In that case, you are being a rape apologist.

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Be really honest with yourself here. If you fall into the latter group, it doesn’t mean you’re a horrible ogre and have no right to speak your mind, ever. It doesn’t mean you have to suddenly agree with everything I say, or even that this five-item list comprehends the entirety of points and truths related to rape. And yes, you have every right to voice your opinions. But you’re very likely not as useful to the dialogue as you believe you are.

I simply don’t understand what you think is going to happen if you just listen to the anti-rape, pro-victim point of view without getting defensive and argumentative. Do you feel like we anti-rape extremists are going to get too comfortable with having our views go unchallenged and start filing police reports indiscriminately? Do you think we’re going to collectively decide that every time we had consensual sex in the past, gee, now that we think about it, we were probably raped?

The whole “All intercourse is rape” thing is about as much a strawman as “Rape is great!” Sane people don’t feel that way. Believe sex bloggers don’t feel that way. What we (I’m going out on a limb and speaking for others here) really want is to not be raped. But at very, very least we want to be taken seriously if we are, and to be allowed to be compassionate to rape victims without getting blamed and lectured, or having our experiences trivialized.

* Please note that rape is also perpetrated upon those who don’t identify as fitting within the gender binary.

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I’ve been abused by a partner before, and I’ve had to deal with rape. You know what I think is really, really funny? Usually not jokes about domestic abuse and sexual assault. Go figure.

There was a time when these issues dominated my life much more completely than they do today. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “rape” in relation to what happened to me for a very long time, despite the fact that a man put his penis inside me as I begged him not to, having told him multiple times before that moment that I had no intention of having intercourse with him. I still couldn’t say the word. It’s still hard. And the physical abuse’s effects were even broader. I still cringe a little from any hint of anger in a man I’m close to. I have slid face first into flashbacks complete with dissociation because someone touched my neck the wrong way. I’ve felt like I was back in the thick of terror and pain just because of a sharp gesture in my direction. Now, jokes about rape and abuse don’t hurt me like they used to, but I will never think those subjects are intrinsically funny.

But clearly they are to some people. And that’s okay, to a point. Let it never be said that I’m the enemy to all offensive humor. But honestly, there’s a point at which it gets to be a little much.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the comedy community, with stand-up and improv performers, and I know that what is funny is deeply rooted in making unexpected choices. Sometimes the simplest way to be unexpected is to say something shocking. Even if it gets to the point where your audience is waiting for you to say something offensive, part of them will still be astounded if you go far enough.

That’s where gems like “What do you tell a woman with two black eyes? …Nothing. You already told her twice,” and “What do 9 out of 10 people enjoy? …Gang rape,” come in. Have you heard those? Have you laughed at them? Was it because you were uncomfortable or because you really think they’re funny?

If you actually like those kinds of jokes, that doesn’t make you an asshole. They’re well-constructed classic one-liners. The set-up questions each suggest a particular range of appropriate responses, and the punchline completely demolishes those anticipations in a shocking way. The first time you hear these they’re unexpected. And that’s comedy. And one truth in comedy is that sometimes what’s funny to you might be deeply hurtful to someone else.

A few days ago, Not An Odalisque, a blogger from the U.K., tweeted links to these two articles on The Guardian: The Rise of Rape Talk and The Rise of the Rape Joke. Basically, both deal with the idea that people are talking about rape more and more, just not in any serious way. Instead, people seem to use “rape” as a metaphor or a comedic device. A few examples:

• Heavyweight boxer David Haye tells an opponent that their upcoming match will be as “one-sided as a gang rape”, and then basically laughs it off when people are offended.
• Over a million people “like” “Thanks wind, you have totally raped my hair” on Facebook.
• Popular stand-up comedian Jimmy Carr’s new show is called “Rapier Wit”. Get it? Because of all the hilarious rape!

I agree with Not An Odalisque’s critique about the articles lacking nuance. In particular, the second one says: “Even the women are at it [making jokes about rape]: Geordie comic Sarah Millican has a skit about fetishistic rape roleplays with her boyfriend.” Rape fantasies and rape roleplay are not rape. They’re consensual. Therefore, Sarah Millican, whoever that is, doesn’t appear to be making rape jokes from the information they’re giving us. Although it’s possible that hearing about someone else’s rape fantasies could be a trigger for a rape victim, I can’t imagine it would be as hurtful for most as some guy joking about how he raped a girl who wouldn’t have sex with him.

I don’t know that this is necesarily a new thing. If we’re talking “last five years” new, maybe as an isolated stand-up fad (I haven’t researched that on my own), but otherwise not so much. If we’re talking “last twenty years”, it’s very likely that it’s more acceptable to say those things in public than it was back then, but odds are very good that behind closed doors rape jokes have been made for a very long time. Often it seems like society is losing its innocence when it’s really only losing its politeness. I don’t think people have ever been innocent; I just think that mass media used to a) not exist, and b) when it started to exist, took dramatic steps to hide human nature. There was probably no simpler time for society at large, just simpler gadgets. And of course most of us remember a time when everything was comparatively tame: it was called childhood. What I picked up on in the ’80s and ’90s doesn’t even come close to what was getting thrown around.

Maybe people are making light of rape now more than ever, though. If that’s the case, what can one do (assuming one thinks that’s a problem)? In the U.S. (and many other places), we’re lucky that there’s no way to stop them. I don’t want to stop them. I like free speech and I like it for tools, patriots, zealots, artists, meanies, boxers, and boring people as much as I like it for myself. But the right to free speech provides its own feedback system. If you think a comment or joke is in poor taste, you can speak up; you can make it a point not to laugh, even if part of you finds it funny. We as individuals have very little control over what other people (or even we) find funny. And if people will laugh at it, other people are always going to be willing to say it.

I think that The Guardian is absolutely right about one thing: we’d probably hear the term “rape” bandied about less in this manner if more people realized that rape is more common than they think. It seems like so much misunderstanding comes from the fact that people (rightly, to a point) consider stranger rape to be fairly uncommon, but they also think on some level that that’s what rape is. Period. It’s almost like they forget about acquaintance rape, which happens so much more often.

If people who told these jokes to a bunch of friends or an audience thought “Wow, the chances are pretty high that one of these people was the victim of the exact devastating thing I’m joking about,” it might change things. Of course, maybe for some of them that would make it a lot more funny, but those are the kind of people I don’t much want to listen to no matter what they’re saying.

(image source)

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The Royal Kumari of Kathmandu always strikes me as a tragedy. Not a walking tragedy, mind, because of course she is not strictly allowed to walk.

The Royal Kumari is a little girl in Nepal who has passed a long list of physical, behavioral, and astrological criteria, and a series of complicated tests, to be declared the physical manifestation of the badass goddess Durga. She has among her attributes (according to Wikipedia):

• a neck like a conch shell
• a body like a banyan tree
• eyelashes like a cow
• thighs like a deer
• chest like a lion
• voice soft and clear as a duck’s

…whatever that means!

After she’s been selected, the Royal Kumari leaves her old life behind. She moves to a palace and becomes a living deity. Each movement and expression is analyzed; she’s treated with awe and deference; her feet can never touch the ground. She also wears a really complexion-killing amount of makeup on her forehead every day.

Then, one day she gets her first period, and it all stops. She’s no longer a goddess. She’s just some kid the goddess used to inhabit but doesn’t anymore and never will again. They start looking for a new, untainted Kumari immediately, and she’d better have a neck like a conch shell, dammit.

The scorned, newly adolescent, erstwhile Kumari will get a pension from the government for the rest of her life, probably move on, get married (despite a tradition that it’s unlucky to marry a former Kumari), do whatever it is you do with your life in Nepal. It’s not a bad gig, really.

But how jarring, how devastating is it to be a goddess one day and a mortal girl the next? How cast-off must she feel? How embarrassed and enraged that her body betrayed her by succumbing to menarche?

I wonder if it feels like the first time you realize someone is falling out of love with you, but in her case that someone is a deity, a religion, and an entire country.

(image source)

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