#age of consent can be younger and seems to make men believe they can approach girls even if its still socially not okay

[corn-fanfiction]

quam amiterre ludum (losing the game) James Moriarty x OC

Chapter One: losing the game

Description: "To begin it plainly, she had loved him." This is what Anora chooses to believe, true or no, after the events at the Falls of the Reichenbach. It begins with her covertly taking her recently deceased brother's place at university and meeting Professor James Moriarty. It shifts into a web of illicit acts, crimes, and a game of shadows. How it all ends remains to be seen.

Fic rating: M | Chapter Rating: T

Author Notes: does she finish SAVIOUR COMPLEX? No. Does she finish Old Country for No Men? No of course not. Does she continue If We're Lucky? Don't be silly! Obviously the correct answer is to begin an entirely new fic born of brainrot and hyperfixations. She's not sorry either. (She is me btw).

CW: mentions of scars

To begin it plainly, she had loved him.

Or, at least, that is what she believed.

It is easy to believe that one has had the wool pulled over their eyes, that the rose tint coloring their world made them into fools. That a poisonous and ruinous mixture had somehow been sneaked into them without their knowledge or consent. It is much easier, more comforting to believe this, rather than the likely truth that it had been a series of conscious choices. That a part of that person is poisonous and ruinous.

Anora still is not sure which was the reality of her life before the Reichenbach Fall.

It began with the death of her brother. Joseph had only just received a scholarship to the newly opened Queen Mary University of London, studying mathematics and chemistry. They were subjects that Anora and Joseph both found themselves fascinated by since childhood. They would spend their summers in the country digging through riverbanks for critters and fossils. It was on Joseph's twelfth birthday that their parents gave to him a chalkboard for the study. He and Anora would spend hours upon hours challenging each other with mathematical equations. Anora would have to stand on his stack of textbooks to reach his height to the board. Life remained that way- simple- until their parents died aboard a sunk passenger ship bound for Italy.

Joseph, aged thirty, was older for a student. But he had also been abroad at the time of their parents’ death, so when he returned, he applied for a scholarship. A degree at a prestigious university meant connections and almost guaranteed post graduate work. It meant money for Joseph and Anora, since their parents were no longer able to supply it.

But Joseph never got to go to school. A week after his return to London, the doctors diagnosed him with consumption- the sort that doesn't always show until it already has a person's lungs in its bloody grasp. Joseph died two days later.

For Anora, it was simple. She was built without much curve but a narrow waist and firm shoulders. She could pass as a man of thirty easily, though she was twenty-eight and would look younger regardless. But she had Joseph’s old clothes, his scholarship, a mind to match, and nothing to stop her.

So, with a thick vest, waistcoat, and short hair, Joseph Leeds began at Queen Mary University of London at the start of fall semester.

-

The church is empty when she enters, save for a sole occupant. He sits with his hands between his knees, looking up at the stained glass, his cane resting against the end of the pew.

Anora gathers herself what she can and approaches the doctor from behind. The memorial plaque catches her eye.

“My condolences.”

The doctor jumps a little at her sudden intrusion of his reverie. He speaks before he sees her fully.

“Sorry?”

Once he catches sight of her her, though, the recognition settles in and he sets a steely gaze on her.

“Detective Holmes, I mean. I'm sorry for your loss. Truly. I always thought he was a great man, perhaps even a good one.”

She sits at the pew opposite his and tries to look as earnest as she feels. But the confusion that is paired with her honesty seems to come out as well, making for an understandably wary John Watson.

“Right. I suppose propriety dictates I should offer the same sentiment to you.”

“Nothing proper about any of this,” she chuckles breathlessly. She fidgets with her nails in her lap. There's no one here to judge her for it. “I didn't want him to die.”

“Nor I your professor. Though I expect it's for different reasons.”

Anora bristles at some buried accusation. “Do you think? Because of my emotions and your sense of righteousness?”

Doctor Watson opens his mouth, then closes it. He sighs.

“It doesn't have to be this way.”

No, it doesn't, and Anora knows that. She feels it in her bones that still creak under the weight of an explosion.

“I'm sorry. I've lost so many people in so short a time. I'm alone so often that I can forget how to speak to someone. May I ask you a question?”

His eyes light with the natural curiosity of a doctor…and of a good man. “Of course.”

“Did you…I mean, I know he wasn't buried, but…”

He seems to understand. “They never found a body.”

“Did you look?”

“It was left to local authorities; I wasn't allowed near the investigation.”

Anora nods away her disappointment. “I see.”

“Why do you ask?”

She feels traitorous tears begin to prick at her eyes. “It gives me something to think about. I spend my nights alone, Doctor. Cherish that you do not.”

Watson nods. “I do cherish it.”

“Good. Oh- and I meant to say, congratulations, to you and Mrs. Watson.”

The shock of her knowledge of Mary Watson's pregnancy shows plainly on his face. “How do you-?”

“Word gets around,” she says coyly, then stands and smooths her skirt. “I want you to know that I don't resent you, though it would be dishonest to imply I don't envy you.”

He stands to match her and grabs his cane.

“I'm fortunate enough to have an enviable life,” he says and extends a hand. Anora takes it and they shake.

“Goodbye, doctor. Hopefully you'll not be troubled with me again.”

She goes. He watches her, hesitates, then says before she leaves,

“Anora? I- at the risk of sounding piteous… Would you like to join Mrs. Watson and myself for dinner?”

She turns around and regards his caring face. “You do sound piteous.”

“There's no reason for us to be enemies.”

“Nor is there reason enough for us to be friends. I wonder, sir, if you'd be so willing to extend an olive branch if I weren't a young woman. I chose to be with him. It was a job I took on willingly.”

Watson seems to think on this for a moment before settling on a response.

“The offer stands.”

He doesn't seem to play games the way his partner had. Neither of them do, really. Both matched in the fact that they could never match their counterparts in moves and countermoves. Anora comes here in sincerity and Watson responds in kind.

“A time and place, then.”

-

The time is seven in the evening the following day. The place is the Watson residence.

Earlier in the day, Anora finds herself going through her closet, attempting to find a dress that speaks formal but without too much effort. Not that she has many options. In total she has two evening gowns. Everything else is trousers and shirts and a handful of loose skirts. Any high society raised with her was abandoned the moment she became her brother.

In her shift she paces her bedroom floor. No longer in the dormitories of Queen Mary. No longer enrolled at Queen Mary, in fact. But that's in the past even now. Anora fingers the locket that hangs from her neck and sits

between her breasts. She thinks of him. Many things make her think of him.

It isn't so much that he had seeped into every aspect of her life like one might think. When you love a person like she had, it's easy to see them in the world around you.

It helps that the truth of this soothes the sting of its consequence.

She settles on a green gown that covers most of her skin. After the explosion, she doesn't like showing much. Too many scars prompt people to ask questions and she can only look at someone dumbstruck for an answer so many times. She keeps the locket on though.

The doctor and his wife have taken residence in a nice two story in a part of town removed from much of the construction. It looks to be a good place to start a family.

A maid greets her at the door and takes her jacket. It's weeks from Christmas and London is freezing. In all her dealings with the doctor and the detective, Anora never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Mary Watson. She's very pretty, with small features and freckles coloring her face. Her pregnancy is showing under her blue frock. Though the choice of clothing is surely for comfort, it still makes Anora feel overdressed.

“Miss Leeds! I've heard so much about you,” Mary says. Anora's sure she means it well but it's too ironic an opportunity to pass.

“I'm sure,” she jokes. Mary seems to understand this immediately and turns sheepish.

The doctor comes to greet her.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Leeds. We haven't had the pleasure of entertaining guests yet.”

“Then I feel honored. It's a lovely home.”

“This way, please.”

The Watsons lead Anora to a dining room that's still in the throes of renovation, but is cleaned up enough for company. John Watson pulls a seat for Anora and pushes her in. As she adjusts her skirt and gathers her bearings, and once the Watsons have sat, she notices a fourth place setting.

“Are we expecting another?”

Mary's polite smile drops and Watson casts a look over Anora's shoulder. She follows his gaze and is honestly more surprised than she's ever been in her life. Because standing behind her, no worse than bruised up, is Detective Sherlock Holmes.

Immediately, Anora shoots up from her seat and bumps her back into the table. Though she has no real reason to fear him, it is like seeing a ghost, and Sherlock Holmes has every right to be a vengeful spirit. Doctor Watson and Mary make moves to help Anora gather herself but she's able to do it on her own and puts plenty of distance between herself and the man she believed to be dead.

“I'm flattered, Anora, truly. But I'm not here to haunt you.”

Holmes sits at the empty seat at the head of the table. John and Mary both lower themselves with hesitation, leaving only Anora standing. Her grasp on the back of her chair is so tight that it manages to absorb the tremulous shaking of her body. What began as shock has dripped its way icily into a sickening fear. Though it makes no sense for his character or sense of law, she feels certain he's going to kill her.

The cook brings out their plates. Holmes greets the dinner with a pleased “ah!” and tucks his napkin into his collar. Once she realizes no one is immediately out to hurt her, Anora eases herself back into her seat but doesn't go anywhere near her food.

They go on eating in silence for far too long. Only the awkward clattering of silverware and the snoring of a dog can be heard.

“So, Anora, how are your studies?”

Anora realizes that she's been staring holes into the patterned tablecloth when Mary pulls her attention. The bizarre nature of the question, or rather it being asked in the middle of such bizarre circumstances, leaves Anora befuddled.

“I- I'm sorry?”

“Your schooling. John tells me you transferred to the University of London. How are you liking it?”

Anora watches Mary with uncertainty until she decides the question is being asked in earnest. Instead of answering, she turns to Holmes.

“What's going on? How are you- I mean, how long have you-”

“We knew it was only a matter of time before your guilt drove you to visit my memorial, thank you, by the way, for your sympathies, so we waited for you to broach the conversation first. From there it was simple. Watson is unceasingly charming when he wants to be,” Holmes explains. Watson catches the end and looks offended.

“I'd like to think I'm charming more often than not.”

His wife puts a reassuring hand on his.

“So, is this some sort of sick joke? This doesn't make sense, I saw you die.”

And remembering so vividly that night makes Anora's chest tighten.

“You didn't, actually. Watson tells me you two didn't go to the trouble of checking we fell into the Falls in the first place. Supposed I'd grabbed onto a ledge.”

“Yes, and suppose you can breathe underwater,” Anora snaps. Holmes chuckles but she's thoroughly unamused. “It is funny to you! How dare you?” Anora pushes herself from the table again, this time throwing her napkin onto her untouched plate. “I did everything I could that night! It was you who drove me away from that balcony. I could have helped you. I could've helped him-!”

Anora stops herself with a hiccuping cough as hot tears fall down her face. She turns away from her audience and covers her mouth to muffle the embarrassing noise of her anguish.

“He never would have left with you,” Watson says. Anora grabs her napkin and dabs at her eyes with it. The audacity for the detective to be so cruel, for them to talk about him like-

Anora stills; drops the napkin. Turns back to the table shakily.

“But- if you're alive, then…”

“And now we come to the climax of the show, the reason for the facade. Miss Leeds, your beloved professor is in fact alive, and you're going to assist us in finding him.”

[letterboxd]

Life in Film: Kris Rey.

As her new comedy I Used to Go Here opens, Chicago-based writer and director Kris Rey talks to Letterboxd editor-in-chief Gemma Gracewood about turning 40, divorce, female friendships, why nobody but Jemaine Clement could pull off a scene making tea, and what we can all learn from Generation Z.

If Kris Rey’s new comedy I Used to Go Here were a typical Hollywood rom-com, it would finish just before Rey’s film starts: with Kate Conklin (Gillian Jacobs) as a newly published author, engaged to be married to a handsome guy. Instead, we meet Kate in a Bushwick apartment she can no longer afford, as her publishing company breaks the news that her debut novel (Seasons Passed; terrible cover art, purple prose) is a failure and the publicity tour is off. That’s on top of the insult that her fiancé has recently ended their engagement.

Kate is given a faint ray of optimism when her creative writing professor (Jemaine Clement) invites her back to the liberal arts college she graduated from a decade earlier, to give a talk to his Gen Z students. Leaving Brooklyn and her pregnant bestie behind, Kate dives into the nostalgia of her old Illinois stomping ground, and I Used to Go Here turns into a low-key, pot-fuelled, intergenerational romp through ideas of success, friendship, creativity, authenticity and idolization.

The film’s fans on Letterboxd include Matt Neglia, who writes: “Gillian Jacobs brings charismatic charm and restraint to her role as a writer longing for a time when we were filled with endless potential without the fear of failure.” Matt DeTurck identifies with this theme: “Relatable for anyone wrestling with fitting the pieces of their life together in ways that feel truthful.”

On the contemporary representation of university life, Alex Billington remarks that “it’s got all the college movie tropes… but it repackages all of these in a smart adult-looking-back indie film package”. Max notes that “the college kids are an invaluable addition and feel like people rather than college or Gen Z stereotypes”.

Kate (Gillian Jacobs) and David (Jemaine Clement) in a scene from ‘I Used to Go Here’.

Your film starts just after the point at which a mainstream comedy about a single white woman in her thirties would end: with Kate’s book being published to no acclaim, her engagement being broken off, everybody else pregnant except her. It runs in opposition to the happy endings Hollywood has made us expect. Kris Rey: Oh god, [that’s] so astute. No-one has said that before and I have never thought of it before, but that’s so true! I think what’s so interesting about the whole journey that she goes on, and all of our own personal journeys, is that you’re used to, like, at the end of the movie, they get married! She gets her book published! And then everything is perfect! And then you realize: ‘Oh. Oh god, okay. How do I move on from this?’ So, you’re right, that is what’s so different about this.

The other thing—and I’m sure this can be said about most films this year—is how the set-up feels weirdly right for these times, which is to say: the widespread derailment of plans that the pandemic has wrought. It’s like we’re in a strange global coming-of-age. Several Letterboxd reviews observe how, for women in their late twenties to early thirties, there’s a second coming-of-age where everything suddenly feels extremely nostalgic. The film dives into that longing feeling by literally returning Kate to her old college. It’s funny, you know, a lot of people have pointed out how this doesn’t quite fit into a category. It’s not a rom-com, it’s not a true coming-of-age film in a sense of what we know that to be. I think that part of it is exactly what you’ve just pointed out, which is that it’s about a unique period of time for women, where you do reach this precipice. Mostly, it comes out of this big ever-pressing question which is “Am I going to have a family or not?”. Not every woman, but most women, have that question in their head until they either have a baby or they reach the age where they can’t have a baby anymore. “Am I going to have this? Am I going to follow this path of domesticity? Am I going to find a relationship that works long enough to have a family with them? Am I going to have to make sacrifices in my career to make room to have a family? Am I going to find them all at once?” Men just don’t have that point, to no fault of their own, but the fault of the patriarchy in general, which is that it has to be a conscious decision for women in a way that everything revolves around that, as we go about our lives at that age.

And you’ve explored that idea in more than just this film. I loved the awkward-yet-sincere moment at the baby shower, when the friends make her hold her book alongside their third-trimester bumps for a group photo. A book is a baby, and its publication should also be celebrated! Scenes like that emphasize how well Gillian Jacobs embraced the role of Kate. What did she bring to it that wasn’t on the page? There’s such a special thing that happens when you cast anyone for anything. It certainly happened with Gillian, but also with everyone. Definitely Jemaine was a big one, which is that I don’t typically write for specific actors. I write a character, I write the dialog, and then when I cast them I think ‘oh, Jemaine Clement is going to be in this role’, so then I go back through and read the whole thing in his voice and think ‘maybe he’d say it like this instead’ and maybe after [a scene we don’t wish to spoil], he would make tea for everyone. Very few, if any, American actors would be able to pull that moment off. That is kind of what I’m looking for: who are they? Are they able to feel like real people? Because so often they feel performative.

Like versions of a person. Right. Like they’re acting like a person! Gillian is very authentic. If you were to talk to her, she would just seem like her real self, and that was what was so appealing about her for me. Gillian just really brought herself, and I learned about her as a person.

As well as great comics like Kate Micucci and Jorma Taccone, there’s a lovely assortment of inclusive young characters who live in Kate’s old student house. Where did you find them? I just flushed them out and gathered them and held them close! There’s a couple of them that I didn’t know but I had seen in other stuff. Josh Wiggins, who plays Hugo, I’d seen him act in a movie called Hellion. Forrest Goodluck I saw in The Miseducation of Cameron Post. He’s incredible in that and I knew I wanted him to play Animal. Hannah Marks was someone that was sent to me, and we talked on the phone and I just knew she would be perfect. She’s such a brilliant go-getter and filmmaker and so ambitious in her own life. Khloe Janel, who plays Emma, auditioned for me here in Chicago and she’s so good. I adore her. I was taking a walk yesterday through the neighborhood and I saw her name on a little sign—she was making these poetry zines! I bought one.

Hugo (Josh Wiggins), Animal (Forrest Goodluck) and Tall Brandon (Brandon Daley) in ‘I Used to Go Here’.

The person we need to know about is whoever the guy is who plays Tall Brandon! Brandon Daley, who plays tall Brandon, is a person that I just knew. He is on the periphery of my social circle and he had come to a few parties at my house. His buddies called him ‘Tall Brandon’, in this very demeaning way! They were of course all good friends. I thought he was such a funny character that I wrote the character based on him. But I didn’t know him. Then he heard that I had written a part called Tall Brandon and he asked if he could play the part. I was like, “I don’t think so, Brandon!”

Was he an actor? Kind of. He’s a filmmaker but he’s much younger than me and he hadn’t done anything besides his own work. But I made him audition for the role based on him! [Laughs] I don’t know, I was just like, it’s a huge role, you know? The last thing you want is someone who can’t act like themselves, which everyone struggles to do. Anyway, he was so good in the audition, so funny, and he just nailed it. He steals the whole movie! He’s just so good.

I Used to Go Here is a long way from problematic college fare like Revenge of the Nerds or the angst of St Elmo’s Fire. It feels thoroughly 21st-century, especially in how the Gen Z housemates take an inclusive, ‘sure, why not’ approach to having Kate tag along with them. What inspired the way you wrote the intergenerational aspects of the film? There weren’t necessarily college films that I was using for inspiration. I wanted the place to feel the same that she left, but I wanted the people to feel different. This is what I’m finding in my life. I’m gonna turn 40 this year, and when I interact with people in their twenties, I’m blown away by the way that they view the world and the way that they view themselves and each other. I’m so impressed by it. And I am on board with a lot of these cultural changes that we’re seeing happen before our eyes, like, the idea of gender identity has changed so much, and so quickly. I’ve never seen anything change like that in my life. The idea of consent. When I first heard it I was like, “What? You have to ask if you wanna touch someone or kiss someone? It seems so lame!” Now, I can’t believe that we ever did that! I’m learning so much. They seem so clear-headed about it all. I just think that we have a lot to learn from that generation.

The movie’s not about that, necessarily, but it’s infused into it and I wanted that to influence Kate, in her life. Some of it is specific to this generation, but some of it is also just specific to being in your twenties. The character April, the way that she thinks about the [publishing] industry and her art, and the way that Kate, who is jaded, is like, “Okay, whatever, you’re naïve, make your little magazine, but you’ll have to follow the rules.” We’ve all been faced with that before.

Kris Rey with her son Jude Swanberg on the set of ‘I Used to Go Here’. / Photo by Blair Todd

So it’s a watershed year for you, turning 40. What would you define success and happiness as now, compared to when you were in your twenties and the ideas you had about the industry then? Oh, god. Okay so I’ve also had a lot of personal growth because I got divorced this last year, which was crazy. I’ve got two kids, a four year old and a nine year old. So I’ve been through so much; it’s been such a huge change for me. I have learned a lot, but one of the things that I have learned so much is that the relationships that matter the most in my life are my female friendships. I’ve always known that, but I’ve never seen it so much as I have in the last two years, both personally throughout my divorce, and professionally through making a film without a romantic partner to lean on. Of course I have male friends that are wonderful and supportive, but my female friends, those relationships are where I’m realizing I wanna put my effort into more than any other part of my life.

Okay, it’s time for a few questions about movies that are important to you. Thinking back, what is the film that made you want to be a filmmaker? Boogie Nights was the first film that I watched when I was in high school that I thought ‘oh, this is a job, and I’m seeing someone make stylistic choices that are interesting and unique’. You can see the behind the scenes in that movie a little bit. I remember watching it and thinking ‘that would be a cool job’. I also really loved the movie Bottle Rocket in high school. I began my filmmaking career thinking that I wanted to make documentaries, and so there’s also a lot of docs that I loved. But those were the early films that made me realize that it was even a job. Unfortunately not any female filmmakers, because I think that was just so rare [then].

What is your all-time comfort favorite film? Sleepless in Seattle, no question.

There’s your female filmmaker! Yes, but with a movie like Sleepless in Seattle, it’s such a mainstream movie that I never thought of it as ‘a job’. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I saw more independent and auteurish works. But Nora Ephron is a genius. That movie is perfect in my opinion.

What’s a film that, as a teenager, felt like a mirror into your soul? That movie with Chris O’Donnell, an Irish film, Circle of Friends. With Minnie Driver! Who is also in Good Will Hunting, another film I saw in high school. I haven’t seen Circle of Friends since it came out, but it felt very real to me, that movie. I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned that movie to anyone!

Gwyneth Paltrow and Joseph Fiennes in ‘Shakespeare in Love’ (1998).

What is the sexiest film you’ve ever seen? Shakespeare in Love! [Laughs.] There’s two movies. One was Legends of the Fall. It was literally the sexiest movie I’d ever seen up till that point. I was very young when it came out and there was this lovemaking scene by candlelight and I was like, ‘oh, that’s what sex is!’. And then Shakespeare in Love. That scene where he’s unwrapping her? So hot.

Who is another director you’d die for? I’m such a huge fan of Nicole Holofcener. I love her films so much. I have never met her. I do know some people that know her and I am honestly so scared to meet her because I like her work so much. She’s probably my favorite filmmaker. I just vibe with everything she makes. I love the tone. I just love all of her movies.

What’s a film that we should watch after we watch yours? You should watch She Dies Tomorrow. It’s so good, and Amy Seimetz is my very, very close and dear friend. We started making movies at the same time. Our movies were supposed to premiere at SXSW on the same day, and now they are being released on the same day, and we’re just in love with each other. Amy and I are— the movies are so wildly different from each other, but her movie is so good. It is really funny, it’s really weird and it’s really appropriate for the times right now.

I feel like some reviews are missing the comedy in it. I laughed so much throughout that film. I agree: people don’t get it! Can I shout out another movie that I watched recently? Crossing Delancey. I had never seen it before and my sister-in-law texted me and she was like, “you should watch this film like right now—this seems like something you would love”. I couldn’t believe how good it was. It’s so great. It feels like it could be shot right now in Brooklyn. All the cool kids in Brooklyn are dressing exactly the same way that all the cool kids in Brooklyn dressed in 1988, or whenever it came out. She’s having a dialog with a friend and the friend is like openly breastfeeding. And the way that they’re talking about romance and all this stuff is so on point. That movie’s great.

And another female director! Joan Micklin Silver. Yeah!

Related content

Dana Danger’s chronological list of films directed by women

Appropriate Behavior: the Letterboxd Showdown of indie, slacker and mumblecore films

Quarter Life Crisis: a list by Mary, and another by Michelle

Follow Gemma on Letterboxd

‘I Used to Go Here’ is now in select theaters and on demand. All press images are courtesy of Gravitas Ventures.

[poppys-writing]

Box Babe - Break (Part 3)

Break: Part 1 | Part 2 // Box Babe Masterlist A/N: this is a long one!! breaking it into two different parts didn’t feel right, so buckle up and enjoy the ride - it’s a wild one!

The guard stopped once they reached a series of metal doors. He abruptly grabbed Katie’s wrist, scanning her chip in an instant. “461837,” the man repeated, looking to her. She nodded in confirmation, instantly scolding herself for choosing to answer to her ID number. The man continued on through the hall, stopping once he reached a door with her number displaying on the graphic above it. 

Her wrist was grabbed again and shoved under the scanner. The door unlocked and slid open, and Katie was pushed inside. The box was blinding white, just big enough for her to stand perfectly still with her arms to her side, legs together. Katie heard a couple beeps, then the door slid shut behind her again. 

Alone...for once, Katie was alone. In this box. She could scream, cry, holler, pray, curse, laugh, sing. She could express herself and her thoughts one last time...but she didn’t. Fear caught in her throat every attempt to speak, anticipating a convulsive shock or some form of instant death. Katie found it funny that she feared death, since it’s not like this form of life is worth living anyways. if she was given the choice of death or this, she would still choose her current situation...how puzzling. 

She couldn’t tell how long she remained in the box, but eventually it began to shake. It rattled for a few moments, then a stinging pain dulled her brain, blinding her fear and causing a whimper to escape her throat. Immediately following, a shock rattled down her spine, but this time Katie bit down on her lip to save herself. “Deliberately disobeying the baseline code of conduct will result in immediate termination of the product,” a mechanic voice informed her from behind. There’s the death threat - Katie knew it was coming. What if she did it? What if she let herself be killed? 

Before Katie could make up her mind, the box began to move. She felt her stomach drop as the box rose in elevation, coming to an abrupt stop. The box then moved to the right, then forward, then rotated and settled into place uncomfortably. 

A new voice emitted from behind her, this time the voice of the dark stranger that had spoken in the auditorium. “Now, I gladly present the prize of this auction...the stunning, natural beauty herself...461837!” The wall in front of Katie’s face slid away, revealing glass casing and a massive audience before her. She was elevated for all to see, but she could see them all too. They gawked and pointed, scrawled notes on notepads, whispered hurriedly to others around them. 

It was difficult to think during this. She felt like an animal, since she was being treated like an animal. She couldn't hear anything. The box was silent, but the world that presented itself in front of Katie was bustling and distorted. She could only assume that other Box Babes were on display beside her, since the crowds would shift in either direction, pointing at her and then another figure on either side.

Katie anticipated that the crowd would be primarily older men, but it turned out to be a fair mix of all ages and genders. She recognized actors, singers, writers, politicians, public heroes. Did they make it known to their fans and people that they bought other people? Maybe, within weeks, the world had changed, and human trafficking became the norm? Or perhaps it was already the norm, and Kali just didn’t know it. The latter seemed more probable. 

The next hours passed rather monotonously. She stood and stood and stood, knees aching, eyes growing heavy, back growing weary. The crowds grew less interested in her as time went on, moving in waves to greater things. Katie didn’t mind this at all. If nobody wanted her, then maybe they’d just kill her. Or, maybe they’d just send her back with the other girls from the warehouse - if they’re still alive. Every option seemed better than this one. 

A group approached her. An older man, probably mid 50s; a woman significantly younger than him, a man with thick brown hair that didn’t look real and was of an undistinguishable age, and finally a stout woman in the lead. Katie’s eyes locked with hers, and the stout woman shot her a sly wink before spinning around to face her clients. 

The speakers in the box activated again, nearly making Katie jump out of her skin at the sudden noise. “So, this here is 461837! This model is special because she has excellent stamina due to her athletic build,” the woman boasted. Special? 

The older man spoke up first, raising a stubby finger and then speaking before permission was granted. “This is humane, right? I know that there have been some questions about the...legality...of these uh, Box-”

“Box Babes,” the stout woman eagerly finished for him. 

“Right, Box Babes. I - well, we - just don’t want our family soiling the pristine reputation that we have worked so hard to create,” he explained. He spoke with a thick, posh British accent, so every word sounded like he had marbles in his mouth. 

Katie watched the stout woman hesitate for a moment. Maybe she’s new to this whole selling people thing, or maybe she knew that it wasn’t legal and needed to muster the strength to lie. “Yes, Mr. Dixon, I can assure you that all of our assets have legally consented. Truthfully, serving their Masters is the perfect opportunity for them to start over fresh in life. And, with the spectacular training that we provide, all of our assets are conditioned just to your liking.”

So it was the lie then. If these idiots took the time to unpack what the saleswoman was saying in the context of the situation, they’d be able to see through the fluffiness of it all. The man nodded along with the stout woman’s words, and for a moment Katie believed that he’d have follow up questions. He didn’t. “That’s good to hear, thank you! Now, another question please. When will we have custody of her?” 

Now the man with the fake hair stepped forward, putting a firm hand on the older man’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Dixon. 461837 will be in my care as I take it through the training procedure, specially tailoring her to your outlined needs,” the man’s eyes wander over to Katie’s, locking without hesitation. It was as though he was staring into her soul, looking at her past life, analyzing everything about her. There must not have been very many things to discover, since he spun back around to the clients shortly. “I estimate between 4 to 6 months of training, followed by up to an 8 week delivery period. You’ll have her by Christmas, Mr. Dixon.” 

“Thank you, Fabio!” Mr. Dixon grabbed Fabio’s thin and boney hand, shaking it in his meaty hand excessively. “You’ve never failed our family, you know. Our first Box Boy - god bless its soul - was spectacular, and I’ve heard nothing but good things from my brothers and sisters and the in-laws. How do you do it?”

“You flatter me, Mr. Dixon,” Fabio laughed heartily, although he tore his hand away from the thick grasp and shoved it into his pocket once more. He fiddled around for a moment, then turned back to face Katie. He held up a clicker, then jabbed one of the buttons. A needle suddenly shot into Katie’s neck, requiring all the strength left in her to bite back the shocking yelp. “But you know what they say - practice makes perfect.” 

Heavy. Everything suddenly felt very heavy. The sound in the box shut off, but the people outside were still talking. Slow. Everything was very slow too. Her breathing, her thinking - it was like somebody put her life in slow motion reverse, distorting everything around her. Her eyes fluttered closed, only the uncomfortably open against her will, continuing on in a weird cycle. Loose. Katie felt loose, even though she was standing upright in a box. If the box wasn’t there, then she would fall forward, unable to control her muscles. What was in that shot? 

Eventually, Katie heard the glass door slide down. She slumped forward, nearly pitching out of the box - but boney hands caught her, holding her upright. She lazily tried to pick her head up, but the boney hand shoved her face against a shoulder, holding her tight against the random body. She tried to pull away, but her muscles wouldn’t respond. What was in that shot? 

 “And you’re sure this is safe?” The stout woman began, her fuzzy voice barely registering in Katie’s head. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” the boney man, Fabio responded. So that’s who’s holding her. Fabio. She doesn’t want to be held by Fabio. Fabio is an asshole name. Katie groaned, trying to pull away from him again, but instead his free arm scooped up her legs and cradled her to his chest. For a man with boney figures, he was quite strong and had quite a broad chest. Or, maybe he was just squishing her. “She’s uncomfortable, yes, but she’s completely docile. She couldn’t hurt any of us even if she wanted to.”

“Trust me, I want to,” Katie tried to snap back at him, but all that left her mouth was babbles and mumbles. The small crowd around her cooed and awed, and Fabio squished her face tighter to his shoulder. 

Some more talking ensued, and Katie decided to opt out of listening. It would be better to try and dissociate from the situation than being aware of everything that was going on. Did every Box Babe have to go through this? This sucks. What was in that shot? 

Katie zoned back in when Mr. Dixon’s voice broke through: “Let me see her, Fabio,” he demanded. Fabio released her, putting her down on her feet but still holding her firm by the shoulders to keep her upright. Just as her chin began to tuck and droop down, firm fingers grabbed it and tore it up again. She was now face to face with Mr. Dixon. It looked as though he was only a few years older than her father - wonder where dad is now? Hopefully dead. 

“You’re right, Fabio, she really is docile!” Mr. Dixon affirmed, his pink cheeks becoming pinker with a hearty smile and laugh. He tilted her chin up, then down, then side to side. Though Katie couldn’t get her eyes to focus, she could still feel the look of him examining her, estimating her value, deciding if she was a worthy investment. “Yes, I believe we’ll take her.” Finally, she was released, and Fabio picked her up again - instead of a cradle, it was over the shoulder this time (more efficient). She was deposited back in the box, but different this time. Restraints were there that weren’t there before. Her wrists and ankles were secured into place by cuffs attached to the wall, really restricting her movement this time. Finally, Fabio shoved her head to one side, exposing her neck. Cold metal hit her skin, followed by a loud snapping noise, then the feeling of inescapable pressure. A collar. Fabio turned away without another word. 

The glass door slid up again, and the cohort of clients waved at Katie. The white wall followed next, sliding up violently as her box suddenly descended, plummeting further than it had ascended. 

[notesfromcenter]

I am changing my mind.

@spreinke Steve Reinke

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” - Maya Angelou

“You can`t understand it? Then fuck you.” - Ol’ Dirty Bastard

Despite having written much over the past couple of years about a devastating turn in my life, I have not shared that writing. My body has decided on this opportunity to demonstrate a marked indifference to the compulsive clamoring of the mind’s narrative.  The body insists upon trauma and it’s own temporal mandates: I am not healed.

Sometimes, on the other hand, the head knows what the heart still refuses to metabolize. The disjunction between the knowledge that true sanction lies within, and the invincible and contraindicated desire to share, causes me shame. I’ve failed to reconcile these internal mechanics, limping around like a simulated human from some dystopian future, not yet able to integrate different parts, to achieve credible likeness through human fluidity.

As I attempt to parse this conflict, shame emerges, thematic. The more I consider my reluctance to share, the memories of shameful experiences proliferate. Feelings of shame have been, for me, less terrifying than an alternative where those closest to me could not be counted on for comfort or connection. I have learned not to trust my own emotions, and have been unable to use them as a compass for living.  I preferred the thought that I was the cause of my own distress,that my abnormality, my wrong-ness was to blame for feeling so alone.

PART 1

Katrien De Blauwer

Dark scenes 63 (2014)

After my divorce, there were people who never spoke to me again. One, a man I’d known for almost 15 years, someone I’d invited into my home after his own divorce when he needed a place to rebuild. The same man who delivered a reading from Wendell Berry at my wedding: “Marriage is a perilous and fearful effort, it seems to me… . It creates pain that it is the only cure for.” A particularized problem so complex and inextricable from our selves, so inexorable as to produce countless impasses for the imagination (the human tool possessed most fully of infinitude) that to evade that rhizomatic nest is simply to bury that self along with epigenetic hopes for future peace.  

I thought back to one of the final exchanges I had with this man. He spent the night at the house I shared with my then-husband. He, firmly middle-aged, had recently started seeing a woman considerably younger than himself, a pattern that unfolded in the typical manner: he grew older, the women stayed the same age. This particular woman had apparently been through a series of sexual traumas, a topic he broached with us, his close friends, in a serious and avuncular tone. He, in his consummate sensitivity and gentleness would save her from this history. His manner approached fetishistic - he the guide to this young woman, a savior from the damage of sexual predators past.  (Attempting to disavow any connection to a gendered power dynamic, he self-described as lesbian.) He elaborated tales of this young woman’s trauma, which, although undoubtedly trauma, he characterized as assault: In high school, she had given a blow job she did not want to give to a young man because he was “popular”, “black”, and “on the football team.”

Admittedly, I was rather blunt in my attack of this disclosure. Insensitive.

Lest the description of my dismay topple into the well-worn grooves the media and cultural discussion have handed us in order to properly analyze and divide over this kind of story, I’ve searched for the impasse. I’ll proffer a suggestion at bypass: There is the culture, or community, on the one hand, and individuals, on the other. #MeToo has taken highly personal stories and reflected them into a cultural narrative. We have not recognized that the equation, from one to many, is unidirectional. While appropriate to generalize from a pool of specifics, not so to reflect the general back onto an individual. We expand culture by adding elaborately specific stories, not by taking the average of those stories and waging it on the imagination of those who’ve yet to create their own.

In the case of #MeToo, the culture has given us two possible reactions to individual stories. On the one hand, you can blame the individual (she was drunk, she wore the wrong clothing, was too subtle, too unsubtle) and on the other, you can validate the victim (it was not her fault). Ostensibly different, there is common ground: Women are always victimized. If not by some outside force, then by the narrative that invokes her personal, often ethical, failure.

There is actually a third, and most powerful option: Just keep telling stories. True stories are like the body, like the heart, they demonstrate, in aggregate, that same indifference to the compulsions of analysis, in favor of something a lot more resistant to digestion. True stories quite literally don’t make sense in the way we like to think of it, unless we omit the nagging suspicions and fleeting glances that would never hold up in court. Making these omissions too shameful to report. They destroy our coherence, and women, most especially, are rendered powerless through an image of incoherence.

I suggested to my friend that a woman whose history was scarred by repeated incidents of unwanted sexual encounters hinging upon murky wagers of sexuality bore some self-examination. Perhaps the more accurate language would have been: “Your story about these events scares me in it’s implications about my own ability to consent, and therefore, the possibility of any personal integrity or cultural agency.”

I am not blind or unfeeling to the traumatic effect of such encounters, nor to the deep rooted structural inequity eroding the foundation on which all sexual encounters are predicated, however, I shudder to recast all regretful sexual encounters as assault. I do not know where the self resides in that narrative. The self that is the consciousness of thoughts and feelings, not their subject. I shudder at the implicit bias: the explicit designation of the perpetrator as “black” in the retelling of this story.  

Should we outlaw sex between men and women? After all, we are so far from social equality, the existing power differential does not admit consent in any case.

My now ex-husband used to joke, “all heterosexual sex is rape.” Just one in a series of memories provoking waves of shame as I flinchingly contemplate my complicity.  

My friend’s account of his young girlfriend’s story was pre-#MeToo. There was no cultural resurgence of Monica Lewinsky and Caitlin Moran had not yet written How to Tell the Bad Men From the Good Men; there was no conversation around Aziz Ansari’s behavior or that of his accuser. (A conversation which simply vacillates between the two aforementioned channels of prescribed thought: blame the victim or validate the victim.)

I should give a bit of context: the nature of conversations with this friend tended to the personal, but always through an intellectual lens, often making use of books or various theories to consider the topic at hand. Our conversations were explicit, probing, critical, contemplative, speculative, abstract, analytical. They weren’t shy. It’s likely I would not have suggested my qualms at the accounting had it been told by the woman herself, and I’m sure the first-hand account would’ve differed from the retelling. I did not know her, nor would I want to hurt her, blame her, or denigrate her experience. My observations reside now, as then, at the level of using these personal stories to contemplate my own integrity, my own consciousness, my own ability to consent. Hearing her stories (admittedly secondhand and through the mouthpiece of a new, male lover), my stomach immediately turned at the implications. Myself being the figure standing in for all of those implicated by the cultural exigencies created in these private mythologies. After all, we tend to tell stories that sound like the ones we already know. We can’t see things that we’ve never seen before. In these tales, we find palliatives for difficult feelings and we’re taught that our feelings are our truth. They’re not. They are metabolic flotsam to be witnessed for transience. We’re not comfortable living with mystery, and quite often agency treads too closely to responsibility to inspire our full enthusiasm.

This friend took a liberty in telling his girlfriend’s story. He was appalled at my reaction and vowed to protect his girlfriend from me. He would never bring her around me. I was dangerous in my cruelty. He would fix her with his compassion and would tailor his love-making strategy to her recovery.

I apologized profusely. I felt ashamed.

This man stopped speaking to me after my divorce. He preferred the friendship of my ex-husband. This makes a bit more sense in light of the details. Suffice it to say, my middle-aged husband also found a young woman to analyze, encouraging her to share her erotic dreams so that he could examine them. Let’s not forget, too, I am cruel. And insensitive.

PART 2

During this same time period, my young friend who would become my husband’s second wife, was engaged. She was quite aimless at the time, floating from barista job to bartender job, fantasizing about being a midwife, but mostly creating drama in her romantic relationships to avoid facing the deadening ennui. She would break up, get back together, muse on the boredom once things had settled into a routine, shake things back up again with suggestions of moving in together, or moving out, or drunkenly kissing other men at bars. Generally, provoking feelings to mask the malaise and avoiding the work that would create meaning. In one such fit of impulsivity, she convinced her boyfriend to marry her. He was complacent, too, and agreed on one condition. They would not be married “for real.” They would not file paperwork. They argued: “It’s only a piece of paper.”  

Her engagement announcement was met by a small group of friends with some measure of surprise. As the conversation tended towards diffusing the awkward reaction, she managed to back peddle away from anything that looked like an engagement or subsequent marriage. As it turned out the promise would culminate in a potluck dance party in her own honor, affording the opportunity to dress up and be center of attention under fraudulent pretenses while not actually committing to anything.

I suggested she take a closer look at what she meant by marriage, that perhaps there was more at stake in the piece of paper than she thought, in invoking the sanction and support of a community. After all, I told her, gay people are fighting too hard to get married so you can have your sham wedding.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m more in the “ban marriage for everyone” camp, than a subscriber to the “marriage equality” oxymoron, but what can I say, I find words meaningful, alchemical even. It’s another case of the complex boundaries between individual cases and the larger culture. Ultimately, a case of connectivity, perhaps of meaning at all.

I’m an asshole, it’s a theme. She cried, of course she did. She pouted and insisted, indignantly and self-righteously that her perspective was well-considered. I was being elitist with my ideas about what a wedding should be. Not everyone must be so rigid in relation to ideas. She sobbed.

Here’s the refrain: I apologized profusely. I felt ashamed.

Please indulge my addition of the final chapter to that engagement: It fell apart when she, after months of sending her sex dreams to my husband, staying up with him late at night, decided to put his penis in her mouth while I was out of town.

Remember when I apologized to her for second guessing the triviality with which she faced her engagement? I suppose she proved her case. She instantiated a reality simultaneously selfish and nihilistic.

I’d made a fundamental mistake in these cases. I took these conversations to be about ideas, to be the general case. I wasn’t sensitive to the reality that most people don’t want to test their personal stories against some Kantian imperative. Everything tends to get a little too not-in-my-backyard feeling when we have to consider a reality where we live with others, truly connected to others. After all what is the American self if not exceptional?

Harriet Lee Merrion

PART 3

Let me tell you about one more friend. She and her husband are still in touch with my ex-husband, although admittedly they’re not so fond of him. Or rather, they describe him as self-serving, duplicitous, and deeply narcissistic. However, they know that according to popular culture you shouldn’t have to take sides in a divorce. In fact, it is much more deserving of dignity to be able to remain a kind of neutral party. This husband, he’s never thought much of me. He once wrote a short story depicting me (thinly veiled of course, only animals don’t invoke plausible deniability) as a cruel woman, albeit in a position of power, who would “spit” at her assistants and who demeaned her husband with her “roving eye.” He once gave me a book titled something like, Decor for Dictators. It made him “think of me”.  I don’t behave as he thinks a woman should. I saw my friend, this man’s wife, recently and I told her I’d be interested in her thoughts on some articles I was reading about #MeToo and #TimesUp. She characteristically wrinkled her nose, “I don’t know what I’ll think about that. I’m pretty regressive when it comes to these issues”, she warned. When I shared my writing with her about the dissolution of my marriage, she was quiet. I felt ashamed.

When people show you who they are, believe them.

Self-publishing my stories feels like another form of shame. As if the stories represent something abhorrent about me, something defective. It feels as though these kind of stories need authoritative sanction, an aegis.

On the other hand.

[theadmiringbog]

... using symbolic aggression toward women to bond and validate their heterosexuality. Dismissing that as “locker room banter” denies the ways that language can desensitize and abrade boys’ ability to see girls as people deserving of respect and dignity.

--

In order for gross, crude, sexual, or even slapstick humor to be funny to its audience, researchers have found, it has to succeed in two contradictory things: violating morals (that is, it has to be disgusting) while seeming harmless, detached from any true reality; certainly you can’t feel concern or identification with its subject. That a dead baby joke would be a whole lot less funny if you first described in detail how the baby suffered, the grief of the parents, the horror of the funeral. So, in order for boys to believe any of these antics were amusing, they had to systematically ignore the humanity of the girls involved—and that is not harmless at all.                

--

“Hilarious” makes sexism and misogyny feel transgressive, rebellious rather than supportive of an age-old status quo. It also puts boys’ hearts and heads into conflict, silencing conscience: they may know when something is wrong; they may even know that true manhood—or maybe just common decency—should compel them to speak up. At the same time, they fear that if they do, they’ll be marginalized or, worse, themselves become the target of other boys’ derision. Masculinity, then, becomes not only about what boys do say, but about what they don’t—or won’t, or can’t—even when they wish they could. It blocks them from considering women’s points of view, hardens them against compassion. Psychologist                

--

Being able to silently disapprove of others’ bigotry or homophobia was a luxury conferred by his own race and sexuality;                

--

Those involuntary sightings tended to happen younger, at age nine or ten.                

--

They all described themselves as “good guys.” And they were, most of the time. But the truth is, a really good guy can do a really bad thing.                

--

Men learn too often, subtly or overtly, to prioritize their pleasure over women’s feelings. That may or may not lead to assault, but it does raise ethical questions over how men treat sexual partners, particularly in encounters that skirt the edges of consent.                

--

Sometimes, listening to guys like Reza, I found myself privately dismissing their transgressions as no big deal. Because in some ways they weren’t: they were the classic teenage fumbling of someone trying to learn the rules. But what if that learning curve comes at girls’ expense?                

--

Despite their apparent mortification, boys do want their parents to talk to them about physical intimacy, for someone to go beyond the classic don’ts: don’t have sex, don’t get anyone pregnant, don’t get a disease, don’t be disrespectful. They are particularly eager to have their fathers talk to them about their own experience with sex, love, even regret.                

--

After nearly a decade of reporting on teenagers and sex, if I know anything for sure, it’s that parents just have to get over it. I know it’s awkward. I know it’s excruciating. I know it’s unclear how to begin. You may have never even been able to have such conversations with your own spouse or partner. I get that. But this is your chance to do better.                

--

Mothers and fathers (and any other adults in a guy’s life) need to challenge the unwritten rules of male socialization, the forging of masculinity through unexamined entitlement, emotional suppression, aggression, and hostility toward the feminine.                

--

Fathers, by the way, are chiefs of the gender police. Boys as young as four are keenly aware of Dad’s judgment, rejecting “girl” toys, even something as innocuous as miniature dishes, for fear he would think playing with them was “bad.” If they are willing to stretch beyond—way beyond—the way they themselves were fathered, then dads (or other adult male mentors) can make a tremendous difference in sons’ approach to masculinity, sex, and love.                

--

As for intimate relationships, dads can offer guidance on personal integrity; establishing and respecting sexual boundaries; mutuality; caring; pleasure. They may want to share their own evolution on some of these topics, including past mistakes and regrets.                

--

You Must, You Simply Must, Talk About Porn 

The ubiquity of internet porn in itself means parents no longer have the luxury of squeamishness; we can no longer afford to not talk honestly to our children (especially our boys) about sex. The potential risk to them and to their partners is just too great. Nor do I think it’s enough to dismiss porn as “not realistic” or “an adult fantasy”—that begs questions of what, exactly, is unrealistic about it and why its fantasies so frequently eroticize male aggression and female submission. Instead, as I said earlier, remind your son that curiosity about sex as well as masturbation are absolutely natural, but that porn’s perspective is limited and distorted, especially for someone without much (or any) real-life context.                

--

Although two-thirds of Dutch teens ages fifteen to seventeen with a steady boy- or girlfriend report that the person was welcome to spend the night in their bedrooms, the Dutch actively discourage promiscuity in their children, teaching that sex should emerge from a loving relationship.

[eenefangirlanalysis]

Unfortunately Jimmy’s slapstick magnet pulls him in at the wrong time.

He’s tripped up by a clothes pin. It’s funny how clothes pins have always been a danger for Jimmy. One ‘broke’ his toe in Cry Ed.

Bouncing off a chair and flying through the air he lands in a pile of laundry knocking it over.

The Kanker Sister’s!!

Okay, so we’re like 33 minutes into the movie.

The Kanker’s barely have an hour in the movie! This is unfair! 

Okay, I know a lot of fans hate the Kanker’s because of what they have done to torment the Ed’s or even the kids. They do bring an unsettling tone. The girls jump the Ed’s holding them down while kissing them without their consent. Interestingly, I learned that they have quite the fanbase during their appreciation month in July.

The Kanker’s bring a unique touch to the series. A touch of reality.

They lead a very different life from everyone else. Whenever viewers see them they have a different storyline or subplot. They’re not on the same page as the kids. They’re motivation is usually to torment them in whatever way they can. 

And however way fans see it, the Kanker’s are very poor. They’re standoffish when it comes to interacting with the world. They’re hardly talk to anyone besides themselves and the Ed’s.

They just moved into the neighborhood as Lee explains in Nagged to Ed. They live in this disheveled trailer park with their mom who is implied to always be working. The girls have had a series of father’s. Their mother clearly has a dislike for men and hasn’t given her girls the right lessons on men. We can only imply that the Kanker’s actions around the Ed’s is the way their mother used to act.

The Kanker’s are played off as the antagonist. In the series. After A Fistful of Ed I don’t seem them in that role anymore. Have you noticed how the girls back off from the Ed’s? Okay, they do use them as weapons in May I Have this Ed, but they never once try to jump or approach them during the dance.

When Eddy stood up to them in Fistful it affected them. Since their mother constantly working they don’t have another parents figure to discipline them. The male figures they’ve had in their lives are implied to have never cared about them. 

All except one. In Jingle Jingle Jangle there is a Christmas card sitting on the table in the background. I theorize that although the marriage didn’t work out one of the Dad’s wanted to stay around to help. He’s not there as often enough as he should. And I think whenever he is around he’s sheepish around the girls. They’re each from a different marriage and things are strained between his ex-wife.

What I’m trying to pinpoint is that when Eddy stood up to them it made them think about their ways. In between Fistful and May I Have this Ed their mother finally sat down with her daughters to give them a talk. She learns that it wasn’t right for her to talk trash about men. I also believe that she is guilty for always leaving them alone. She, as their mother, needs to be a part of her girls life to watch them grow.

Many believe that the Kanker’s learn and do nothing throughout the course of the movie. Oh, we will analyze on that.

So, the Kanker’s are outside doing chores. They have to do all their laundry outside. I’m surprised that they don’t have a working washer and dryer on the inside. Then again, it shows you how they have to work around what they don’t have seeing how they’re poor.

The girls are also wearing different outfits.

Lee is wearing a striped shirt and what looks to be sweat pants. Her hair is up in rollers.

Marie has her usual attire on but the cuffs on her shirt look different. There is also a lighting bolt printed on her shirt. I have never seen her wear a hat before. That’s a cool look. 

And May is in her underwear.

Marie and Lee blame May for knocking over the laundry.

And then they punish her for whatever reason.

Why does May get all the abuse?

Are Lee and Marie jealous of her?

May is the favorite among the fanbase. She practically got a whole eene special centered around her. And she also started separating herself from her sisters wanting to explore her Independence more. I think that May has been making friends outside her sisters. Lee and Marie would rather keep to themselves then be a part of the world. It may be due to how they’ve been raised. Their mother constantly had to move them making them miss out on trying to explore the world.

I also have a head canon that they never went to school at the age they were supposed to go. Fans have questioned why they’re all in the same grade at school while they’re supposed to be different ages.

I think Lee is fourteen, Marie is thirteen, while May is twelve. May started school right when she was five, but Lee and Marie were a little older. They were never able to interact with their own age group. If this is true it gives some insight on why Lee goes after Eddy, a boy 1 ½ or 2 years younger then her.

Although dimwitted, May is very social. She does mirror her sisters actions like going after the Ed’s and tormenting the kids. No matter how different she is May is not perfect. Nobody is perfect. 

That’s another reason why the Kanker’s don’t want the world to know about the way they live their lives. Others may feel sorry for them and automatically will try to help. The Kanker’s are happy. If this is the way they live their life then they will continue.

Jimmy peaks out. Oh, no. Will he escape?

Or will the Kanker’s give him a free card because he made a deal with them in If It Smells Like an Ed?

[morethanjustatalk-blog]

upbringings

Laura Ciriaco: Age 25

How was your relationship with your parents/guardian during your adolescent years?

Answer: I was closer to my mother as an adolescent because I had a relationship with my father but it was very distant. I spoke to him maybe once or twice a month and it was always very vague and short. Although I was closer to my mother, I didn't have a relationship with her where I felt like I could speak to her about anything. I lied about a lot of things including my whereabouts and what I would do with my time outside of school. 

Did they create or allowed a safe space for you to talk to whatever is on your mind?

Answer: My mother did try to create a safe space but she still implemented her own ideas and upbringing when I tried to speak on whatever was bothering me. It made me want to hold back or only reach out to her when I had no one else I could speak with. Did you ever feel comfortable enough to talk to them about sex? If so tell us how it was growing up with the information you were provided.

Answer: When I was about 9/10 years old, I found condoms in a place that seemed like it was meant to be hidden but not enough for someone as curious and nosy as I was. I approached my mother who was sitting close to my grandma and asked her what they were. I initially thought they were candy so I really just wanted to know if they were expired or not. My grandma looked at her and said "this is your opportunity to tell her what she needs to know," my mother responded, "not yet." That was the first time I knew I had to find things out on my own if I wanted this information. With that being said, most of what I learned was from close friends based on their experiences. Not the best resource for valuable information because they were 12/13 years old and have already been sexually active for 2-3 years. They were also not using any protection and dating older men. Once my doctor illegally told my mother I was not a virgin anymore, our conversations changed. I had to promise my mother I wasn't going to end up pregnant or with an STD/STI because if I did, I would be sent to live back in DR. I kept that promise and informed myself as much as possible on safe sex practices and free clinics. Since I had a lot of queer friends who were constantly getting tested, it was easy to get into the habit of doing so. 

Sex is a fundamental part of being human but less than half of our states requires medically approved education. Besides body anatomy and health classes on standard information such as STI and abstinence did you receive any useful information where you felt informed/ comfortable enough to make rightful decisions?

Answer: My sex ed teacher in HS taught me different ways to consent to sex and how to remove myself from the situation if I'm not comfortable. For example, classmates would mention that they're afraid their partners won't use condoms because "they're too big for condoms," our teacher would put her entire arm into a condom and say, "if its bigger than my arm, run." I also received information about safe spaces and clinics that provide help with abortions through an HS counselor that helped me feel safer in the event that I would have to experience that. 

Did you feel prepared and confident enough when you had your first partner? Do you think your partner had more knowledge about sex? Please explain whether they did or not and let us know how did that make you feel?

Answer: I was definitely not prepared or confident with my first partner. I was scared but wanted to get it over with so that I can decide if this was something I really needed to be a woman. My partner was older than me and was more sexually active in the past, so he did have more knowledge about sex. It made me feel safer because he took things slow and constantly talked about ways in which we can improve the experience. But because I had little to no knowledge about sex, he took advantage of the opportunity and convinced me to do things that were harmful to my body. It wasn't until I healed from the relationship that I realized I was raped on multiple occasions and was forced to believe that was what sex was supposed to be like. Could you think back to a time where you had a misconception about sex? Did you ever had or still have thoughts or questions that might make you feel embarrassed to ask and discuss? Example: when I was younger I thought orgasms were only for men.

Answer: I didn't even know what an orgasm was and if that had to be part of sex. I also didn't know I was allowed to speak during sex. I also believed the best way to prevent pregnancy was to pee immediately. I always wanted to discuss sex during the menstrual cycle because when I first experienced it, it immediately felt a lot better than sex without it. But I was always worried that I would be immediately rejected for proposing that with my future partners.

  Do you think if your school had normalized sex education at an earlier age, would it make it easier to have these kinds of conversations at home?

Answer: Yes, I think so. I wish sex education began at about 10-11 years old. It seems relatively young but in urban communities and those with less assistance from all angles, kids tend to have to grow up at a quicker pace. Without that information, you're left to depend on the wrong people for guidance. 

Please disclose if you grew up in a religious household and how that might have interfered with your upbringing. 

Answer: I grew up in a Catholic home. Attended Catholic school from age 3-9. It definitely prevented me from being my true self. I had to always think of how my decisions would be a sin or how much approval or criticism would I receive from my family. It kept me curious about other lifestyles because I always had restrictions placed on what I do with my life.

[aconissa]

How do you (and many others) like people Oscar Wilde and Alfred Doglas? As a gay man, it seems wrong romanticize their relationships when we know they practiced and promoted pederasty, and in the case of Doglas, there's even a case made for pedophilia. I legitimately want to know, because I like their poetry but I feel like shit relating to it when I think about how they hired adolescent sex workers who could have very well been underage. If there's some way to reationalize it please tell me.

I want to make clear that I’m not particularly well-versed on the lives of Oscar Wilde and Alfred Douglas, so I may not be the best person to talk about their specific actions with. Regardless, this is going to be a long answer because it’s a complex issue. 

I’ll quickly preface this by saying that ‘liking’ these people and being interested in them is not necessarily the same, and that I tend to reblog a lot of content about/by people who interest me but who I don’t necessarily ‘like’. I do generally like Oscar Wilde himself, but Alfred Douglas mostly just interests me. I have a lot of problems with him, both in regards to this issue as well as his anti-semitism and his treatment of Wilde. Also, one can like someone’s artistic output whilst also recognising that they were not what we would now consider ‘good’ people, or they did bad things. For me, this applies to both men. But again, I do not know enough about what they may or may not have done so I cannot say whether any of this is justified or not. And I do agree that their beliefs regarding pederasty are very closely tied with their work, so separating artist from art becomes difficult.

I can’t speak for Douglas, because I haven’t read enough about him and I don’t want to justify anything he’s done. I don’t really want to justify what Wilde has done either, and trying to rationalise his actions can be very dangerous. As always, I feel like there’s a quote from The History Boys which describes how I feel about this. Posner (on the Holocaust): ‘But to put something in context is a step towards saying it can be understood and that it can be explained. And if it can be explained, that it can be explained away.’ This is basically the debate on whether it is appropriate to assign our own beliefs on a historical period, or whether we can allow someone’s actions to be justified because ‘people thought differently then’. I do think we need to recognise that had certain activities/behaviours been seen in the past as they are now, then some people may not have taken part in them because they would have realised how unacceptable they are. But that assumes that these people did not think critically about their actions, and that seems unlikely to me. 

In any case, I don’t think it’s wrong for people now to read history through the lens of our own beliefs regarding consent and what constitutes abusive or harmful sexual dynamics and practices. Although I’m generally opposed to a Whig approach to history whereby society and social beliefs have steadily progressed to an enlightened present day, I do believe that certain modern Western countries have the ‘right idea’ about the age of consent and sexual dynamics, and that is reflected in their laws. Of course, I say that as someone who has grown up in those societies and is entirely biased. But given what science has now helped us understand about sexual maturity, I feel fairly confident in believing we (by which I mean, present-day legislation regarding the age of consent) are ‘right’. That isn’t the same across the board by any means, because countries vary in their laws on the age of consent, sexual abuse, and rape, sometimes even vary within the country itself (such as states within America). They also vary in terms of who they apply to (e.g. heterosexual or homosexual relations) and whether they’re followed in a court of law in a just and appropriate manner (which is often not the case, given all the institutionalised racism, sexism, homophobia, ableism, transphobia, etc).

From what I’ve read about gay men in Britain in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (a concept and term which is itself an anachronism, but that’s a debate for another day), there was a strong emphasis on classical Greek love, which usually meant pederasty. For there men, some of the only representations of same-sex love that they could access were those written by the ancient Greeks - the myth of Zeus and Ganymede, Platos’ Phaedrus and Symposium, and so on. As there was an existing cultural celebration of Hellenism, these myths and texts would have appeared to validate homosexuality and ensured that gay men felt that their desires were real and not unique to themselves. But as the texts argued for the intellectual/moral benefits of pederasty and usually eroticised boys of 12 years and up, these men could also have picked up harmful beliefs regarding sexual relations with pre-teen/teen boys and thus idealised imbalanced and abusive sexual dynamics. There was also the public school culture in England, whereby older boys would publicly appear to ‘fall in love’ with younger boys, or covertly have sexual relations with the younger boys and/or boys their own age. This tradition allowed older boys and young men to revel in the ‘beauty’ of younger boys, and potentially continue to revere that beauty, even into their adult life.

This perhaps explains why they were so focused on pederasty and the ‘love’ of boys, but I do not want to justify their actions in any way by putting them into context. As I said earlier, they may very well have been against the concept of pederasty had they been alive now, but given that they were already consciously going against sexual and moral beliefs at the time by being with men (quite rightly in this case, because obviously the attitude towards same-sex relations was homophobic and wrong), perhaps not. It’s unhelpful to speculate, because that just implies that they are not accountable for their actions. Yes, had there been some other kind of representation of homosexual love available to them, and had there not been such a broad cultural reverence of classical Greece, then perhaps they wouldn’t have felt as they did. But there wasn’t, and they did. 

Personally, I condemn Oscar Wilde’s relations with teen boys, and it annoys me that people tend to gloss over them. I love his work, and I respect and love many aspects of his personality and beliefs, but I recognise that the (although libellous) evidence of these affairs does exist and if it is true then what he did was absolutely wrong. I wish we knew more about the lives of the boys involved, but I just hope that they were able to heal and deal with their experiences. I unreservedly condemn Douglas’s actions and his atrocious behaviour in many respects, because I’m not particularly a fan of him or his work anyway, and it seems that he had relations with younger boys than Wilde did (from what I’ve read, Wilde had relations with boys in their mid-teens and upwards). As you said, there is danger in romanticising their relationship with each other or with other men, as they were still having relations with boys at the same time. But I think once you recognise these issues, then identifying with Wilde’s writings on love between adult men is alright, as long as you don’t allow yourself to internalise his beliefs regarding love with boys. Oscar Wilde was an important man both for Western art and as a gay symbol, and as long as we acknowledge his flaws and the actions which we would now consider completely unacceptable and highly damaging, we can still enjoy his artistic and cultural output.

As you can see, this is something I’ve thought about in detail. I apologise for the overlong response, but I hope it’s understandable.

[unconventional-hero]

Chapter 17-- [Untitled]

Written by “The Countess”

(In which Mr. McClure confronts his daughter’s husband.)

[Editor’s note: the original chapter did not have a title.]

* * * * *

“Clyde! My darling! How came you here? I saw you enter, half an hour ago and thought you were ministering to some poor, wretched invalid. I came over to find you and have been stumbling through dingy halls and turning rusty knobs ever since, and here--”

For the first time Mr. McClure’s eyes fall on Jim Paxton. He starts forward, his eyes riveted on the dark, handsome face, his hands clinched.

“You here!”

“Yes, father!” The younger man turns with an easy nonchalance surprising under the circumstances. “I had an engagement with my wife--”

“Your wife! And what is my child doing here? Clyde, what does this mean?”

With an exclamation born of the most intense suffering Clyde throws herself at her father’s feet and implores his forgiveness.

My forgiveness?” Mr. McClure passes a hand over his forehead and looks at her, bewildered, half-conscious of approaching evil. “Explain yourself, girl! But leave this man first and come home with me!”

“That’s it! Oh, that’s it, papa! I can’t leave him! I can never-leave-him-again!” The words are the essence of despairing frenzy. “He is my husband!”

McClure started and would have fallen had it not been for Clyde’s arms now thrown around his neck. The golden head with its tiny bonnet slipping away from it, lay on his shoulder. She seemed years older than the girl he had treasured as his one idol for eighteen years.

He gasped. “Morningstar-- Paxton, you villain, is this true?”

“It is! She does not seem particularly happy, does she? But she’s a brick and I admire her spunk.”

“Insolence!”

The gold-glinted head is raised. Two eyes, like summer skies dripping with sunny showers, gaze into the ruined man’s face.

“Papa! I loved him! Don’t blame him alone!”

“When-- when were you married?”

“Over a year ago! It was a love match, I assure you!” and Paxton smiles grimly.

McClure pushes Clyde from him and confronts the man, his brain reeling, his strong frame trembling with passionate anger.

“You fiend! Not content with the bold-faced bank robbery-- not satisfied with dragging one of the pillars of Wall Street into the gutter of bankruptcy-- longing to break me down more than you have already-- you must needs marry my daughter! You must carry away my idol! My one sustaining prop! You have taught her to deceive me-- her father! Scoundrel! The rest counted as naught compared to this!

He raises his arm as though he would crush, with one blow, all life from the craftily smiling man before him.

A wild, despairing shriek from Clyde stops him.

Paxton turns to his beautiful victim. “Clyde, do you want me rearrested? Is this your wifely obedience and love?” he whispers imploringly, looking into her face with eyes as large with pleading and anger as those of a wild beast brought to bay. “Think of the notoriety-- the position you will place yourself in--”

“Clyde, come home immediately! Yes, you villain, that smile will soon be forever lost to view! You shall suffer as I alone can make you! Clyde, darling-- don’t look so wild! You have done wrong but I love you still! When he is justly punished, we may resume our old place in the world-- we--”

“You forget, sir,” begins Paxton, with blanched face and trembling lips-- all such men are cowards when tested-- “You forget that, as my wife, Clyde owes her first obedience to me. Aside from that, Mr. McClure, do you want to make her wretched-- do you want to bring her into unenviable notoriety-- do you--”

“Make her wretched, you devil? Who would more successfully accomplish that end than you? Clyde was married without my consent when she was under your influence-- she was a mere child--”

“She is of age now. Let us ask her to decide the case!”

“With all my heart!-- Clyde, my dear little daughter! I forgive you, knowing how plausible this villain may be-- how I was betrayed myself-- I blame not you alone, my darling, for this misalliance. I am to blame for guarding my jewel too well. But we will forget the past-- you and I-- you can obtain a divorce easily from this fellow, who could only make you unhappy-- I could prosecute him, regain my old position in the world, and then-- Clyde, answer me! I have idolized you from babyhood-- come to me!”

She ran toward him, her bright hair falling from its Psyche knot and rippling over her somber gown like cloth-of-gold.

“Papa!”

“You see what her choice is!”

“I have not made my plea, sir!” With haughty grace and the assurance born of a long and careful study of Clyde’s vulnerable points, Paxton advanced and, laying his hand on Clyde’s arm-- seeming not to notice her recoil, began:

“Clyde, is it over a year since you and I promised to love, cherish, and honor one another. You told me you loved me. I offered to give you up to any one your guardian might select for your husband but you would not hear of it. You promised to obey me and serve me and all the service I have required was for you to keep my whereabouts secret for the last seven weeks-- weeks of peril to me--”

“Peril richly deserved,” interrupted Clyde’s father hotly. “Clyde, you have looked to this thief’s safety when your father, to whom you owe all, was struggling to right himself in the eyes of his creditors! I see now why you were so anxious to get the position at the World office! It was to keep all news of this villain from my friends and the detectives. Speak, girl, is this true?”

“Papa! Papa!”

Paxton, with the theatrical instinct so natural to him, seeing a chance for an effective scene, rushed to his wife as her father thrust her from his arms.

“Clyde, my darling! My wife! You have had no opportunity to test my love for you yet, but I swear, by my father’s honored name, that if you come to me we shall be happy!”

“Your father’s name?” sneered McClure, totally beside himself with rage. “What is it, pray?”

“Berys, Lord Paxton, of Cuthbertshire, England.”

“Another lie!”

“I can prove it in any way you ask.”

“That’s neither here nor there! I shall inquire into the matter later, perhaps, to recover my stolen money, but now we must decide on my child’s future. My child! I believed you pure as an angel and you have deceived me as basely as this rascal! More basely, Clyde. I trusted you as I do my God. But, false or true, I owe you a father’s protection. Will you come to me?”

“A wife’s first allegiance is to her husband,” murmured Paxton, in rich, full tones, adding, with his earnest, handsome eyes looking straight into Clyde’s, “My darling!”

“Your fascination is that of a snake, you dog!” and McClure placed his hand over his daughter’s eyes as though he would shield her from the fixed stare of the magnificent eyes.

“Speak, my wife!”

He had nothing more to do with McClure. He was shrewd enough to know that if he gained Clyde, her father, no matter how angry he might be, would dismiss all idea of prosecution, for her sake, so Paxton addressed all his words-- all his fascinating looks-- to Clyde. It was remarkable-- the influence this hawk had for the poor little dove. Even now, when sheltered in her father’s arms, knowing how that father had been betrayed, how she herself had been victimized-- even now, I say, she felt the wild, passionate, romantic love of last year come back to her in all its intensity.

“Speak, Clyde!”

“Papa,” she cried, casting aside his hand and looking shyly into Paxton’s eyes. “Papa, I love you! I’m sorry if I was false to you. I--”

“You will come back to me?”

“No. I will go with my husband!”

Paxton stretches out his arms and she falls, fainting, into them.

There is a sharp, quick oath, a moan, and poor broken-hearted McClure has left them alone together.

[gaiatheorist]

Knickers.

I’m collapsing in on myself again, it’s cyclic, in-part seasonal, and in-part circumstance, I’m always more withdrawn in the winter, and the additional layer of anxiety/paranoia about being on benefits is having an impact. I’ll come through it, I always do, I’m just mindful of the fact that I’m having more episodes of “Don’t want to.”, and more internal arguments about what I need/want to do.

Pulling myself out of myself, and into the world, I need to do that, but I won’t run at it head-on, it’s a slow re-build, I need to take small steps, and test the stability of each before I move onto the next. There will be external challenges at Christmas approaches, and well-meaning, but intrusive peripheral contacts insist I “can’t” be alone on Christmas day. I can, and probably will, the ex’s family ‘do’ Christmas, the boy and I will pick a random day during his uni winter break for him to unpack the boxes of assorted gifts and nonsense. (Must remember to order some pork pies, in case he wants to do the ‘Hogfather’ pork pie and sherry thing again.) 

One of the nonsense items will be delivered over the next couple of days, a pack of enormous old-man underpants, a nod to the running joke that his friends used to call him ‘Grandpa’. He’ll probably throw them at my head, he’s unlikely to say “Oh, how splendid, mother, a pack of high-waist Y-fronts, just what I ALWAYS wanted.” He has a strange habit with his underpants, he’ll ‘hide’ them, and we’ve only recently unpicked that his practice of wrapping his pants in some other garment when he brings them down to wash only applies to worn pants, he’s fine with me hanging his washed pants to dry, but he doesn’t want me to acknowledge the existence of worn pants. Strange young man.

Knickers have been in the news, first the rape case in Ireland, where it was argued that the 17 year old girl’s choice of underwear indicated availability, and now the furore about a Marks and Spencer window display. Both articles made me angry, for similar reasons, the pants-prescription of how women ‘should’ clad their undercarriage. The whispy bit of lace on the 17 year old was assumed to mean she was ‘open to’ sexual contact, and there, in the M&S window-display ‘Must-have fancy little knickers’ for women, next to fully-dressed ‘male’ mannequins. 

In the wake of some genuinely unpleasant internet to-and-fro over International Mens Day earlier this week, I’m being very careful not to ‘blame’ men for women’s choice of underwear. It’s advertising and the media projecting the notion that ‘we’ feel more confident in fancy pants. I can’t say how uncomfortable male underwear is, I don’t have the external bits that need tucking into supportive undergarments, or go flapping about loose in less restrictive ones. I’m trying to think of any advertising campaigns for man-pants I’ve seen, and I can’t bring any to mind, maybe Kate Moss modelling Calvin Klein? Man-pants are marketed differently, there’s the possibility that those of you with penises are pressured to pack them provocatively as well, and I just don’t know about it. It’s 4am on a Wednesday, I’m not going to Google man-pants for research purposes, they’ll spring up in my Facebook feed ‘targeted’ adverts, like every other thing I buy, or look at. (Yeah, thanks, Amazon, I just bought a mattress, and now you’re showing me other mattresses, how many do you think I need?) 

Pants-pressure. The struggle is real. I spent my teenage years with a constant wedgie, and occasional bouts of thrush due to wearing cheap g-strings. ‘Big knickers’ were for grandmas, and a visible knicker line didn’t bear thinking about. I still have some lacy little numbers in my pants-drawer, but they were intended for practicality, not provocation, some of my work-dresses were form-fitting, Lycra, so I could move rather than mince, a Spandex silhouette is unforgiving of underpants. (Flashbacks, to an old manager once pointing out a colleague’s VPL, and my ex loudly observing that a larger lady at a function had ‘six arses’, this is not about examples of stupid men, nobody ‘made’ me wear genital floss all those years.) I’m ‘going out’ at the start of next month, and there’s the possibility that I’ll root to the back of the drawer for a pair of pants that aren’t Asda 3-for-£5 cartoon character ones. Or not, I could just stay slob-comfy in jeans, nobody’s going to see my pants. 

‘Treat yourself’, ‘feel confident’, the media message appears to be that wearing pants that have gone a funny colour in the wash, or just seen better days in general won’t do at all. Knickers to that, I don’t need to splash out on skimpy things, or throw money at matching sets, my eyebrows don’t match, if my underwear matches, it’s probably accident rather than choice. Do I feel more ‘confident’ in a properly-fitting bra? I’ll let you know if I eventually have one, for now, there’s a small selection of Primark ones that near-enough fit if I feel the need to wrestle my bosom into submission, mostly I don’t bother, bras are not the most comfortable of garments.

We’ve come a long way since corsets and crinolines, but we’re still besieged by this bullshit that we ‘should’ clad ourselves a certain way, FOR ourselves. It’s my aesthetic issue again, I don’t ‘need’ to present myself as attractive, it’s not an attribute I value. The internet seems to think I should, judging by the ‘targeted’ adverts for ‘shapewear’. Fine, I’m not altogether happy with my shape just now, but compressing the additional bits with elastic won’t make me ‘feel amazing’, it’d make me feel uncomfortable, leave whacking great big lines all over me, and possibly infringe the trades description laws once the damned things were off, and I revealed ‘the truth’ of a 41 year old body. I have a pad of fat on my belly, that happens in winter, because I’m less active, the cold flares my arthritis and Raynaud’s, moving is painful. My breasts aren’t as perky as they once were, and have a tendency to wander off in the direction of my armpits when I’m in certain positions. I’m 41, not 21, this is the truth of me, if I truss it up, the padding or packing all ends up on the floor, hopefully my tits won’t follow, but I’m not about to pick a fight with gravity.

It’s a me-thing. I don’t do ‘pretty’, and it infuriates me that society in general still can’t grasp the double standard that people are encouraged to dress a certain way, and then criticised for it. I don’t do ‘feminine’, that’s my choice, based on some negative life experiences, most of my outer clothes are either from the men’s section, or unisex, I’m tall-for-a-female, and oddly proportioned, my thighs are too long for most standard-fit skirts and dresses to sit at a ‘respectable’ level. The ‘tall’ sections in women’s clothing tend to assume that the extra inches of height also mean I’m broad, I’m not, I’m just ‘long’, and I’ve given up on finding clothes that don’t do that weird empty saddle-bag thing around my hips. I do construct my outer layers to conceal my curves, I’m aware that I do it, I don’t want to be ‘seen’ as female, that’s my preference, and I wouldn’t force it on anyone else. The media, or society in general does push its preference, though, men should dress like ‘this’, and women like ‘that’. It’s jarring that, in the wake of a teenager’s knickers being presented as evidence of consent, that we’re still being encouraged to wear ‘sexy’ underwear, ‘for ourselves.’ 

There might be women out there who do ‘feel more confident’ in certain types of lingerie, but my feeling is that they’ve been taught to do that, by society’s version of ‘dress to impress’. We all have the media messages to look younger, more attractive, anything else is the cardinal sin of ‘letting yourself go’, in this presentation-preoccupied age. 

It makes not one iota of difference to any other human what’s underneath my trousers, on any given day it could be a pair of Batman pants, a scrap of lace, or minging old knickers that have gone funny in the wash. (I haven’t quite crossed the Frank Reynolds line yet, but if the kid throws the Y-fronts at me, it could be an option.) What covers my crotch doesn’t confer consent, and I’m not impressionable enough to believe that ‘Spanx’ or an extortionately priced matching set from La Senza will change my life. Murky waters, where women do as they’re told by their magazines and the media, and are then placed at risk of being called out as whores for what they wore. 

[decaffeinatedpersonacoffee-blog]

I found this quote earlier this week from a blog... I decided to open a new one to post my insight into this following quote.

“Many abused children cling to the hope that growing up will bring escape and freedom.

But the personality formed in the environment of coercive control is not well adapted to adult life. The survivor is left with fundamental problems in basic trust, autonomy, and initiative. She approaches the task of early adulthood――establishing independence and intimacy――burdened by major impairments in self-care, in cognition and in memory, in identity, and in the capacity to form stable relationships.

She is still a prisoner of her childhood; attempting to create a new life, she re-encounters the trauma.”

—  Judith Lewis Herman

I’ve realized that people talk in ways they learn. Some people are born into a certain life and have a safe and free childhood as they deserve, Travelling the world, going where they please, seeing who they want, saying what they want, doing what they want, with no punishment. There were no officers around as a child, and the only fear I only remembered was my mother telling me to fashen my seat belt as the car may be pulled over by someone to warn us to fasen out seat belt. Now I am worried to even say how I feel or tell people what has happened to me because it’s hard to even put into words, regardless no one would believe me. It’s not about my however, it’s about all of us who are real, authentic, in this condition. If n0t already, how long will it take before we don’t know where we are. Atlantic east coast pacfic route to drive to a airport that is located at the same name address as one on the opposite side of the world. A chuld can be born into a wealthy life and her father’s worst enemy can make business thus abducting her and brining her into his territory for market and slavery. Forced to live a life where environment is slowly changing someone into what they are not. Environment that is depriving, --- - killing their lives as a person, as a soul, as a living being. Living in a place where they do not belong. Ready for the day she turns 18 so she can leave she is put into a hospital and kept there, maybe after too, every time things go wrong... she gets put back into closing. She tries to leave. Ends up being trusting of a girl she met at the hospital she was locked in with. Her friend ends up not having her good fate in hand. Put into a legal situation where she is the product of a multiple approach team collaboration of criminals with power at hand to convince her she is a criminal. Before her final departure, she is found and through the number of her friends phone. Young, naïve, with possible warfare in consideration, she is stuck -- ----again, with no other way out. She is sent to another locked camp with people for addiction where they chant things similar to church put more degrading of the person. Forced to think she is powerless, and to accept the things she can not change -- forced to tell herself every single day that she is, powerless. She finally gets out. Is forced to stay with a stranger that considers her, her daughter.. she has to stay, everytime she leaves she becomes a result in chaos. 

At her adulthood going into her middle 20s she wants nothing but Life Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness. All her money was taken. She wants nothing but to have all her strength and maximize her full potential. She was isolated for many years in a house that prevented her from being maximized. She could never explain what it was, but something in the house was not normal. Was it like the house that she had been caught in during the organization of a crime where she was the product; did it have phototechnology and allow people to view her privacy? Did it have something that kept her quiet, did it do something that she had no consent, no choice,; whillingly? 

She had faced many realizations about her life when she aroused a situation where may have been planned for good or for bad. It allowed her to leave. Put she wasn’t free. She still had to be property. She asked for freedom, the man who initiated an agreement with the people had told her a time frame where she may more than likely be eligible to leave at her free while, she was told over the phone no. She had to stay. She knew she was dying there. She was changing. She knew if she stayed she wouldn’t do what she wanted. She had so much in mind so much she wanted to (in no better terms said,; change.) She found it harder every single day. The places she went, she came back to work enough to provide for the community and feed herself carbon oxygen and hydrogen. Every now and then with the new business solutions, crave something out of the ordinary that she knew she hated and was against. She never wanted to consume it, but it had a hold of her. She was so lost. She was so sad. She only pretended things were okay. She only wanted to be free.

Walking into work, people telling her the city she was just in before. It was inferiorating . Dhe made the worst the most positive she could but after a while the worst was catching up with her. In hiding, she was educated by seeing the various places in the territory she was placed. She realized the bad ethics in all of it. She didn’t want to stay there. She didn’t relate to anyone. Everyone seemed criminal. She wanted to leave but couldn’t. It was more than fear, it was something power of sort modification - if it will, that held her from doing so. She had to do something. She didn’t know how She was changing and it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Why was she such a threat? She had finished paying them. She just wanted to leave. She saw the way the people in this area were, responding to things... apologizing to everything that was no even reasonable to apologize to and yet, they choose to anyways. People talking to her like they were not strangers, it was concerning. She would like to say she wanted to save them but she didn’t know if it was authentic enough to save. She began to question everything in her life. See where things began turning. As a child her life was at the luxury and she had already completed all the things she did in the current terrirtory before she moved here she had done it in her real home. She remembered how all the activities and relationships people were doing here she had done at a younger age and these people were still doing it without any end. It was so worrying. She wanted to leave. The coding in the language of men were almost hypmotizing. She had saw the dark in the culture and the way men had changed certain women. It was not good for her. She didn’t want any of it. The women who survived we do not know. I have had all the doubt in my head ofd where she will head next. The future does not see freedom or 3sc4pe any option. She knows she will no go anywhere far because realistically she can’t. She remembered the year of time close to when she was told her family was moving and she was going with, she was remembering the construction that had gone on in her neighborhood. It was in the addresss of a place where it had the same street name as a city and it had (the city) had a similar name. It had a different second name to following the first one. 

She remembered that she had been given a pill on the plane during one of her flights as a child during the time before coming into the moving town. Her mother was never the type to do such a thing. It was strange. As a young girl, she had no reason to doubt or no of. She revisited the memory she had taken the pill her mother gave her to sleep on her fathers company flight. She had revisited how it wasn't clear yet but the memory was close to when her life began to change. 

She remembered before,

her life snowboarding with her younger brother and by herself, 

looking for rocks by herself and collecting them. She placed them on her dresser drawer for collection in straight lines in front of her movie collection. She had every Disney movie she thought possible. A new Barbie every week if not more. It was a child’s dream and she never did anything to cause it to end. Kind to everyone, optimistic of all activities, yearning to try new things, explore, find new parks, with friendships she saw nearly every day after school, she was exploring her views of life. Her vision was strong. She saw something very big , the view was no possible in the place she was at now. It wasn’t. Almost as I would say , as if they re would be a moderator lined above the territory , towns. Preventing certain thinking. She still had the self in her locked in tightly wanting to be freed. She knew when conditions were bad. At a certain point she began to act on them and leave when she had choice. There was light. Shw had to sell her blood fluids as told to her knowledge to consent to “donation of p@sm`a. “ The colour read blooud would have be/ e n put bac into her bl02d through machne .

She had to because she needed a “legal tender” something like chicken not quite, it was paer green, a ticket with numbers to buy her way to work for her ab i li ty to p u r chase elements found in the nevironemnt anyways. She would expend it through the air as energy when she exercised and when she feces away she includes nitrogen. Yet, she is aging more from work she is giving without much in retourn. It’s not for her initial plan. The only thing that keeps her going is the potentital that maybe the people who have responsibility for some of this wrong doing may find the part of light that will keep their souls clear but value. It is her interest that shesees these people to have heart inside to reason.

She knows she was brought into a market.

She knows the place she is elligble to research in her monitored and meters network search ability, what she can see, limited, but she, she knows that the world she was brought into 

---------------- edit ------ additional posting---- (not robot) it’s interesting I have to say that,-- has anyone seen a living robot? I’ve actually taken a course about robotics, sweeping the surface of creating or generating these things. Interesting course, it was in a different language but there was translation. 

Anyway,

is a place people can sell things to feed people like they do cows. Keep them in place not like most people are intended to live. These are bullies. They tell them and scare them into listening. It wasn’t the place she remembered being before the leave. Where terrirtories change, one place is the same name as the last city past three or four cities away, sometimes the town is the same in the different place, it when she noticed that things were off. She questioned all her

I’ll end there because something is breaking my elligiblity to expand further in through true I have to end it there but I cn not say dafely I lwill return. I have been choosen not to write with backsace to show tht my wxting may change when it does. Because I would rather you know the truth. Thank you. Although I don’t truly have reason to thank you for anything at all. I have to say I do hope I can see my self in the future. I don't like being what people schoose for me. i want to live My life and my lidentify. And not be the identity of  cself centered person they choose for me. I do havem uch to say about things becside my self. I don’t doubt that thi s won’t reach anyone at all. 

[eichy815]

I Don’t ‘Consent’ to This Narrative

Almost one month ago, I authored a Morpheus magazine op-ed entitled “#MeToo: Oh, But Not You.”  In this piece, I argued how male survivors of sexual abuse, harassment, assault, and rape shouldn’t be excluded from the #MeToo discussion.  Although, statistically and numerically speaking, there will be a higher number of women sharing their stories, as survivors – if we aren’t so hesitant to allow male survivors to speak out within the context of #MeToo, it will only enhance the discussion on how to dissolve the patriarchy and rid our society of toxic masculinity.  

ON-EDIT (two days after the original publication of this 12/27/17 blog piece) – Relationship coach Harris O’Malley just authored an op-ed for The Good Men Project entitled “Be Proud of Being a Man.”  In it, he makes the argument that part of redefining masculinity is to reassess how we view maleness (at the social level) in relation to one's purpose, community, and service.

However, fashion blogger Andrew Spena had previously epitomized a distinct strand of misandry that has reared its ugly head – and been perpetuated by a shrill minority of the population – as everyone tries to make sense of public discourse due to the fallout of the #MeToo dialogue.  As I discussed in my “#MeToo: Oh, But Not You” editorial, this invective is being inflicted upon males “as a group”...including those of us males who are members of the LGBT community.

Proving my point, in his mid-October editorial entitled “Men, Please Hold Your ‘Well, actuallys’ in the Wake of #MeToo,” Spena squawks:

I’m certainly not the first person to call out cis queer men on the Internet for this, and sadly, I won’t need to be the last.  Queer cis men, before you see a chance to jump on a trending hashtag, take a second to think about who’s steering this narrative and what they’re trying to say.  Ask yourself if this is your story to tell or your moment to sit back and thank the people who are sharing their stories.  (Hint: If you have to ask, it’s almost always time for you to sit back and listen.)

That’s what #MeToo is all about: hearing and believing women.  It’s about amplifying voices who’ve been ignored.  If you haven’t done a great job so far, now’s a great day to start.

I could go hog-wild on a diatribe breaking down Spena’s numerous fallacies while eviscerating his warped worldview.  But I feel that I have already done so, at great length, refuting other voices amongst Spena’s like-minded ilk in my “#MeToo: Oh, But Not You” manifesto from November.

Instead, I want to take a different approach.  During the week of December 18, ABC’s Good Morning America did a journalistic series entitled “Raising Good Men.”  This three-day series of news segments took a look at the process of redefining masculinity.  While it explored some healthy concepts in terms of raising future generations of boys with better values than many of their predecessors, it also (unfortunately) harbored traces of a neofeminist, neoliberal, misandrist, heterosexist framework – albeit a fairly subtle one.  My social commentary today will discuss why and how that is harmful.

The first segment of “Raising Good Men” focused on young boys ranging from the ages of seven through ten.  These boys were residents of the Houston area, having participated in the local Boys & Girls Club’s “Passport to Manhood” program.

To start off the segment, the Houston-era boys were asked their opinions about girls...including how girls should be treated.  Some of the boys’ answers were mature (e.g. one respondent citing fair treatment based on gender/race) – valuing the concepts of respect, manners, personal space, listening, behaving, and asking for consent.  Some of the role models who these boys named from their own daily lives included teachers, coaches, or barbers (in addition to fathers or other male family members).

But, to my chagrin, many of the boys’ answers were steeped in an outdated worldview of “chivalry” based on traditional gender roles.  They gave examples such as “buying flowers” (for females in their lives) or “opening doors” for women.  One kid named Cooper mentioned how he had specifically been taught to open the door for his mother and sister.  When asked by moderator T.J. Holmes what the terms “Be a man!” or “Man up!” meant to them, these boys indicated that it conveyed how they were expected to act strong and tough.  Holmes may have been operating the interview from a place of subconscious heterosexism and gynocentrism, as he neglected to ask the Houston boys any real questions about how they relate to (or show affection for) their male peers.

Dr. Dave Anderson of The Child Mind Institute had been observing their interview from behind-the-scenes.  Anderson emphasized how the concepts of respect, empathy, and consent need to be GENDER-INCLUSIVE...not just applying to boys, but applying to anybody.  He also said that positive modeling behavior needs to remain gender-neutral; we have to stop conditioning our boys to believe that girls are “frail,” which also means we need a more diverse social message.  Such messages should include the age-appropriate teaching of consent.

I will simply concur with Dr. Anderson’s statements, here – while also citing my editorial pieces entitled “Redefining Masculinity in the Modern Era” and “Chivalry: A One-Way Street?”, from December 2013 and May 2014, respectively.

The second segment profiled older teenaged boys ranging from the ages of twelve through sixteen.  This group of older boys was from the Denver area, and ABC News moderator Paula Faris asked them a number of questions as to how they interact with peers upon having entered puberty.

One striking difference I observed between the younger boys from Houston versus the older boys from Denver was how the Denver boys gave much more thoughtful responses.  For example, when Faris asked them how they show affection to girls (and notice how she never even entertained the possibility that any of them might be homosexual or bisexual), they mentioned holding hands while walking together to Panera (a popular neighborhood hangout near their school).  They also specified the need to create dialogue, such as asking, “Are you okay with it?” or “Does it feel good to you?”

Then, when Faris asked them what the phrase “Be a man!” means to them, this group of boys spoke (rather forlornly) about the social expectations of acting emotionless as a sign of “maturity.”  They universally expressed how they felt afraid to show their emotions publicly, but they often wished that they could.

Dr. Stephanie Dowd (observing from behind-the-scenes, the way Dr. Anderson had been, the previous day) says that it’s “rigid” and “dangerous” to use these traits as barometers of masculinity.  She cites concepts such as “mutual respect,” “compromise,” and “genuine caring” as new emphases that could transform “toxic masculinity” into “healthy masculinity.”

Perhaps the most compelling difference that I’d noticed, comparing the Houston boys vis-a-vis the Denver boys, was that most of the language used by these adolescents from Denver was gender-neutral (in the context of this discussion).  Some of their parents (who had also been secretly listening in, from the next room) even admitted that they had begun to realize how they’d been sometimes sending the wrong message to their teenaged sons.  After the fact, Faris told her ABC News peers (via their in-studio dialogue on that morning’s broadcast) how she was extremely impressed with this group of young dudes from Denver.

The final segment featured a group of young men, aged 18 through 22, who resided in various parts of New York City.  This segment was moderated by Deborah Roberts.

When prompted by Roberts to name some of the words they associate with “healthy masculinity,” they invoked concepts such as “Love,” “Humble,” “Respectful,” “Value,” and “Responsible.”  Building on that, these young men expressed that they want to take positive examples that they see in older men...and then become better versions of what they see.

Then, when pressed by Roberts as to whether they’re reluctant to speak up in an all-male environment where there is “locker room talk” objectifying females, one of the New York dudes admitted that, if someone tries to speak out against such “locker room talk” that he may find to be distasteful, the rest of the group can tend to gang up against that one moral naysayer.  In her post-production commentary, Roberts explained how this is the age when alcohol consumption can become a gateway to sexual assault.

These young men from NYC unanimously responded that it is important to step in when you see any type of assault happening...even if it’s your own buddies who are doing it.  One member of this NYC-based focus group, additionally, specified the importance of checking in with your own friends to make sure they’re okay, beforehand, as an approach of crisis prevention.

However, in her narration, Roberts phrased it as the need to “...step into situations with women when they feel something is abusive or unfair.”  This, unfortunately, is a narrative that inherently deemphasizes the necessity of males stepping in to come to the aid of their male peers who are being assaulted or harassed (regardless of whether such abuse is sexual, behavioral, or social in nature).

Also, according to one of the college-aged participants:

The onus and responsibility is on men to make a change and to address these issues even when it seems like it may be socially-uncomfortable to do it at that time.

This worldview is subliminally repressive and sexist.  It assumes that males are predisposed to violence and disrespect (vis-a-vis females).  It posits that boys and men are automatically heterosexual (and/or sexually-voracious) until proven otherwise.  It implies blanket culpability on the part of male survivors while not imposing any such social expectations on female survivors.  And it misappropriates the existence of male privilege as a pretext for minimizing any abusive actions that females may inflict upon males (or upon other females).

Another participant in this NYC-based focus group likened reverence for women to treating a girlfriend or wife the way one would treat his mother.  Some of the participants had started an NYU chapter of a social activism group entitled MARS (Men Against Rape and Sexual Assault).  One of them vocalized how males can’t just sit on the sidelines – we need to be a proactive part of the conversation.  #MeToo, he says, isn’t supposed to be just about women calling out men; it’s also about men joining in to change things.

Roberts also acknowledged that ABC’s news division intends to create news segments on “Raising Good Women”...as well as discussing these issues with coed focus groups.  When the NYC students’ parents (who had also been listening in, behind-the-scenes) joined their sons after the segment had concluded, the parents all reiterated to Roberts that they wanted their sons to learn from their own past mistakes.

But what kind of mistakes are we poised to make, in the future?  If males are going to be a proactive part of the #MeToo dialogue, it can’t be solely at the whims of those who bask in their anger to bring others down while pushing myopic personal agendas.  As actress Minnie Driver sneered, earlier this month, in response to actor Matt Damon’s contention that there is a spectrum of different types of abuse, harassment, and assault:

I honestly think that until we get on the same page, you can’t tell a woman about their abuse.  A man cannot do that.  No one can.  It is so individual and so personal, it’s galling when a powerful man steps up and starts dictating the terms, whether he intends it or not...How about: it’s all fucking wrong and it’s all bad, and until you start seeing it under one umbrella it’s not your job to compartmentalize or judge what is worse and what is not.  Let women do the speaking up right now.  The time right now is for men just to listen and not have an opinion about it for once...

There is not a woman I know, myself included, who has not experienced verbal abuse and sexual epithets their whole fucking life, right up to being manhandled and having my career threatened several times by men I wouldn’t sleep with...In the same stereotypical way that we see women being supportive of men in their endeavors, I feel that’s what women need of men in this moment.  They need men to lean on and not question.  Men can rally and they can support, but I don’t think its appropriate, per se, for men to have an opinion about how women should be metabolizing abuse.  Ever.

The poison in Driver's words and sentiments is self-evident.  While I agree with Driver that we shouldn't be "ranking" the oppression and abuse that people endure, she is ultimately doing exactly what she accuses powerful men of doing -- creating an exclusionary binary where her moral compass apparently gets to establish the terms under which everyone else can participate.  This is especially jarring in light of how Driver's own ABC family comedy, Speechless, is one whose writing team glorifies the outlandish terrorizing and shaming of "wimpy" males (most notably through the other characters' unapologetic abuse of the Ray DiMeo character, which is normally played off for laughs at the adolescent male character's expense).

Also, the three groups of male students (Houston, Denver, NYC) interviewed by ABC News were simply sample focus groups.  The differences in their perspectives could partially be attributed to geography – seeing how Texans would be likelier to teach traditionalism to their youth, Coloradoans would tend to be more balanced and moderate, and New Yorkers would be more prone to accepting a doctrine of “female exceptionalism.”

And, although I have survived many traumatic instances of sexual harassment, assault, abuse, and intimidation throughout my own life, #MeToo has also impelled me to reflect on how I could have taken more proactive steps, myself, to stand up for others who were being harassed or abused – even when I wasn’t the direct target.

While I personally have been privileged enough to have never found myself in a situation (as a bystander) where I had to intervene in a rape, a fight, or a sexual assault – I also know, firsthand, what it feels like when I have been targeted and no one in proximity will step in to back me up.  So, with this knowledge, I try to reflect on whether I can recall any examples of this occurring in the past.  I’m sure there may have been several of which I just haven’t retained the memories (or didn’t notice it happening, at the time).  It reminds me that I need to be consciously on the lookout for these instances, in the future.

But there is one very vivid incident that happened, where I was neither the aggressor nor the target, but #ILetItHappen nonetheless.  This might seem like an anecdotal example, but I keep it in mind as an example of my past inaction...so that I can hopefully find a way to intervene or diffuse any similar type of situation in the future.

One year, while I was in college, a bunch of us were waiting in line for the cafeteria to open for dinner.  I was there by myself, so everyone else who was in line around me was a complete stranger to me...but, nonetheless, what happened next was absolutely disgusting.

Two guys in front of me proceeded to spend at least five minutes making snide and derogatory comments about the cosmetic “ugliness” of the cafeteria employee (a middle-aged woman named Ruth) who was waiting to open the doors for us and who was tasked with swiping our cards.  Even after she’d opened the doors and was getting the register prepared, they still proceeded to make those comments – clearly WITHIN EARSHOT of Ruth.

I look back on that and wonder, “Why didn’t I say anything to them?”  Especially once the doors had opened?  Why didn’t I tell them off to their faces?  Why didn’t I tell Ruth not to pay them any mind?  Why didn’t I loudly say my piece...and then storm out of there to make a point (or, better yet, go get the manager)?  Probably a number of reasons:  worrying about my own physical safety (although in hindsight, I realize they probably wouldn’t have physically attacked me), worried about making a scene and getting in trouble myself, worried about subsequent repercussions against me, self-consciousness about my own looks that made me just want to “blend in,” etc.

But I do know this:   if it happened today, and I was a witness to it, I would definitely say something.  I would absolutely “make a scene” on Ruth’s behalf (assuming she was the same victim in a contemporary scenario)...because that’s the type of thing I would want someone to do for me, if I was the victim.  

One missing link that seems to be left out of this entire conversation is how we can cultivate healthier friendships and bonds-of-brotherhood between boys – that they bring with them into adulthood as they become men.  This was a question underlying Remaking Manhood co-author Marc Greene's fantastic February 2015 op-ed for The Good Men Project, entitled "Why Do We Murder the Beautiful Friendships of Boys?"

So rather, than go on another rant, I will pose these questions to everyone insofar as how the #MeToo dialogue continues from here:

*****************************************

What value is there in silencing male survivors who have endured rape, sexual assault, sexually-driven harassment, or bullying throughout our lives?

Should the #MeToo discussion extend to women beginning to self-examine how they themselves may have acted sexually-oppressive toward men throughout their lives?

Piggybacking off of the previous question:  should women be encouraged to stand up for other women if they observe female-on-female violence/harassment occurring?

Regardless of your sex or gender identity:  how many times in your life have YOU stood idly by and been an enabler of #ILetItHappen?  How many times didn’t you speak up for someone (or intervene, on their behalf) if you witnessed them being sexually assaulted, harassed, or degraded?

Are there ever occasions where – by speaking up and/or intervening – you might be putting YOUR OWN physical safety at risk, amid the crossfire between aggressor and victim?  Why should there necessarily be a greater onus on males to take this potential risk (to our physical well-being) as opposed to females doing so?

What role does perpetuating traditionalist gender roles play when creating environments that enable the types of assault and abuse that the #MeToo movement seeks to confront?  How does the targeting of transgender people stem from this dynamic?

If we do indeed subscribe to the nonsensical Minnie Driver doctrine of "Men should just listen and not have an opinion" – at what point are males going to be allowed to reenter the discussion?  And who, specifically, gets to decide those terms?

If our focus shouldn’t be to “rank” survivors’ traumatic experiences against one another (and, instead, recognize every woman’s past trauma as its own distinct truth), then shouldn’t we be showing equal respect and deference to the traumatic experiences of male survivors?

*****************************************

Although my sentiments toward redefining masculinity haven’t changed, I am grateful to the #MeToo movement for motivating my need to engage in personal introspection.  The value in this will be how I can use that knowledge to protect and defend others – female and male, alike – whenever I encounter them being exploited or preyed upon within the context of my daily life.

I will speak out on every facet of this epidemic.  We need to broaden the discussion to protect boys (who are minors, legally) and LGBT people.  We need to start taking it seriously when we encounter domestic violence cases where a victim happens to be male.  We need to crack down on same-sex abuse regardless of sexual orientations of any parties who are involved.  And we need to find ways to prevent CONSENSUAL forms of positive bodily-contact between friends (e.g. hugging, kissing, sports-based camaraderie, locker room horseplay, faux-flirting) from becoming stigmatized. 

Many of my critics might sneer that I’m laying out all of these terms in a very “Eichy-centric” way.  Yes, my life is “Eichy-centric”...because it’s MY LIFE.  But I’m the one who has to live my life – and I want to live in a world where friends, acquaintances, and strangers feel reasonably comfortably around me.  I will continue to fight for this type of world, for as long as I breathe.

If you object to that, you’re going to have to put a bullet in my head.