hey gurl hey: that gay misogyny ain’t cute

the last time you

touched a vagina you were five years old:
and you were figuring out the mechanics of a body
in a world where birth certificates do not include
instruction manuals
so during recess you played show and tell with her:
you still remember the coolness of her skin

years later your first girlfriend
will invite you inside of her
but you cannot bare the darkness
in-between her legs, that cave you
crawled out of once on a night much like this

so you call yourself gay —
use that word to protect you
from her body, from her want
wipe her tears as she wipes your cum
get it off your chest:
say sorry after you call it disgusting
“i just can’t help it.”
“born this way”
to be a patriarch

you have not seen a naked cis-woman in years:
except the one that slipped in the commercials
to that porn film with men who called each
other pussies when they fucked. except those
breasts you grabbed that night at the gay bar
told her she was gorgeous and that any
man would be lucky to have her
except for some reason you are not 
eligible because the only part of her
body that is useful to you is her
makeup when you go in drag
have a kiki with all your gurls
but her

the tv is running:
america declares war on women,
cannot bare the darkness in-between her 
legs so prescribes laws to keep it
shut cannot bare her nudity,
its honesty, its blood
its creativity

hey gurl – where were you
last night when wendy davis?
when body degraded?
when pleasure made illegal?

too busy getting gay married,
telling stories about accepting mothers
who let you wear pink when you were
fifteen and started fucking boys
and mistook misogyny
for love

hey gurl:
did your ask your her how hard
he hit her? institutionalized rape
and called it marriage? institutionalized servant
and called it mother?

hey gurl 
how many women did it take to make you fierce?
how many women did it take to make you equal?
how many women do you have even have in your phonebook?

hey gurl
the government wants you to get gay married
to drive past the abortion clinics to the altars
to make more babies, to make more politicians
to make more soldiers, to make more rapists, to make more profit,
to make more fabulous, to make her useless,
to make her forgotten, to make her illegal

hey gurl

- Alok Vaid-Menon

the author is aware that this critique still operates in a cissexist framework, and is thinking about how to expand it to be more inclusive of all who experience reproductive (in)justice.




I Wear The Pants

Rugby shirt | Vintage Slacks

The best 20 dollars ever spent, well recently anyway would have to be these pant. Maybe it is how tall I feel in them, a rare feeling I tell you, or the fact that putting them on has become more of a who I become rather than who I have felt like recently. 

We all know an outfit can be as much a costume as the character you become fitting into it, but maybe you are more you with the costume on? Like was Clark Kent the costume or Superman, who was he more comfortable being? Can we chose, can we be more ourselves being our characters then we are being “ourselves”. Maybe “ourselves” is who others think we are and that is the character?

There is something safe, maybe childish about what some of my outfits make me feel like. This is supposed to be a “coming of age” story, for my wardrobe anyway, so as I grow up so should my closet. I don’t want to be the childish personification of  what a “tomboy” may be, but rather the more grown up perhaps androgynous form my style has taken on. It is not forced it is what I am more comfortable looking like. This could also just be that thing we do as young women always trying to be older? Stomping our feet and throwing a fit while demanding to be talked to as adults Maybe? Maybe not?

Personal style hasn’t felt personal enough lately. We see, read, and become influenced by to much. Sometimes we have to let ourselves be our own inspiration, Sometimes you just have to be the one “wearing the pants”.