#damn that paul simon he likes to put a name in a song. was almost tempted to add mrs robinson as well

[girlcockholmes]

tagged by @perillaleafs for 10 fave songs with names in the title :)))

cecilia - simon and garfunkel

sara smile - hall and oates

brandy - looking glass

you can call me al - paul simon

867-5309/jenny - tommy tutone

camellia - hall and oates

suite: judy blue eyes - crosby, stills, and nash

gloria - laura branigan

bonnie and clyde - serge gainsbourg

carey - joni mitchell

hiiiiiiiii @thewrit @thecryptkeeper @theplaceofnostars @mcsteamybackshotscompilation if you guys wanna do it ^_^❤️

[cinematicnomad]

i watched the first 3 eps of daisy jones and the six. my thoughts are, i’ll probably watch the rest of the series bc i am always a sucker for the fake-documentary conceit and getting to see these characters several years removed from the events of the story, able to comment on their flaws and extrapolate about the mistakes they made etc etc. i know it’s based on a book so i’m tempted to go in search of that to just read but for now, here’s what i think of the show: 

the first three eps felt a little thin, especially since you spent the whole time just WAITING for them all to finally connect. despite daisy having less Plot™ to get through, i think riley keough is pretty great in this steve nicks-type character (not perfect, but definitely compelling) and the vibes are so strong that i enjoyed her scenes soooo much more than anything going on with the dunne brothers and their v obvious story beats. sam claflin as billy specifically is...fine? but the character feels v shallow and he seems miscast age-wise—i know they’re all having to play older in the interview scenes but he is not believable as a young-20 something musician, especially when surrounded by so many other baby faced actors. hopefully as the episodes progress his age starts to match the scenes better? the best thing he has going for him in this role is definitely his voice, which does sound good with riley’s and i’m eager to hear more of their songs together, but performance-wise...eh. he’s a little forgettable—case in point, i literally finished the 3rd episode like 15 minutes ago and i already had to use google to figure out his character’s name while typing this up. 

as for the other characters, eddie seems v two-dimensional. i hope he gets some added depth beyond just being the jealous would-be lead singer—i’m getting strong jason lee in almost famous vibes, except jason lee was actually funny in that role and contributed more that just barely hidden resentment. i will admit i’m onboard for the karen/graham will they/won’t they, so i’m intrigued to see where that goes, though when they’re separate from each other they’re a little less distinct. i DID enjoy karen’s reaction to daisy in the recording studio so i’m eager to see how that relationship develops. warren is, unfortunately, the after thought comic relief who doesn’t seem to contribute much other than sight gags about mustaches and 70s drug references. camila, unfortunately, bears the brunt of being intimately tied to the character i care least about in the show, but i do enjoy the spark they’ve managed to highlight in her—the scene of her standing up for herself after finding billy in the van was solid. she’s definitely playing a v specific trope—the first wife in the musician biopic, the ginnifer goodwin as vivian cash in walk the line—and seems to be somewhat inspired by linda mccartney (the photographer to paul’s singer/songwriter), so i’ll wait to see what they do with her. 

my favorite two characters though, by far, have to be simone and teddy, who both feel more real and lived in than any of the others. they have the benefit of also having storylines and interior lives removed from daisy or billy (had to google his name again, yikes)—the scene of simone coming home from that horrifying recording day to find daisy sitting on the floor and finding herself unable to explain just what happened, what made her skin crawl, how she’s feeling...damn that was good. also, her stunned reaction to the bold woman at the party being so direct—the scene was so charged and i’m hoping we get to see that nyc club owner return. and teddy as a music producer who’s had a bad run of failed records trying to get his colleagues to put faith in his gut instincts instead of saddling him with christmas albums of old timers is especially poignant. his physicality does a great job showing the physicality of the stress he feels professionally, especially when he finds himself starting to care for these two young singers, separately, and then, eventually, deciding to bring them together is really lovely—i’m hoping they take some time to explore WHY exactly he felt compelled to introduce them, what drove him to do that, but i won’t be surprised if it’s left unsaid. i’m hoping simone and teddy continue to shine and don’t get sidelined now that daisy and sam claflin have finally met, but we’ll definitely have to wait and see. 

anyway, don’t know why i felt the need to type this up but tada ✌️

[misswarmnights]

Simon and Garfunkel: Ticklish Duo

One evening in 1969, young musicians Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel were relaxing in their luxurious hotel room still wearing the street clothes from their last performance. They were intertwined on the same bed dressed in turtleneck sweaters, jeans, and socks. Paul rested his back on the soft pillows, gently strumming the guitar on his lap. Art was stretched out, lying in the opposite direction and dangling his black-socked feet near Paul’s face. He was playfully trying to get on Paul’s nerves. It worked, and Paul became very annoyed – he did not appreciate this interference and pushed Art’s foot away multiple times only to have it come back and taunt him again.

“Damn it, Art,” Paul complained. “Keep your big feet out of my way.”

Smirking, Art brought his foot up to Paul’s face and booped his nose with his toe.

Paul had enough. He got off the bed and carefully put away his precious guitar. Then he came over to Art and straddled his leg, trapping his ankle under his arm.

Art became nervous. “What are you doing?”

Paul smiled impishly. He wiggled his fingers on the bottom of Art’s foot, making him shriek.

“Paul! No! Don’t tickle me!” Art begged, writhing on the bed as Paul continued his onslaught.

Paul scratched his sole more vigorously, tickling even faster and driving Art to hysterical laughter. Then Art kicked Paul right in the gut and forced him to release his foot.

“Oww,” Paul groaned, looking at his friend like, ‘why would you do that to me?’.

Art took a moment to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, Paul. But I’m not responsible for your injuries when you do that.”

Paul chuckled a bit. “Yeah…I get it.”

“You know I hate being tickled.”

“Well, you screwed with me and you were asking for it.”

Then they heard a soft knock. Both men looked towards the bolted door. “Who is it?”

“Maid,” called a feminine voice.

Paul went to answer the door, leaving Art to pull himself together.

The maid was a slim, pretty woman about thirty years old wearing a black uniform and clean white apron. She had warm brown eyes and long caramel hair hanging over her shoulders.

“Hi, I’m Antonia. Your maid,” she said with a polite smile.

“No autographs please,” Paul told her the second she entered the room.

The attractive maid just looked at him, arching a slender eyebrow.

“Autographs?” she snorted, placing her equipment on the floor. “Why on earth would I want those?”

“Don’t you know who we are?” Art asked, straightening his shirt and fluffing his hair.

“No…don’t you?” she retorted, arranging some sponges in her cleaning kit.

Paul crossed his arms, frowning. “Ummm…Simon and Garfunkel,” he said, assuming she would feel stupid now.

But Antonia just looked at the pair, unimpressed. “Nice names…So what?”

The two friends stared at each other in shock. They couldn’t believe this woman didn’t know who they were. They were a famous musical duo after all!

“Lady, we’re the duo Simon and Garfunkel.”

“We make beautiful music together,” Art said, placing his arm around Paul. “Surely you must have heard our songs.”

“Okay.” Antonia put her hands on her hips and looked at Art. “Which one are you?”

“I’m the tall one,” Art said, throwing a smirk at Paul.

She turned to Paul. “And you?”

“I’m the talented one.” Paul returned the smirk. Art rolled his eyes.

Antonia started to smile and then, burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” they asked, confused.

“Oh! Oh, I was just pulling your legs. I know damn well who you are! I’m a huge fan! I love your songs; your voices are just perfect together. The way you harmonize is so beautiful!”

Smack! Paul and Art facepalmed in unison. They had fallen for her act…hook, line and sinker.

“Don’t worry, boys, I won’t ask for your autographs,” she assured them, glancing down at their socked feet. “I’m not interested in signatures.”

“Which song is your favorite?” Art asked, curiously.

Antonia pursed her lips, thinking. “Hmm...a few of my favorites are Sound of Silence, I Am a Rock, El Condor Pasa, and Mrs. Robinson. I adore those!”

“Of course you do…I wrote them all,” Paul said.

“Shut up,” Art said playfully.

Initially annoyed with Antonia, the duo was now genuinely interested in talking with her. The partners chilled out, sitting on the bed together while the maid went about her business.

“You boys are so cute together,” she quipped, taking two rags from her kit. “How long have you been friends?”

“Oh, we’ve known each other since we were little kids,” Paul replied with a smile, patting his friend’s knee.

“Awww,” Antonia smiled warmly. “You seem to get along great together!”

They nodded. Antonia grinned, pouring some type of clear liquid onto both of the rags.

“Did you attend our concert tonight?” Art asked.

Antonia sighed sadly. “Oh…no, I couldn’t. I had to work so I missed it. I’m so disappointed…I love you both. Say, fellas! Can I get behind you for a second? I, um, have to check something with the bed.”

“Sure, go on.”

If only Paul and Art had known that Antonia’s rags were soaked in chloroform. She ran behind them and clamped the rags over their faces, covering their noses and mouths. Caught off-guard, they struggled for a moment but quickly succumbed to the knock-out effect of the chloroform. The partners fainted at almost the same time.

Antonia gazed at the unconscious forms sprawled across the bedspread.

“Sorry, fellas.”

Then she unpacked her special equipment and got to work.

***

Art was the first to wake up. He opened his eyes sleepily and found himself staring into Paul’s sleeping face. He groaned weakly and tried to move…but couldn’t. He was completely immobilized. The partners were in a terrible predicament.

“Paul…Paul!”

Paul woke up with a start. He immediately tried to sit up, but he could barely move an inch. The men were strapped to the bed, their hands tied over their heads with padded straps secured to the backboard. Their feet were strapped down, securing them to the bed and leaving them vulnerable.

“Hey, what is this?!” Paul shouted, struggling in his bonds.

They suddenly noticed Antonia standing at the foot of the bed. She smiled meekly and waved.

“You!” Paul barked. “What’s going on? Why did you tie us up?”

“I’m a terrific fan,” she insisted. “This…is just my way of showing it.”

Paul cursed, struggling with all his might. “Let us go! NOW!”

“Keep your shirt on, geez.”

Antonia walked over and sat beside Paul’s restrained feet. She stared at his feet for a minute, and then she looked at Art’s.

“Why…why is she looking at our feet?” Art whispered to his partner.

“I don’t know,” Paul said, starting to get nervous.

“Just relax,” she told them. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to have fun! Now, let’s just take these off…”

With that, she started tugging at Paul’s socks.

“H-hey! Cut it out!” Paul protested.

Antonia removed Paul’s socks with ease, and then she removed Art’s socks. The pair blushed as their bare feet were exposed to the grinning female.

“What lovely feet,” she snickered.

“Put our socks back on!” Paul yelled at her.

“What are you going to do to us?” Art asked, nervously.

Antonia did not answer. She stared at Paul’s bare feet, studying them for a moment. Then she experimentally drew one finger along the bottom of his foot. This made Paul giggle and squirm!

“Stop it! That tickles!” he squealed.

Antonia was delighted by this reaction. “Oh, this is going to be FUN!”

She took some string and tied Paul’s big toes together.

Paul broke into a panicky smile and started giggling again – just from having his toes touched. And she wasn’t even trying to tickle him! Paul’s feet were very ticklish. He giggled and squirmed the whole time she was tying back his toes.

She took more string and did the same thing with Art’s big toes, tying them back to limit foot movement. He was giggly too.

Antonia reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a long, purple feather with a black tip.

The men’s eyes filled with terror.

“Oh dear,” Art whimpered. “Not that!”

Antonia giggled like the kinky fangirl she was. She waved the big feather back and forth, teasingly. “Who wants to go first? Paul, how about you?”

She began running the feather up and down Paul’s sole, making him burst into uncontrollable laughter. He bucked and thrashed helplessly in his restraints. He was laughing so hard that he couldn’t even beg for her to stop.

“Oh!” Antonia exclaimed in joy. “My goodness, Paul, your feet are so ticklish! Yes, they are. Coochie coochie coo!”

Art cringed, averting his eyes from the horrible scene next to him. All he could do was lay helpless and await his turn to be tickled.

Antonia kept on tickling Paul’s feet, stroking the feather on his arches and dragging it between his toes. He was hysterical with laughter. His face turned red and tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

The devious maid stopped for a moment ��� only to switch tactics. She turned over the feather and started using the quill against her captive’s sensitive feet.

Paul threw his head back, screaming with laughter as Antonia scribbled the quill on his bare soles. He arched his back and thrashed violently on the bed, tears rolling down his face.

Antonia finally stopped, not wishing Paul to hurt himself or pass out.

“It’s okay…calm down, Paulie. I’m giving you a break.”

Paul gasped for air, still giggling and shaking from the torture. “Please…please, no more tickling. I-I can’t stand it.”

“Shhh,” Antonia said soothingly, reaching out to gently rub his leg. He cringed at the touch of her hand. How dare she torture him and then try to console him! He also felt completely humiliated having been overpowered and tickle tortured by some frail woman.

“Oh, Artie,” Antonia sang, moving over to Art’s feet now. His feet were bigger than Paul’s.

Art was petrified. He couldn’t stand to be tickled while mobile and socks on, let alone immobile and barefoot!

“No, no, don’t tickle! Please, I don’t think I could handle it. Keep tickling Paul! He’s more ticklish anyway.”

Paul shot him a hateful look. “Thanks…Benedict Arthur!”

“Alright, settle down, fellas,” Antonia chuckled, making herself comfortable. “Art, it’s your turn.”

Then she brought the purple feather to Art’s feet and stroked it up and down his naked soles.

“NO! Wait, stop!” Art cried before plunging into hysterical laughter. Like Paul, he had no resistance to tickling and it was pure torture for him.

“That’s it,” the maid giggled. “Laugh it up, Artie. Tickle tickle tickle!”

Art bucked wildly on the bed, throwing his head back as he howled with laughter.

Paul closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow, believing his torture was over for a while. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Five fingers scratched the sole of his foot, making Paul squeal and burst out laughing again.

Antonia was now tickling both men at the same time.

She continued rubbing the feather on Art’s soles and dragged it between his toes, making him convulse with shrieking laughter. She then used the quill to slowly trace the lines on his soles, causing tears to fall from his eyes.

She tickled Paul’s feet with her other hand, scratching all over his soles and undersides of his toes.

The poor fellows were in pure hell, screaming in the most hysterical laughter as their tears became rivers flowing down their bright red faces. They thrashed against their bonds with such force that together they nearly tore off the backboard (where their wrist restraints were located).

“Oh, my goodness,” Antonia said happily. “You both are SO ticklish, and SO much fun to tickle! I could do this forever!”

However, after a few minutes, she did stop because they desperately needed a break.

Panting, Paul shook his head frantically. “N-no, no more…We’ll give you anything you want! Just…don’t tickle us anymore.”

Antonia sighed. “Paulie, I don’t really want anything else but to tickle you.”

“But…why?” Art demanded, trying to catch his breath.

Antonia shrugged. “Well, you boys are such cuties. And, well, tickling is such terrific fun!”

“Let us go,” Art whimpered. “We’re not having fun.”

“I will, but first can I tickle you some more?”

“NO!” Paul yelled, practically sobbing.

They screamed for help, but nobody came to their rescue. Their feet belonged to the maid now, and she could tickle them all she wanted. Once again, the hotel room filled with the laughter of the ticklish duo. The torture went on and on, until the musicians finally blacked out.

***

Paul and Art tumbled out of bed together and hit the floor with a thud. The impact jolted them awake. They found themselves hugging as if comforting each other. Despite being slightly tangled in the sheets from thrashing, the men were completely free of their restraints.

The giggling wrecks got up, climbing back onto the bed to catch their breaths. They were covered in sweat and had tears in their eyes. They were exhausted and worn out.

“Where is she?” Art asked, looking around the room.

There was no sign of Antonia.

Paul’s eyes darted around the room, checking for the presence of the devious maid. “She’s gone,” he concluded.

The restraints were gone as well. They even had their socks back on. It was like nothing had ever happened.

“Paul, do you think it could have been a dream?”

Paul was skeptical. “I don’t know, Artie. Is it possible to have the same dream at the same time?”

“I don’t know, possibly,” Art said, protectively holding his feet. “I’m just glad the nightmare is over.”

“Me too,” Paul said, gently rubbing his poor feet.

The men shuddered. They hoped never to have a nightmare like that again.

Paul went to check the door and found it still securely locked – as if nobody else had entered the room that night.

“Maybe it was only a dream,” Paul admitted.

With a shrug, he turned around but then noticed something on the floor, right at the foot of the bed.

It was a long, purple feather with a black tip.

Paul picked up the feather and held it up. They both looked at it, and then at each other, eyes wide and mouths agape. A shiver ran down their spines.

The End

[erinelezabeth920]

It’s Not About the Bathrooms

A few months ago, back in maybe February I went to a Seattle concert with my boyfriend, cousin and good friend from graduate school. Before the show we had stopped in at a YMCA fundraiser for a city community center, a small building in a growing urban neighborhood with garden plots that also houses the youth outdoor program I work for during summers. The theme was Cascade Royale (cunningly named after the title of the building, Cascade People’s Center), a play on James Bond. So, that rainy Seattle night, I put on a long dress, my boyfriend had on a suit, my cousin and friend also were dressed up. On the way to the fundraiser we went out for Ethiopian food in the Central District, squished into a the corner small cafe with injera and honey wine, pretending it was a midwinter psuedo-adult sort of prom. It was fun, one of those chiller mid-20s city nights with close friends, tinged with the edge of a new adult heavy tiredness, but still electrifying the memories of a freedom of youth. After the event, featuring champagne, popcorn, mock gambling and a photo booth in the best sort of low budget non-profit way possible, we drove up highway 99 to the Nectar Lounge, a concert venue in the quirky north Seattle neighborhood of Fremont, in time to catch a show my favorite local funk band. It was fun to walk into the packed concert venue in our formal attire, grabbing a drink just as the band began to play. They are always fantastic, a twelve piece band with crazy energy enough to break the Seattle freeze and get people dancing. I was feeling pretty tired from working and graduate school, and feeling kind of overwhelmed by the amount of people on the dance floor, so I sat off to the side at one of the tables, listening. Eventually, given the beer and the water I was drinking to counteract, I really had to pee. I left my boyfriend at the table with my drink, got up and walked to the back of the venue, pushing my way through bodies toward the restrooms. Quick glance showed the men’s line empty and the woman’s line 10+ or more. I sighed, an all too common sight. My eyes began to water. See I have this weird bladder condition where it’s actually really hard for me to hold in my pee once I have to go. It’s kind of like uncontrollable muscular spasms, and I have to sit down until they pass. It’s always happened since I was little, and all of my best friends know that when my eyes start to water that I need to get to a bathroom pretty immediately. An ex-boyfriend even used to call them “pee-mergencies”.  So essentially the long line wasn’t going to work. I looked over at the men’s room, empty of a line, and felt an almost physically sick wave of shame wash over me coupled with bodily fear for myself as a woman. I’ve done it before, used the “other” bathroom, and it’s always hard every time. But hey, this is Seattle right? Land of of the progressive hippies. So I steeled myself up. I hardened my eyes, stood tall in my long dress, left my place in the woman’s line and walked what I hoped was confidently toward the empty men’s room door. A few woman clapped from the line behind me. I felt stronger, that I would be successful. Suddenly, a huge figure moved in front of me, with a black t-shirt that said “BOUNCER”. He crossed his arms. My body deflated. My eyes filled with tears, real ones, not induced this time by my bladder. My confidence was in a million pieces on the dirty, sticky floor. 

”Sorry,” he said. “No women allowed in here.” I want to say that my eyes blazed fire. I was to say that I stood up tall and told him that by denying the full occupancy rights to bathrooms, you are robbing me of the power of my body. You are denying the essential right to females because the assumption of an equal public bathroom space is gender equality, because it’s actually not. And if a woman happens to takes longer to fix her makeup in the mirror, it’s because society has taught her that if her image isn’t impeccable she is not worth it in the eyes of other. That her face paint is a mask to hide the fact that she has been taught for generations that she is not good enough, and her self-worth is based on the opinion of men. And, speaking of weakness, it is not actually a fact of woman “weakness” that we have to pee more often, BECAUSE DID YOU KNOW THAT WOMEN’S BLADDERS ARE ACTUALLY SMALLER THAN MEN’S TO MAKE ROOM FOR THE UTERUS? So fuck you bouncer, and every other man who has ever dug at his girlfriend/ wife for having to pee on the road trip, calling her a “typical woman.” TYPICAL DAMN RIGHT, so pull the fucking car over if you even dream of wanting kids to fulfill a continuation of your egocentric needs. Or realistically, maybe we’ll just drive the cars in the first place.

But I didn’t. I maybe managed a little burn side eye glace, but I hung my head and walked back slowly to the line of woman who parted sympathetically like the red sea to let me back into their loving, broken tribe. 

“It’s okay,” one of them patted me on the shoulder. “It was such a good try. I thought for sure you would get in.” “This place always has that problem,” another said. “It’s ridiculous. Just make more stalls.” I nodded and tried to smile. My confidence was still being ground at my feet by heels and boots, mixed with gross beer stains and dirt.  A few minutes later, my cousin walked up to the restrooms. She is the icon of my life, younger than me by a few years but raised on the West Coast with a strong independent, progressive mindset and headstrong voice that cuts through anything. She took one look at the long women’s line and strode to the men’s door with no hesitation. The bouncer stepped in front of her, arms crossed. I saw her eyes flash. I couldn’t help but smile slightly, knowing what was coming.

“But, WHY?” I heard her demand, standing tall waving her hand toward the women’s line. The bouncer leaned down and said something I couldn’t heard. “UNCOMFORTABLE?!” she almost yelled. “The men feel UNCOMFORTABLE?! What about all of us?!” He looked around shiftily but didn’t waver. She said a few more things I didn’t hear, and then strode back to the women’s line, eyes on fire.  “APPARENTLY,” she said to me and others in line with an exaggerated look back at the bouncer. “The men feel uncomfortable with women in their bathroom. Well excuse us, let the woman just stand aside then for these poor men! It’s not like we’ve been made to feel uncomfortable around men for the last 200 years. God forbid we take away your precious comfort.” The other women in the line nodded some smiling, others not, eyes hard.

I finally managed to pee, and walked back to the table, shaken and hurt. My boyfriend asked what was wrong. I told him a little of what had happened. He shook his head sympathetically, angrily, but I couldn’t snap out of my daze, even when the funk band played their fire cover of “Deborah” by Beck and he grabbed my hand as we all got up to dance.  On the drive home my cousin, slightly beer buzzed and irate, ranted about the injustice of the bathroom incident from the back seat. “Do even they know what they’re doing? Do they know that by putting a bouncer in front of the men’s room they’re taking staff away from the dance floor, a place where women routinely get groped and violated? They’re removing protection from the women’s bodies to help the men feel more comfortable in theirs. Oh, I’M SORRY that the women have to get their asses grabbed by drunk jerks on the regular just because you don’t want people to see your tiny dicks”

I stared out the window listening silently as she talked, watching the rainy streets go by. My insides were still burning, a confused mix of anger and shame. My other friend chimed in, and my wonderful boyfriend drove and sympathized, agreeing with everything and apologizing for the hierarchical social systems created by his gender, which unfortunately he so often feels he has to do. He finally dropped her and my friend off at their apartments, yelling goodnight before heading home silently in the rain. 

Apparently though, we were not the only one who had problems. Fast forward to spring two months ago, when I had finally gotten over my beef with the Nectar Lounge and bought my boyfriend surprise tickets to a bluegrass full cover show of Paul Simon’s “Graceland.” (Can you say ‘things white people like’ for 500, Alex?) My cousin joined us too. We arrived at the venue before she did, so my boyfriend sent her a photo of the shiny, newly added bathroom on the second floor, specifically a gender neutral bathroom. I had seen it on Facebook earlier in the week and felt a tiny hint of satisfaction, or validation. She sent back a smiley face text, adding she’d be there soon. And just like that, it’s fixed. Right? 

Wrong. Later that night we were standing off to the edge of the stage listening to the band play their original tunes, before launching into the second set of “Graceland”. I was standing near the side next to my boyfriend listening to the tunes when I felt unmistakably someone behind me firmly tap the left side of my butt with their hand. I stepped aside quickly, almost jumped really as an older guy reached down around me to grab his coat lying at the bottom of the stage. I stood there, my face burning and my insides churning until the end of the song. What I wanted to do was shrug it off, just move on and keep dancing, enjoying my night. But I had just finished a graduate level class on social inequity and standing up to microaggressions. I could only picture my fire eyed cousin, my professor’s reaction if I didn’t say anything. The song ended, a pause before the next one. It was now or never. I felt actually physically sick, my stomach jumping, my breath short (and still do writing this now). I tapped my boyfriend and said I’d be right back. I took a huge breath and turned around, walking a few steps to the man standing next to his friend. “Excuse me,” I said, looking him in the eye. “If you need someone to move, next time tap their shoulder, not their ass.”

He looked at me and stuttered, saying he didn’t mean anything. “I’m just letting you know is all,” I smiled faintly and walked away.  “What was that about?” my boyfriend asked. I explained briefly, then said I’d tell him more later. I felt shaky, breathing fast but proud of myself. I brushed it off. I stood up taller. I even danced a little swing with my boyfriend, practicing some tiny haphazard spins in the crowd, elated and comfortable to be sharing a bodily space with a person I cared for and trusted. Later when he slipped away to grab a drink, I sidled over to center stage where my cousin was standing, dancing like a maniac. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that man approach him, say something and pointed over to me. My stomach dropped. My boyfriend edged his way through the crowd toward us, drinks in hand.  “What was that about?” I asked warily. “Nothing,” he said. “I was just looking for you, because you weren’t there. He came over, pointed you out and said, ‘give her my best.’“ Hm. Intentions seemed good enough. I shrugged, feeling relieved but still wary. 

Later in the evening I was standing in line at the bar when he came up to me. “Hey,” he said. “I wanted to apologize again. I really meant no disrespect, and I apologize if I made you uncomfortable.” I told him I appreciated it. I really did. I told him I didn’t think he meant anything, but I just wanted to point it out. He thanked me. Then he said it. “Can I offer you some feedback too?”

My face must have dropped. I know my stomach did, mostly in disbelief. “Sure,” I said lightly, pulling myself together.  “Sometimes when couples dance together in these places it can be pretty rude for other people around them. It gets into their space, you know?”

My optimism faded back into a defeated haze. I was stunned. But I was just too tired at that point to fight anymore. I had done what I set out to do, and so I let it go. I nodded emptily. “Thank you for the feedback” I said in a hollow voice. I nodded again. And I walked away. And that was that .  But I was shaken. I looked around at all the people dancing, wondering how many of the women... thinking of the countless number of times throughout my life a man has come up behind me, imposed himself and his dick right up against my ass, slid his hands on my waist then slowly lower down, all in the pretense of motherfucking “dancing”. And not only dancing, but space efficient dancing when I have nowhere else to go. And how that’s okay. How it’s somehow even accepted. And, conversely how dancing face to face with someone I feel comfortable with, moving my feet, taking up my own space of happiness in the world is my own form of defense against that. I’m not sure if the men in my life have ever understood this, but dancing to me is one of the only times when I can feel completely free and safe in my own body. Can let my female spirit, so often guarded and on edge because of the misogyny of our world manifested into physical intimidation on women’s bodies, finally transcend this. I can finally, for once, just let myself be in full confidence and spirit, free. So, you tapping my ass, because somehow, somewhere society taught you that is okay does not ever, EVER give you the right to criticize me for dancing. For expressing joy in movement for myself in my body, trying to overcome the feelings of violation I’ve known my whole life, to finally be whole in myself and my expressions with another, from a world that is constantly telling me I cannot safely interact with a man without hurting myself in the process. Do not ever take away my joy of trying to feel finally safe and comfortable in my body so you can repair your pride. So please, for every other man out there. I’m not saying you’re a bad person. I’m not saying he was. In fact I’m sure he considered himself a very good person. So here’s the thing: You don’t need a comeback. You don’t need to get on “equal playing field” to feel validated in your criticism, to keep your fragile ego powerfully in check, securing the idea that you are, in fact, still a progressive, compassionate man who holds an important place in society. You can nod silently, contemplating the women in your life who might experience this on a daily basis, and thank me for my words. You can swallow your pride and let your ego burn for the sake of a better world for all of us. Or, in the words of one of my good friends, “just accept the feedback.” Because my own fragile clutches at body security in the misogynistic systems of this patriarchal fucking society have robbed me of my ability to enjoy sit comfortable and happy at concerts in public spaces, letting the music wash through my bones like I was born to, free in spirit from societal chains. And all this because instead I have to be on my guard against the violation of my own body and those of my female friends. 

Meanwhile, the bouncers stand silent guard at the men’s room, just so they’re not “uncomfortable.”

Get it now? So dear men. Dear, dear well intentioned, liberal men who could not possible consider themselves sexist because the women’s suffrage occurred in 1920. Besides, you live in vegan friendly Seattle where minimum wage is 15$ and organic kale grows like manna in neighborhood gardens, PLUS you use re-usable shopping bags and voted for Hillary Clinton. Please understand that equality is not in your ego, but in the feelings and validation of the women in your life who you care about so much. Dear men whom we love and share our lives with. Please consider the outcome of your actions, the intense feelings of shame writhing in our stomachs, and the bodily fear we experience every day at the hands of the opposite gender. Please consider that our biological needs are as valid as yours, and that our bodies are not a storefront mannequin to be handled at will. That we are living, breathing humans capable of intense power, fire in our bellies, and that your ego doesn’t have a place in our struggle for basic bodily equality in this broken world.

And dear Nectar Lounge. Yes you. I haven’t forgotten you. You liberal Seattle establishment promoting funk concerts, dancing hippies with fancy tech jobs and inclusivity. You in the hip white solstice party neighborhood, with the rainbow sticker on your door who streamed the Baker’s Dozen Phish show live the other week. Listen to me. Check your fucking self because if you are putting bouncers in front of the men’s bathroom instead of on the dance floor to protect the rights of women’s bodies, you are no better than the people in the white house passing standards against transgender bathroom rights, so go ahead and burn that rainbow sticker at the door. It’s not about the bathrooms. The was it wasn’t about the water fountains for the Civil Rights Movement, the way it isn’t about the individuals who feel shamed from their own gender fluid bodies, from middle schools to locker rooms to our own public venues in supposedly one of the most progressive cities in the country. These are not issues I can claim identity or ownership over, but only a small extremely privileged, insignificant sliver of ally. I understand this. But at the deepest, most basic level is the robbing of a divine human body the right of expression in our public spaces through fear of discomfort. Fear of change, of exiling those in power, cutting them down to the ground to finally view another with compassion in our basic bodies and human rights. We’ve created bonds and chains when all we were born to do was dance.  So in a way, it is about the bathrooms after all.  That night at the bluegrass show in June, after my conversation with that man at the bar, I walked over the the bathrooms. The men’s line was empty, the door unguarded. I stopped. I looked around. I un-clenched my fists and held my middle fingers down to the sticky floor that once held my broken confidence. I held them to the general concert venue, lines, patriarchy and ego and excuses, hurtling through our the flashing eyed women of this world, one painful spin at a time. I walked in, I peed and I left.