#gender is control

[vizthedatum]

If gender is a construct, then I'm choosing my own construct, and I'm telling everyone.

But I do wonder... what's out there beyond any one construct? Is it something that we can't even perceive?

[inkskinned]

okay is she being actually immature or is it just a woman over 30 expressing a human experience you find to be immature.

like yeah. at certain ages... let shit go. im not defending the real immature shit. im not defending the karen you're picturing. i worked in retail i hate those people too. (once somebody got mad at me because she didn't like how our winter window decor was a snowman smoking a pipe. i wish i was joking).

but men at 57 will write books about how 17 year old girls are soooo sexy. they will invent worlds where women have to be naked for "armor reasons." they will write songs that treat women as objects. people rush to defend them. meanwhile a woman at 35 will be like "heartbreak is hard, actually" or "i feel betrayed by a friend" or "i am struggling with something emotionally." immediately people will say stuff like this woman is 35 by the way. by the way this woman is SO OLD to be experiencing this. BY THE WAY.

im 31, almost 32. the other day a poet was blasted online because at her "big age", she had written a poem about feeling unloved. top comment was "this woman is 29 by the way." this woman is too old to still be useful, by the way. she has to behave better . maybe if she was a good wife and mother she could stop existing loudly, and the story could continue on without her. this woman has served her purpose, by the way. she's so cringe, by the way. at 29 - so old! - she still hasn't figured out that her existence should be one of shame.

[redditreceipts]

lmaooooooo

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Thistle Debut Day!

[anyanary]

I present to you: fem wangxian

[theabigailthorn]

What in the academic fuck is a GIC assesment

A GIC assessment (Gender Identity Clinic) assessment is the psychiatric interrogation you have to go through in Britain if you want permission to medically transition (and some aspects of legal transition too). Also called a Gender Dysphoria Assessment.

It involves answering a bunch of medically irrelevant, repetitive, deeply humiliating, repetitive questions like how you masturbate, what you wear when you masturbate, your sexual history, your childhood history, what toys you played with as a child, your employment, the clothes you like to wear, your relationship with your partners and family, etc. The classic is "Do you imagine yourself as a woman when you masturbate?" It also involves various psychiatric tests to check whether you're psychotic, which are deeply stigmatising. You will likely have to suffer this interrogation more than once if you want certain medical and legal doors to open. If you do not answer these questions "correctly" you may be refused transition.

If you want to get it for free, you'll need to wait several years, possibly decades depending on where you live, to be admitted to a Gender Identity Clinic.

If you want to go private, it will cost you about £500 a go, maybe more. (It's not technically a GIC Assessment unless it takes place at an NHS GIC; otherwise it's just sparkling humiliation.)

At the end of your interrogation you will - if you answered correctly - be diagnosed with "gender dysphoria." There is no way for them to check whether the answers you gave were truthful or whether you just told them what they want to hear. In Britain, about a third of trans people surveyed said they lied or withheld information during these assessments. There was no way for the 2015 American Psychiatric Association Working Group on gender dysphoria - the cis people who created the diagnosis* - to know that the interview data they based it on wasn't also full of people telling doctors what they wanted to hear! The unreliability of that data, some researchers have said, calls into serious question the use and sense of the diagnosis! * Fun fact: Ray Blanchard and Kenneth Zucker were both on that working group!

The NHS spends somewhere between 20 and 90 million pounds a year (depending on how you count it) on doing this.

Contrast that process to, say, the treatment pathway for menopause, where a cis woman who wants hormone replacement therapy can just get it from her family doctor 🙃

If you'd like to know more about this, I spoke about it here in more detail with citations

And wrote about it here

[twirling-twisting]

You've always loved how peaceful the mornings of a session are.

You walk into the office building as if it's a regular work day, eyes a little tired and mind racing with thoughts of what you'll need to do later after your session is done.

You walk to the receptionist (you've become acquainted with them since you've been coming around so often) and they wave at you and give you a pleasant 'hello'. They know what you're here for—there's only one reason people would continually enter this building.

They give you a keycard, smiling as they wave you goodbye, your shoes leaving little clinks as you walk away and towards an elevator.

You press the up arrow button and wait a moment for the elevator to head down. You look around at the decor, noticing a new painting above that old sage green chair you love to sit and wait on when you're extra early.

The ding of the elevator and the swoosh of the door opening takes your attention away, whisking you into its warm walls. You step in and turn around, that card in your hand meeting with a black scanner next to a large amount of buttons. Once you hear a small beep, you push the button you always press.

42.

The doors shut quietly as you move to stand in the middle of the room. You hum a little to yourself, waiting to feel the elevator start to move as a little tune plays on the radio above the buttons.

Then, the intercom turns on. This has always been your favorite part.

A gentle, soft voice greets you kindly.

"Welcome back, dear. It's always lovely to see you."

You hum back gently, already feeling your shoulder relax at the welcome. You belong here.

"How have you been feeling? Have you been drinking enough water and eating properly?"

You nod your head at seemingly no one, staring forward at silver doors that look just a tad too fake to be made of metal. (You can hear a few quiet dings every time you go up a floor).

"I'm so glad to see that, dear."

You can feel a wave of happiness rush over you, a smile adorning your face at the heartfelt pride from the disembodied voice. You've done good.

"Such a cute smile you have. Now, you know the drill, dear."

You do. You've done it so often within the last few months that it's almost second nature.

You continue to stare forward, the doors of the elevator changing color and shape, their once mock metal turning into a sage green with a spiral.

It moves slowly, from the outside inward, drawing you forward into its comforting twirl. You stare directly into the middle of it, eyes unseeing as a few flashes start to appear. (You learned to ignore them — You were never fast enough to read them well any way).

The rest of the walls around you turn into the same spiral, the sage green light making you relax even further into yourself. Your neck slacks a bit, your back hunching forwards as you stare further into the spiral, your jaw unclenches. You feel yourself breathe deeper, each inhale deeper than the last and each exhale making your eyelids heavy.

"That's a good toy."

You hear distantly as your eyes remain locked on the doors infront of you. You stare and stare, those little glimpses of text entering your helpless and open mind. Before you even realize it, there are images that appear with the text.

Obscene imagery flashes on the green, photographs of women getting their brains fucked out, shots of men on their knees with their mouths gagged, and a few images of yourself in positions you love flooding your vision.

You can't seem to get enough.

You feel so aroused and needy, all of the photos willing you to want so badly. You can feel a wetness between your legs and that makes you even hornier.

"Patience."

You hear it just barely, muffled. You whine slightly, making sure you're not moving your hips or biting your lip. "Good toys are patient." You've heard before.

"Only five more floors."

The voice almost whispers, luring your ears to focus more on it.

The spirals continue as you hear those last few dings, and then they fade out, leaving you and your weak body standing alone in the middle of the elevator. A few dim lights that light the bottom trim of the elevator turn on, as the final ding rings and the door mechanisms start to open.

The room it opens to is so warm and cozy, nice and sweet smelling. The aroma hits you instantly.

"There's my toy." Says a familiar voice from behind a computer screen. You can hear a smile in their tone, making your brain fill with happiness and joy.

"Hello, Master," You say joyfully, a new sense of eagerness entering you.

You straighten your back, adjust yourself, and walk out of the elevator and into the big room. You can see it fully now, with the large dark wooden bookcases filled to the brim, you've look at those books and never read one, you're too dumb to— and the gorgeous green couch that sits to one side you've been fucked on that couch so many times, the sight of it makes you want to moan.

And then your eyes meet another's, lit up nicely by a computer screen. They look at you, so loving and kind, and then chuckle as they stand from their comfy office chair you've sucked them off from under that desk more times than you can count.

"Hello, darling. How's my cute little toy?" Master asks, an attractive slyness in their tone.

You look at the ground for a second before looking back up and answering with, "I've been good, Master."

Master looks pleased with that answer, moving to go around the desk and to walk towards you. Once they reach you, their hand reaches up to stroke your cheek, and you can feel yourself melt into the touch. Your eyes roll back slightly, nudging into the hands movement as Master chuckles.

"Very eager today, I see." They say as you continue to nuzzle into their hand. "We'll make sure you don't think for a good while. "

And you don't remember much after that.

When you leave the building, after giving your card back in and walking out the front door, you feel a new sense of purpose while you walk down the street.

Your head offers you, "Good toy," "Fuck, just like that", and "Just a bit more."

You can't wait for your next session.

[crimeschild]

the barbie (2023) experience as an afab non binary person is just [reconnecting with your femininity and love for pink bc you couldnt when u were younger bc being too girly will get u made fun of] [feeling guilt bc u dont identify with being a girl but girlhood is so inherently beautiful and magical and no experience is truly like it] [healing the inner child in you by allowing yourself to enjoy dolls and pink and maximalism] [unapologetically letting yourself wear pink and be stereotypically girly in a society where being non binary means you have to be presenting androgynous 24/7] [getting your grown-up heart shattered and then put back together again by your inner child using sparkly glue over and over in the span of two hours] [realizing that no matter what you do you have somewhat experienced girlhood and it shaped you to be the person you are today and you will never get to erase that experience or truly disconnect yourself from it] [appreciating and understanding your mother in a way that you thought wasnt possible without experiecing motherhood]

[thatgentlewife]

[geek-22]

Trans men and enby's,

Testosterone does not work as birth control.

Your doctor may tell you this, a nurse might, but it DOES NOT.

For the love of god, wear protection

[my-traditional-world]

Birth control and abortion were not made legal to allow women to have control over their bodies. It was invented to add the domestic population to the work force.

[zackxsnyder]

I will decide for you. Don't worry.

I will decide your sleep schedule, what and when you eat, so that you won't forget to take care of your health.

I will decide where we go and what we do, so you only have to relax and enjoy.

I will decide what you wear, and give you codes. Code 1 for slutty, 2 for sexy, 3 for classy. I will tell you which code you'll need for every day and for every occasion. You will only deal with the best part: having fun shopping according to My preferences.

I will decide how you speak, how you refer to Me, how you refer to yourself, what tone and choice of words you use.

I will decide what you think, how you feel, and your opinions about everything, including your own life and memories.

I will decide how you act, how you move, how you walk and how you present yourself to Me.

I will decide what housework and chores you take care of, and what exercice routine you follow.

I will decide when you're free to watch your favorite shows and pursue your hobbies, after I've approved of them.

I will decide how you edge, what will turn you on from now on, what mantras you'll repeat daily, how you train your holes for Me, and what porn you watch.

I will decide how you serve Me, cook for Me, help Me relax, show off and dance for Me, entertain Me, humiliate yourself for Me, soothe Me, be cute and silly for Me, and how you suck My cock and take it in every last one of your holes.

I will decide how I punish you, praise you, train you, discipline you, reward you and encourage you.

I will decide what slave you are for Me each day; the bimbo fucktoy, the cute soothing puppy, the worthless cumrag, the abuse whore, the cum dump, the leashed pet, the housewife, the slutty maid, the club hoe, or Daddy's girl.

I will decide everything.

I will decide, so you can be free.

Free of the worries and stress and responsibilities you never should've had as a woman.

Free to be happy, and horny, and silly, and fulfilled.

Free to worship Me, like you were born to do.

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.

[marytheberrygirl]

Feedee Encouragement "Meditation" [Preview][Full Clip 18 min]

I’ve been searching for someone just like you…and you’re finally here.

There’s nothing that pleases me more than someone just on the edge of giving into their gluttony - and encouraging them to finally take the leap.

I will be the voice in your ear … to eat more… and more … and more.

Available on LF | NF | CFS or DM Me to Buy Direct 😈 Of course everything is included for LF subscribers

[adult-human-gc-female]

Found this post today, and together with my experience of narcissistic abuse it kinda clicked.

People say what this person wants to hear.

✨ But this is not enough. ✨

People should sit like this person wants. People should think like this person wants.

They always want to control everything. Just like my abuser did. This is why I was always been so bothered by the pronouns. Because it is nothing less but control over the way I speak and think.

[pratchettquotes]

Besides, she thought as she watched Wazzer drink, you only thought the world would be better if it was run by women if you didn't actually know many women. Or old women, at least. Take the whole thing about the dimity scarves. Women had to cover their hair on Fridays, but there was nothing about this in the Book, which was pretty dar--pretty damn rigorous about most things. It was done because it had always been done that way. And if you forgot, the old women got you. They could practically see through walls. [...]

Polly had forgotten her dimity scarf. She did wear it at home on Fridays, for no other reason than that it was easier than not doing so. She vowed that, if she ever got back, she'd never do it again.

Terry Pratchett, Monstrous Regiment