Showing posts tagged gender
Birth control isn’t free.  Women pay for it with insurance premiums just like everyone else.

Birth control isn’t free.  Women pay for it with insurance premiums just like everyone else.

Virginia Republican tells pregnant women they’re just “hosts”.  

Hum.. If that’s true than fetuses are just parasites.

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/progressivesecularhumanist/2014/02/mansplaining-virginia-republican-tells-pregnant-women-theyre-just-hosts/

(Reblogged from stfuprolifers)

SHOPPING GUIDE for the perfect KID gift!!

There is no such thing as a “girl’s” toy or a “boy’s” toy.  There are only toys. PERIOD. 

I don’t want my tax dollars paying for your erection!Impotence, it’s God’s will.

I don’t want my tax dollars paying for your erection!
Impotence, it’s God’s will.

 

 

(Reblogged from shihtzuman)

The Rape Joke

A Poem By Patricia Lockwood


Rape Joke

The rape joke is that you were 19 years old.

The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.

The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.

Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke. “Ahhhh,” it thinks. “Yes. A goatee.”

No offense.

The rape joke is that he was seven years older. The rape joke is that you had known him for years, since you were too young to be interesting to him. You liked that use of the word interesting, as if you were a piece of knowledge that someone could be desperate to acquire, to assimilate, and to spit back out in different form through his goateed mouth.

Then suddenly you were older, but not very old at all.

The rape joke is that you had been drinking wine coolers. Wine coolers! Who drinks wine coolers? People who get raped, according to the rape joke.

The rape joke is he was a bouncer, and kept people out for a living.

Not you!

The rape joke is that he carried a knife, and would show it to you, and would turn it over and over in his hands as if it were a book.

He wasn’t threatening you, you understood. He just really liked his knife.

The rape joke is he once almost murdered a dude by throwing him through a plate-glass window. The next day he told you and he was trembling, which you took as evidence of his sensitivity.

How can a piece of knowledge be stupid? But of course you were so stupid.

The rape joke is that sometimes he would tell you you were going on a date and then take you over to his best friend Peewee’s house and make you watch wrestling while they all got high.

The rape joke is that his best friend was named Peewee.

OK, the rape joke is that he worshiped The Rock.

Like the dude was completely in love with The Rock. He thought it was so great what he could do with his eyebrow.

The rape joke is he called wrestling “a soap opera for men.” Men love drama too, he assured you.

The rape joke is that his bookshelf was just a row of paperbacks about serial killers. You mistook this for an interest in history, and laboring under this misapprehension you once gave him a copy of Günter Grass’s My Century, which he never even tried to read.

It gets funnier.

The rape joke is that he kept a diary. I wonder if he wrote about the rape in it.

The rape joke is that you read it once, and he talked about another girl. He called her Miss Geography, and said “he didn’t have those urges when he looked at her anymore,” not since he met you. Close call, Miss Geography!

The rape joke is that he was your father’s high-school student—your father taught World Religion. You helped him clean out his classroom at the end of the year, and he let you take home the most beat-up textbooks.

The rape joke is that he knew you when you were 12 years old. He once helped your family move two states over, and you drove from Cincinnati to St. Louis with him, all by yourselves, and he was kind to you, and you talked the whole way. He had chaw in his mouth the entire time, and you told him he was disgusting and he laughed, and spat the juice through his goatee into a Mountain Dew bottle.

The rape joke is that come on, you should have seen it coming. This rape joke is practically writing itself.

The rape joke is that you were facedown. The rape joke is you were wearing a pretty green necklace that your sister had made for you. Later you cut that necklace up. The mattress felt a specific way, and your mouth felt a specific way open against it, as if you were speaking, but you know you were not. As if your mouth were open ten years into the future, reciting a poem called Rape Joke.

The rape joke is that time is different, becomes more horrible and more habitable, and accommodates your need to go deeper into it.

Just like the body, which more than a concrete form is a capacity.

You know the body of time is elastic, can take almost anything you give it, and heals quickly.

The rape joke is that of course there was blood, which in human beings is so close to the surface.

The rape joke is you went home like nothing happened, and laughed about it the next day and the day after that, and when you told people you laughed, and that was the rape joke.

It was a year before you told your parents, because he was like a son to them. The rape joke is that when you told your father, he made the sign of the cross over you and said, “I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” which even in its total wrongheadedness, was so completely sweet.

The rape joke is that you were crazy for the next five years, and had to move cities, and had to move states, and whole days went down into the sinkhole of thinking about why it happened. Like you went to look at your backyard and suddenly it wasn’t there, and you were looking down into the center of the earth, which played the same red event perpetually.

The rape joke is that after a while you weren’t crazy anymore, but close call, Miss Geography.

The rape joke is that for the next five years all you did was write, and never about yourself, about anything else, about apples on the tree, about islands, dead poets and the worms that aerated them, and there was no warm body in what you wrote, it was elsewhere.

The rape joke is that this is finally artless. The rape joke is that you do not write artlessly.

The rape joke is if you write a poem called Rape Joke, you’re asking for it to become the only thing people remember about you.

The rape joke is that you asked why he did it. The rape joke is he said he didn’t know, like what else would a rape joke say? The rape joke said YOU were the one who was drunk, and the rape joke said you remembered it wrong, which made you laugh out loud for one long split-open second. The wine coolers weren’t Bartles & Jaymes, but it would be funnier for the rape joke if they were. It was some pussy flavor, like Passionate Mango or Destroyed Strawberry, which you drank down without question and trustingly in the heart of Cincinnati Ohio.

Can rape jokes be funny at all, is the question.

Can any part of the rape joke be funny. The part where it ends—haha, just kidding! Though you did dream of killing the rape joke for years, spilling all of its blood out, and telling it that way.

The rape joke cries out for the right to be told.

The rape joke is that this is just how it happened.

The rape joke is that the next day he gave you Pet Sounds. No really. Pet Sounds. He said he was sorry and then he gave you Pet Sounds. Come on, that’s a little bit funny.

Admit it.

Patricia Lockwood is the author of Balloon Pop Outlaw Black (Octopus Books, 2012). Follow her on Twitter at @TriciaLockwood.

parliament-of-owls:

one of my favorite things about my place of employment is that we have a poster of this hanging in the men’s restroom.

parliament-of-owls:

one of my favorite things about my place of employment is that we have a poster of this hanging in the men’s restroom.

(Reblogged from eco-before-ego)

yobaba:

Republicans worry about the dangers of people marrying for love. Democrats worry about the dangers of assault weapons being sold at Walmart.

Shout out to the beautiful, clear-eyed human being who orchestrated this perfect thought. 

(Reblogged from recall-all-republicans)

SAFETY FIRST!

Apparently North Carolina republicans don’t know the difference between a motorcycle and the female reproductive system.  (And I thought I was the only one who connected limits on abortion to motorcycle safety!)

 

What men want, America delivers

In his single “Blurred Lines,” Robin Thicke sings soulfully about giving a good girl what she really wants—buckwild sex—even if she can’t come out and admit it. It’s a catchy enough song. Some might even call it this summer’s anthem. But “Blurred Lines” is also a song that revisits the age-old belief that sometimes when a woman says no she really means yes.

Link to full article: http://www.salon.com/2013/07/05/what_men_want_america_delivers/

If only my vagina were shooting up schools, airports, theaters, and offices…THEN the GOP would willfully ignore regulating it.

(She means uterus, but you get the point).

FORCED BIRTHS???

Are we seriously on a path to forced births - turning women into livestock and forcing them to bear children?  TRUST WOMEN.  Women are not incompetent and we do not need a bunch of white men telling us what do to with our own health and well-being.  If law-makers want to reduce abortions then they should be helping women get equal pay for equal work.  They should be trying to reduce poverty.  They should support free birth control for all women and age-appropriate sex education in school…  But they don’t.  Instead they support Forced Births.

Here’s the latest news out of Texas - http://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/25/us/texas-house-restricts-abortions-in-a-move-that-could-force-clinics-to-shut.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=edit_th_20130625&_r=0

nemomeimpune-lacessit:

The Nu Project’s Nude Photos Tell The Truth About Women’s Bodies

The Nu Project is a no-glamor honest look at beauty and image in our world.

Female nudity isn’t hard to come by in the media, but the bodies we see usually represent a fairly limited scope of sizes and shapes. The Nu Project, a collection of nude photographs shot by Minneapolis photographer Matt Blum, seeks to add some variety to the mix. Blum started The Nu Project in 2005 but said it really took off when his wife, Katy Kessler, became the project’s editor. Blum sees the photos as filling a void. “When I started shooting nudes there was no project like it,” he told The Huffington Post in an email. The things that I had seen either used models with typical model bodies or average people who were made to look extremely unimpressive. I figured there was a way to treat women (of any size/shape) like models and photograph them beautifully, respectfully without a lot of sexual under or overtones. The women photographed are all volunteers, and most of the pictures are taken in the subjects’ homes — where they feel most comfortable. The Nu Project’s website showcases six galleries of nudes, three shot in North America, three in South America. Although Blum told HuffPost that he feels that they have a “good variety of people involved,” he and Kessler acknowledge on The Nu Project website that they’d love for the subjects to be more diverse. “The hardest part for us is that the project is 100 percent volunteer, so I do not see the women until I show up at their door,” Blum writes on the website. “We’re doing our best to encourage all types of women, but we need volunteers of all backgrounds and walks of life to make the project more complete.” Blum said he ultimately hopes that these images inspire the women who see them to feel better about their own bodies. “It’s been really exciting to hear people react to the images,” he told HuffPost. “We get a lot of feedback from women (especially) who have struggled to see themselves as beautiful, and this project has helped them on that path.”

http://thenuproject.com/

(Reblogged from fuckyeahfeminists)