#and that’s calling me a gay lesbian or saying nice lisp

[aimseytv]

every time someone comments on my tiktok “nice lisp” i genuinely get confused on whether they are expecting me to respond as if i wasn’t already aware i had one. do they want a cheeky “wait.. what?” or a “I HAVE A LISP?!?” or even a “no. no. it can’t be”

[lesbiampire]

crush // v.m.p.

you are seven the first time you hear the word crush. it sounds bad, wrong, not fun. a boy has just stolen your football, said to you “girls can’t play with this.” he tells you to go back to your skipping rope. you do. he’s what your mum would call a bully, he’s not worth your time, she’d say. she always says that when lauren mocks you for your lisp, always tells you not to get too involved. so you don’t. when you get home you tell her all about it, how an annoying boy stole what was rightfully yours – you’re angry, vengeful, upset – whilst your mum simply laughs. “he must have a crush on you,” she says, and you stare at her, shocked. you have never seen your mother not take you seriously. you have never heard this word either.

you are ten when a boy smiles at you across the field. he scurries back to his friends quickly after. your own friends are more excited about this than you are – “he probably likes you!” “you’re so lucky, it’s because you’re so loud!” you hear the word ‘lucky’ and feel important, special to someone. you want to be liked. you want to be loved. next time you spy what’s-his-face across the football pitch, you make sure to smile back. you can play these games, you can become the likeable girl. if it’s a competition you’re sure you can win, and that’s what this is. you look at your friends and suddenly you see competitors. it doesn’t feel fun, being in love.

you are eleven when you first kiss a boy. or he kisses you, you can’t quite recall. it is all action and reaction, the way your lips feel dry and it doesn’t feel as good as you expected it to. one kiss after another, no words pass between you and the mystery boy. there are no “I love you’s”, no passion, no meaning behind it. he leaves at the end of the day when all is said and done, after pulling you aside, whispering, “don’t tell anyone.” you wonder if he’s embarrassed of you. vaguely, you think you recall the same boy kissing another girl in the parking lot before summer camp. he has a girlfriend, you soon find out. romance is dead, you realise.

you are thirteen when you have your first boyfriend. he wants to be a rugby player, but this isn’t why you love him – he’s a musician, a pianist. he sends you videos of him playing songs dedicated to you, and you realise this may be the first time a boy has treated you kindly. you make things official – of course you had to be the one to ask – and you tell your friends. “I have a boyfriend,” you say triumphantly. your friends are happy for you, they really are – but they don’t like this boy and you know it. “he’s always putting you down,” your friend tells you, desperately trying to cheer you up after an argument. he’s been telling you your taste in music is shit, and quite frankly it was music that got you into this mess in the first place. you break up with him and focus on yourself. a boy is a bully is not boyfriend material.

you are fifteen when two unexpected things happen. you date a boy who may as well be perfect for you, and you start to notice a female friend in a new way. the tilt of her chin before she laughs, the way the sun catches her auburn eyes. it is a distraction, and not a welcome one. why can’t you be pretty? you feel threatened, you feel not enough. you never want to be alone again. your boyfriend is your sole consolation. “you’re beautiful,” he tells you, and sometimes you think you believe him. “way better than her,” he assures, and suddenly, you can’t. you can’t stop thinking about it, talking to him about it. you worry you’re talking him into loving her, so you split before he has the chance to leave you. your friends liked this one – they’re disappointed.

you are sixteen and you’ve had three boyfriends in the past five months. apparently, this makes you a slut. it is your friend who uses the word first, jokingly, and you remember laughing. other people start using it, though you can’t recall when it took on such a degrading tone. there is spite in it, but you play it right back – “at least I can get a boyfriend,” you snarl, breaking ties with the friend who first brought this ugly word upon you. it’s her fault, you decide. after all, she doesn’t understand. she doesn’t understand that none of them are interesting, that they’ve all been nice, charming, but it’s still not enough for you. you worry that you fall for every boy who’s nice to you. maybe they were right after all. when you ditch your friend, she calls you a “bitch.” and, well – maybe you are.

you are eighteen and you are a slut. you’ve had a long string of guys and you’re worried they’ll start to think you aren’t trying. your mum loves your current boyfriend. truthfully, he’s everything you’ve ever appreciated in a person. sharp, well-spoken, patient. he’s smart and he’s shooting for the moon. he wants to go to oxford university to study law, he wants to travel the world with you, he wants to marry you, and you aren’t sure why. you’ve been with him for seven months. you’ve reconciled with your friend. everyone likes him. everything is as it should be except it’s not. you don’t want to sleep with him. he’s mused about it before but is too nice to ask upfront. you can’t see yourself with him, travelling with him, marrying him – you are not his wife. you tell him this and he argues with you, says, “but I love you.” you cry in each other’s arms, but you know it’s over. maybe you killed romance.

you are nineteen and you’re out clubbing. at least that’s what you’ve been told, but you’re mostly babysitting your drunk friend. clearly you’ll be the one driving tonight. it seems like everyone is wasted, and you’re standing by the bar when you notice yourself noticing. there’s a girl across the room with dark skin and curly hair. she’s wearing a short, tight-fitted skirt and you know this because you’ve been glancing over at her all night. she’s doing the same. she gives you an obvious once-over and you shiver, turning away. less than a minute later and she’s by your side, ordering you a drink. you feel knots in your stomach and you politely refuse – suddenly you feel woozy, and she gently touches your arm, asks if you want to dance. pin-pricks race up from where her skin brushed yours. you want to accept, you step towards her, but then you think twice, hear the word slut echo through your mind. you leave soon after. you never see the girl again, but you can imagine her vividly when you close your eyes.

you are twenty when you tell your friends you might like girls. two of them are shocked, immediately placing a label into the equation that you never gave yourself – “oh, so you’re bi. when did this happen?” you say you don’t know, but you know that’s not true. you think back to when you were fifteen, to your disbelief your friend even exists, your disbelief your boyfriend couldn’t be interested. you think about this for a long time. you remember not wanting to sleep with boys. you remember you are not his wife when by now, you could’ve been. it is your other friend, your best friend, who isn’t shocked. she walks you back to your accommodation, asks you, “are you gay?” you say you think so, and she hugs you. it’s a lovely moment and you’ll always remember it. you don’t worry you might be in love with her. you know what love feels like now.

you are twenty-two and you have a crush. it seems like such a lovely word now. it doesn’t make you feel bitter, or angry. it makes you feel absolutely everything just that little more vividly, like you’re coming into being for the first and last time. she has copper hair and freckles and you imagine stringing them together into constellations. you imagine her taking you out. you imagine things like kissing, touching, breathing in the scent of each other and it feels weird but then it feels normal. you imagine things late at night when you’re cold and lonely that shock and embarrass you. you hear your peers sneering slut at you across the classroom in your mind. your best friend laughs when you call her at midnight. “it’s normal,” she tells you, “you’re just in love.”

you are twenty-three when you ask her out. she tells you she was waiting for you to ask, that she’d been dropping hints for months but couldn’t quite tell whether you felt the same. like all things, you think about it. how you’d stay up late at night texting her, drive down into the city to see her whenever you had the opportunity. how you called her a “good friend” when your mother asked. how you were afraid to be caught falling, scared of what it could mean, crying at night that you have an inability to love anyone properly. you ask her if she thinks you’re a slut. “how many guys have you been with?” she asks. you’re too unsure to be offended – something like fifteen, you say. she laughs. “you could tell me you’d dated every single guy you’ve ever laid eyes on and I wouldn’t think you’re a slut.” you tell her you’ve never dated a girl. you ask if that still makes you a lesbian. she looks at you seriously. “you just like girls?” you nod. “that sounds pretty gay to me.”

you are twenty-four when everything comes full circle. you are with your best friend and your girlfriend. you’re going home to visit your mum, and this time there will be no mincing your words. there will be no “good friend”. there is no slut, there is no shame, there is no doubt anymore. there will also be no boy, which is undoubtedly what your mother is expecting. when you arrive she is happy to see you, but you can tell she’s surprised. she invites you all inside before you can explain. your best friend offers to go and make some tea, gives you a look that says you’ve got this. you settle down on the sofa, thinking about copper curls and hips and curves and freckles and eyelashes and the quiet intimacy of catching eyes with a girl across a dance floor, how you can iterate that to someone who doesn’t understand. “mum,” you start, your voice shaking. “mum, one time, a couple of years ago, I had a crush.”

you are twenty-four and it’s taken you this long, but rest-assured no one can take this from you now.

[dixonministry]

Male Insecurity

As much as I can bitch about any gender and all the stupid things people do, my first truly gender biased rant here is going to be about men. Yes, my fellow XY Chromosome holders, you’re about to get shot down.

There is one thing about the majority of the male gender that really fucking pisses me off. Insecurity. Yes, men are fucking insecure about everything! I’m not going to bore you with some bullshit psychobabble about WHY men are insecure about shit. Nobody fucking cares why, they just are. Probably the single biggest issue for men is not being secure in their sexuality. Yes, I said “their” not “our.” I don’t lump myself in with the rest of those losers; I’m a whole different breed of man. For example, just try asking a guy to do something “feminine” like holding his girlfriend’s purse for a minute. Most men will flip the fuck out and be all like “Nah, baby, I ain’t doin’ that shit. I’ll look like a fag or something.” And there’s what it all boils down to. Heterosexual (?) men are so fucking afraid to do anything that might make them appear “un-manly” or gay or some other stupid thing like that. Oh, Heaven forbid a little boy might be interested in doing something like becoming a ballet dancer or even a nurse. The poor little guy’s dad will snap and give him a 3 hour lecture on why that’s wrong and how “boys don’t do that stuff – that’s for girls.” Oh, fuck you, caveman. How about if a man is asked his opinion on what another guy looks like? That’s always funny as shit to see their brains twisting around trying as hard as they possibly can NOT to think of another guy “like that.” Oh, please! This, I think, comes from the stupid fantasy that all women are lesbians. Just bear with me for a second, I’m gonna explain that. See, guys don’t mind when a woman says that some other woman has a nice body. Guys don’t mind it because they think that deep down there’s some sexual connotation behind it. No there isn’t, you fuck. When a woman says “Damn, she’s got a nice ass!” she’s really saying “Damn, I wish MY ass looked like that!” If guys would get the fuck over thinking that there’s a sexual meaning behind every damn thing, they’d be able to do that too. For example, let me prove how secure I am. I think Jared Leto has a fuckin’ great body (and a kick-ass name too, lol). Now, I think that cuz I want MY body to look like that, not because I want to fuck him. Ignorant homophobic pricks… Damn, you guys get on my nerves! Ladies, you wanna hear some more male insecurities? Try telling your man that you want to spice things up in the bedroom. He could take this one of two ways. If he’s pretty slow on the uptake, he’ll just think “hell yeah” but if he’s got at least half a brain, the chances are that he’s going to think that he’s not performing well enough in bed and that you’re trying to tell him that he’s not a good lay. Let me explain this to you in psychobabble. See, men have the mindset of “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” while most women have the mindset of “If it’s not broken, it can be made better.” So, when girls try to make something about their man “better,” he interprets it as “she thinks I’m broken and need to be fixed” (fixed as in “repaired”, not neutered…stop laughing, the pun was unintentional). If you think I’m full of shit…well, I’m just not. I got that one straight out of that “Men are From Mars…” book. Yes, guys, I have read it and NO that doesn’t make me gay…dumbass. *cough*makesmesmart*cough* Now that you understand this, ladies, I gotta say…you need to stop fixing things that don’t need fixing. Yup, I’m changing it up now and bitching about this for this paragraph. Now that you are AWARE of the miscommunication, fuckin’ stop it. Leave us the fuck alone and stop trying to make us “better” damn it. If we want to become better at anything, we’ll do it ourselves because that’s just how we operate. Listen, guys (yeah, back to the guys now), it is seriously time to get over this neanderthal bullshit. There’s lots of things that guys can do (and, in fact, secretly WANT to do) that they just won’t even try to do because it might make them appear less masculine. Get over it, asshole. Why the fuck do you care if some homophobic jock-strap thinks you’re gay? As long as you still like pussy, you’re not gay, you dweeb. And, quite frankly, only ignorant low-lifes would even CARE if you were. Like I said, I’m a different breed of man. If I had a girl and she asked me to hold her purse, I’d throw it over my shoulder and prance around like the biggest queen you’ve ever seen. Why? Because it’s funny, that’s why. Mostly, I’d do that to make fun of beef-heads who think they’re too fucking manly to carry a damn bag. Yeah, I’ll carry the purse all damn day long, prance around, talk with a lisp, and then STILL beat your stupid ass with a tire iron if you need some “proof” as to my manhood. If a gay guy makes a pass at me, I don’t freak out like “Ew, no, get away from me you fuckin’ fag.” I’ve been hit on by guys before (cuz I look good, damn it) and I always just politely tell them that I don’t swing that way. Does it make me less manly that I didn’t get all grossed out because some dude found me attractive? No! I’m still just as much a man… Actually, that makes me a much bigger man than all the homophobes out there because I’m man enough to use my fucking head for something other than knocking people down on a football field. IDIOTS. Look, I can’t help it that you don’t feel like a big enough man without being a fucking asshole to people. Yeah, I’m an asshole, but only to people who deserve it. I don’t have to be an asshole just to prove how big my balls are. I can prance around and curtsy like a little girl and STILL be twice the man you are, fucker.  How big of a man is Salt, really? Well, since most of you dickheads equate violence with masculinity, here’s my stats. I have NEVER lost a fight in my life – not once, ever. True, it’s because I’m a mean son of a bitch who doesn’t believe in fighting fair, but that’s not the point (ehehehehe). Mainly though, the number one reason I’ve never lost a fight is because I’m man enough to know when to fight. It wasn’t always that way but for the past decade it has been. See, I fight for a REASON, not just to prove what a big tough macho stud I am. If you come up to me on the street and shove me, trying to provoke a fight, I’m gonna tell you to get lost before I call the cops and press charges against you for putting your damn hands on me. If you come up to me and punch me, I AM going to have your stupid ass locked up. If you come up and hit my girl, my friend, my sister, anyone that I’m with and you have a penis…THAT is when you get to see what a big tough man I am, because that’s when I’m gonna hold the taser on you until you can’t move and THEN beat you until I think I’ve heard enough cracks come from your rib cage! Then, YOU get to press charges and I still won’t give a fuck. Are you seeing my point here? My point is that there are REASONS to be violent, but there are no reasons to be STUPID about it. That “bad” enough for ya? Shit, most of those pricks won’t even get it. I’m not wasting my time on you guys anymore. Fuck off.