when i was five, and romance didn’t exist for boys, it did exist for me. “she’s going to break hearts one day,” people said, speaking about me over my head. i smiled, because that is something little girls are supposed to be pleased to hear.
when i was six i was supposed to kiss my best friend because he was a boy, and when i wouldn’t, he pushed me down hard enough that my palms bled. he said if i told a teacher, he’d tell everyone i kissed him and i was bad at it. i washed off in the school’s bathroom sink and cried about it all through recess.
at eight, i stopped wearing dresses because i couldn’t turn cartwheels in them. “a tomboy,” somebody said about me, over my head, as if i couldn’t hear them. i said, “i don’t want to be a boy,” and they laughed. “we know, sweetness.” i said, “i’m not sweet, i’m serious,” and they laughed again. “you’re cute,” they said. i smiled at that, because that’s something little girls are supposed to be pleased to hear.
at nine, i had too many friends that were boys. “i don’t like it,” my father said, standing in the kitchen. i didn’t understand it. “your body is going to start changing soon, and i don’t want those boys looking at you. i don’t like it,” he’d repeat. we moved away that summer. i lost everybody.
when i was eleven, my teacher took me out of the classroom and asked me to put on another layer because even though it was hot in there, all of the boys were staring at the little forming bumps on my chest. i remember embarrassment spiking down my spine like lightning. i begged my mother to take me bra shopping. it was terrible there, in those bright stores with bright lights and beautiful women with tight thighs. it was terrible and embarrassing to touch or look at or even think about these things.
at thirteen, my best guy friend wrestled me to the ground and covered me in kisses no matter how much i asked him to stop it. “it’s supposed to be like this,” he kept repeating, “just stop struggling.” he told me i was pretty and lovely and that boys and girls can’t be friends. he told me to stop being so mad at him, that little girls are supposed to be pleased about these things.
the same winter, i was catcalled for the first time in my whole life. i jumped when the car pulled up by my side. they said “baby” over my head as if i wasn’t who they were discussing. i didn’t smile about it. i had to sit down to stop myself from vomiting.
when i was fifteen, half of my friends were boys. my best friend was in love with me. he told me i was breaking his heart. he said that if i didn’t love him back, he’d have nothing to live for anymore. the story with the rest of them is all the same. either they left me or they thought they fell in love with the idea of somebody i wasn’t.
that summer when i was sad - and i was sad categorically, always - i tried reaching out. when i turned to the boys, all i heard was, “don’t cut, you’re beautiful,” “don’t kill yourself, you’re so pretty,” “think of the scars, sweetie,” “when you cut yourself, i’m the one who starts bleeding.” i didn’t smile, although i think girls are supposed to be pleased to hear these things. i didn’t know how to say: i don’t feel beautiful, and even if i did, what i’m doing to myself has nothing to do with you, or what i look like, or how fuckable i am to you. instead i told them i was fine, and fixed, and nothing bad was happening.
when he broke my heart, it was because i told him no. when he left, i cried because it hurt to watch my best friend go. when he left, he said that he’d never liked me for my soul: only for my curves, the only real way to measure worth in a girl.
at sixteen, i had only girl friends. they were gentle, and different, and walked me through things. they held my hand when classes got too loud for me, and it meant friendship. they kissed me on the cheeks when i was crying, and it meant friendship. they slept next to me and it was friendship in the way i wasn’t used to. i was used to “stop being a tease,” to “why are you doing this to me.” it was just friendship, and it was excellent.
i was called a dyke, a lesbian, a man-hater. i thought of the men who had hurt me, who had spoken over my head, who had given me their full opinion even though i never asked for it. i was hated by basically everyone. i was sad and lonely so often that i often thought i’d never feel happy again.
at nineteen, in college, i had friends who were boys again, because college boys are supposed to be old enough to see you as a person. they all called me Steve, short for Steven. at first i thought it was some kind of inside joke, that it was cute, that it meant they loved me the way i loved them all. one day while we were both drunk, i asked one of them why they wouldn’t just say my name. he laughed. he said, “god, you’re going to hate me when i explain.” he said that they’d all formed an agreement behind my back that none of them would fuck me, that if i was going to be one of the bros, i couldn’t be a girl to them. i could only be seen as a boy if i wanted to be their friend. he said this all while staring at a point over my head, and tried to kiss me at the end. when i pushed him away, he said, “sorry, steve,” took a breath, “but if i start seeing you as a girl, i’m gonna try to kiss you again.”
i said, “i don’t want to be a boy, though,” and he laughed again.
he said, “i know, sweetie.”
at twenty-two, i am sick of boys who are “nice,” who are “not like other boys,” who are offended when i don’t immediately trust their intentions. i have been hurt over and over and over again. i only talk to about three of my boy friends and the rest i lost because i dared not to fuck them.
at the same time, i kept most of my girl friends. i have had crushes on most of them. it never impacted our relationships. even girls who are gay like i am know that being friends doesn’t mean i owe them. they hold my eyes when i talk to them.
i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry. i love so many people, and many boys are wonderful and charming and excellent. i’m sorry i flinch away from a friendship. i’m sorry i will be cold and unaffectionate and scared of getting too close
it’s just that, since i was five, i was told i break hearts.
—girls don’t owe you shit, dude: a polite reply to a post which inadvertently blames girls for distrusting the affections of a guy friend (via my-nipples-sound-like-nobody)
(Source: inkskinned, via roryink)
This is rape culture.
This is white male privilege.
This is injustice.
The rapist and the judge are revolting, sociopathic spawns of the devil.
Rapist: Brock Allen Turner
Judge: Aaron PerskyI want to see this piece of shit’s mugshot. Not his grad picture.
^ THIS
I’d also like rape news to delineate where _HER_ career was going and what _HER_ hopes and dreams were before some douche put his dick in her. I don’t want to hear about her blood-alcohol content like that was some reason why she deserved to be raped.
(via cyberneticspacerock)
TW for sexual assault, rape culture
IF YOU READ ONE THING TODAY, READ THIS COMIC! THEN SHARE IT.
IT IS AN INCREDIBLY WELL DONE EXPLANATION OF AN OFTEN MISUNDERSTOOD TOPIC.
The Impossible Demands of Dating Under the Pressures of Rape Culture
“When you’re dating, you may get lots of advice on keeping yourself safe. At the same time, you can get pressure to be carefree. And if something bad happens, you’re blamed for not properly calculating the risks! So what gives?
You shouldn’t have to carry the demand to be both available and super capable of preventing your own assault. This comic says it all.”
Men: Don’t look like a trash can
Women: “Look pretty enough to show you’re a woman” because the only thing that matters to be a woman is to be beautiful, also “covered enough to look like a lady” because showing your shoulder will make every man in the audience simaltaneously ejaculate and it will be a big mess. Also if someone stares at your tits and not your face, it’s your fault and you should be ashamed of yourself and your disgusting, lustful body.This is disgusting
I would fucking go there in a suit and fake beard.
“What? you said “modesty”. According to you, men clothing are modest by nature, so here I am: dressed like a man. Fuck you.”
Let’s see how many ways we can all incense the people who wrote these rules without actually breaking them.
So far I have:
- Nun habit
- Victorian formal dress
- Gentleman’s suit (in pink, so they know you’re a woman)
- A fucking cardboard box that covers your shoulders and chest, but not your midriff. Worn with an “earth mother” floor-length skirt
- Anything that reads “My face is up here”
- A Khaftan with the word “WOMAN” over most of it and “FACE” near the neck. Helpful arrow optional.
- Monk’s robes
- Feminine plate armour
- Samos cosplay
- Full Lolita frills with a longer style of skirt
- A dress made out of a potato sack.
- A fucking ball gown
- Anything you like with a goddamn BLACK BODY STOCKING underneath
- Green Screen Suit [“What? You want me to be invisible anyway…”]
- Butterfly dress
- Full Starfleet Uniform
- Dinosaur exosuit [Just come to school as a fucking velociraptor. Do it]
- Anything formless that you can print your resumé on
- White tie and tails
- Fursuit
- Dominatrix outfit with flat heel shoes
- And my favourite: Jeans and a Geeky T-shirt with sandshoes.
What other things can we do to mess these people up?
(via meefling)
Men: Don’t look like a trash can
Women: “Look pretty enough to show you’re a woman” because the only thing that matters to be a woman is to be beautiful, also “covered enough to look like a lady” because showing your shoulder will make every man in the audience simaltaneously ejaculate and it will be a big mess. Also if someone stares at your tits and not your face, it’s your fault and you should be ashamed of yourself and your disgusting, lustful body.This is disgusting
Pro tip: if your school hands you this, turn up in a Nun’s habit (replete with wimple) and Mary Janes or steel-toed bovva boots. Keep asking why your clothing is inappropriate if they pull you up.
(via spacemuffinz)