Here’s some good, some lived experience named: The Terrible Bargain We Have Regretfully Struck, (potentially triggering) What It Means When You Make a Rape Joke, and the life-changing All About Love by bell hooks. I hope they are as liberating for you as they have been for me.

*I read this amazing quote in some assigned reading the other day (though damned if I can remember which article it was!) that said (and I’m paraphrasing here), when you’re in the depths of despair, when all you can feel is bottomless pain, take comfort in knowing that your capacity for seemingly endless pain is also your capacity for joy. The depth of pain you experience now will one day be replaced with an equal capacity for joy. And my God is it true. THAT brought me to tears in the midst of a busy coffee shop.

P.S. I’m sorry for my extended absence, I’ve been living and loving and learning.

Most importantly, you’ve let me come into my own. You’ve let me connect to my body in a way that I didn’t know was possible. 23 years of being disembodied, being ashamed and hateful left me disconnected and numb. But you slowly and surely let me come into my body. You let me feel alive in a way I didn’t know I was missing. You freed me from the shackles of a society and a personal history that taught me to hate myself. And for that, I will always love you.

Liberation, it turns out, comes on two wheels.

For example, as I’ve continued to question the pervasive notion that thinner is necessarily prettier, I’ve discovered that I love soft, curvy female bodies. Not to the exclusion of thinner female bodies but in addition to. A voluptuous thigh or a soft belly, rather than being reviled as a sign of weakness or moral inferiority is a sexy invitation to dream of kissing, touching, caressing. (And this, in turn, has helped me to realize that I too can be sexy. If the bodies that look just like me are sexy that means I am too!)

An androgynous woman, or perhaps a boi, rather than inviting shame and fear at what it meant about my sexuality, as I’ve come to understand and embrace that I’m attracted to people all across the spectrum of gender expression, is as fun and sexy as the cute hipster dudes that frequent my work.

What’s so funny about feminism is that it’s made a whole new range of bodies attractive to me, but much fewer people. While I may be attracted to short and stocky or tall and lanky, super femme or super butch, male, female or anything between or outside, the personalities I’m attracted to become fewer and fewer. Because the simple fact is, if you’re not a feminist, I don’t want to fuck you. If you’re not anti-oppressive, I don’t want you in my life, as a friend, as a lover or as a partner. And though that certainly narrows the pool, it does it in the must delicious way. Because there is absolutely nothing hotter to me than a socially progressive person. Start talking social justice and I’ll melt. And in the meantime, I’ll happily enjoy watching the beautiful variety of bodies on our wonderful world.

“Promiscuity is nothing more than traveling, there’s more than one way to see the world.“
This is precisely how I view sex. It’s a way of experiencing the world, experiencing what it means to be human at the most basic (and base) level. It’s a way of connecting yourself to another person in the most intimate, vulnerable, naked–metaphorically (and literally, of course)–way. At least, good sex is. The kind of sex where you can ask for what you want, where you stretch your boundaries (safely!) to accommodate what the other person wants, where you luxuriate in lingering over your partner’s body. The kind of sex where time stops, outside concerns disappear, and it feels like the earth has swallowed you whole.

Why am I conflating sex with promiscuity, you might be asking. Because Ani is reclaiming the word. Rather than being shameful, dirty, secretive, something only “bad girls” do, non-monogamous sex is awesome! It’s liberating and fun, and it can be safe and profound. Sex doesn’t have to be something “very special that two people who love each other very much” do. (It certainly can be, and if that’s how you like it, good on ya!) It can also be something two people that kind of like each other do. Or something that four people who think the other three are sexy do.

My rules for sex are that it has to be safe, trusting, respectful and consensual. So, for me, one night stands don’t work. Because I can’t trust someone that fast. And I can’t trust that they’ll seek and respect my consent. What it doesn’t mean, though, is that I have to love the person. Or that I have to be in a long-term committed relationship with them. Or that our relationship has to approach monogamy in any way.

“And seeing the world through another’s eyes is like busting the windows in a world of lies and in the end you make up your own mind.“
Seeing your body through another’s eyes is positively transformative. Those bits you were always too shy to bare, fearing they were too big, too small, just not conforming to society’s standards as much as you’d like, he or she might find unbearably sexy. That wobbly belly you’ve never liked may feel perfectly at home quivering under your lover’s touch.

And seeing sex through another’s eyes broadens your horizons. It rewrites your sexual scripts. It might introduce you to things you would never have considered and now can’t live without. It might reduce you to a pile of giggles. It might remind you of the profound beauty of being human.

“How you gonna know what you need, what you like, until you’ve been around the block a few times on that bike?”
Well?

“And promiscuity is research and development, evolution begs embellishment. And baby, you’re a star.“
It is, it does and you are!

“Honesty is the hardest part because honesty is the highest art. And, honestly, I myself just started. And, eureka! I’m less broken hearted.“
Good sex, good relationships and good living require honesty. Honesty with yourself first and foremost. Admitting and honouring what you like, what you don’t like. What you need, what you can’t have. What boundaries can never be breached and what can be gently pushed. This applies to all aspects of life. Sex, love, friendship, career. Then you have to share that honesty with the people in your life. Your lovers, your family, your friends. And it’s hard. It’s hard to be honest with yourself. Especially when it comes to dark stuff, scary stuff, weird stuff. And it’s hard to be honest with others. You’re putting yourself out there, laid bare, hoping they’ll still be there when you’re done.

And it’s entirely true. It’s hard. And it’s an art. And I’m just getting started. This past year has been the most honest, vulnerable, trusting, loving and rewarding year of my life.

Funny story, I once told a not-quite-decided-but-mostly-anti-choice woman that anti-choice=anti-woman and she was outraged. How dare I?! And you know, I refused to even engage in dialogue. Was that the best tactic? Probably not. Would I act differently if the situation came up again? I hope so.

Let’s poke a few holes in the anti-choice rhetoric that claims to be anything but misogynistic fascism.

“I’m not anti-woman, I’m pro-life!”
Nope. You’re pro-tiny cluster of cells used to punish ‘sluts’ for daring to have non-procreative sex. If you were really pro-life you’d be pro-wanted-life. You’d be pro-contraception (and you almost never are). You’d be out adopting and fostering the children you push so hard to have born and then abandon. You’d be pro-social supports that allow women to have children when and if they want to. And Hell, if you were ethically consistent, you’d damn well be vegan.

“I’m not anti-woman, I’m pro-woman! I’m saving women from evil abortion doctors!”
There’s a strange perception–or perhaps it’s simply propaganda–among some anti-choicers that abortion doctors are actively recruiting young women to ply their craft upon. That abortion is this grand money-making scheme (when, of course, we know that abortion providers are fucking heros who literally put their lives on the line every single day for your right and mine to bodily autonomy). That abortion providers are tricking and manipulating women into aborting wanted fetuses. Nothing could be further from the truth. And what a paternalistic view to take. Those poor, dumb wimmins couldn’t possibly know what an abortion is. I must save them! Giving women that little credit sure as Hell sounds anti-woman to me. And let’s not pretend that an anti-choicer claiming to be pro-woman could ever be anything but the bleakest of irony.

“I’m not anti-woman! I’m pro-fetus! Fetuses have rights!”
Uh, no. They don’t. Legally, they do not. Ethically, they do not. Fetuses are clusters of cells that depend entirely upon a woman’s continued consent to develop into human babies. The focus on fetuses is a misdirect. A way to exert control over women’s bodies and sexuality without being (so) overt. A way to shame women who have sex. A way to punish women who have sex, without ever admitting the real motivation. If you truly cared about fetuses–and the babies they become–you would only support wanted pregnancies. If a woman is having an abortion it’s because she–for whatever reason–doesn’t feel like she can or should become a mother right now. Trust her. If you do not trust women to know what’s best for themselves, you are anti-woman. Period.

“I’m not anti-woman! I’m _________.”
I’ll repeat myself, to make sure you heard me: If you do not trust women to know what’s best for themselves, you are anti-woman. If you think you get a say in what a woman does with the contents of her uterus, you are anti-woman. If you think God commands you to save fetuses, you are anti-woman, and so is your religion. If you think abortion is okay in cases of rape and incest only, you are anti-woman. If you think there is any reason other than coercion that makes abortion wrong or bad, you are anti-woman.

And because it’s so important, I’ll reiterate it: The only wrong reason for an abortion is coercion.

In the days leading up to my appointment I had many very interesting and enlightening–occasionally disheartening–conversations about tattoos–specifically about the “right” kind and the “wrong” kind of tattoos.

After the question of “what,” the inevitable follow-up is “why”. I understand that. We’re talking about permanent body modification. Being curious about motivation makes sense. And, as a friend, checking in that this has been thought through and isn’t something that will be regretted in two weeks is simply due diligence. But what I found often was an implicit (and occasionally explicit) judgment waiting to be made. Would my tattoo pass muster? Are my motivations “acceptable”?

Let’s look at those “acceptable” motivations. Purely aesthetic reasons simply aren’t, according to several of my friends–and society at large. Aesthetics as body reclamation are–for those who understand what that means. For others its gibberish or goes back to “just” aesthetics. Marking an important life event/change/development is–provided they deem it important “enough.”

Here are my thoughts on “acceptable” motivations:
Aesthetics–go for it! I think ink can be absolutely stunning. If it makes you feel beautiful, then I think it’s a good thing. I don’t think it’s vapid or pointless or unimportant. The world’s ugly enough, I think we should embrace beauty in all its instances and forms. This tulip makes me feel beautiful, and that’s powerful.
Body Reclamation–We (women, especially, but not solely) are told from the get-go that we are judged on our appearance. Every single day we are reminded that our bodies do not belong to us. They are a public commodity that is measured, weighed, and found wanting.  I get ink to assert my right to decorate my body how I choose. I get ink to say “I get to define my own beauty.” I get ink to define my own boundaries. I get ink to have something that is just for me.
Marking/Honouring–I think using ink to commemorate a person or event, to honour an accomplishment or success is incredibly powerful. It’s a permanent reminder of something/one meaningful to you. It’s a way you will always carry that person/thing/event with you.
Because You Just Gotta–my last two tattoos (I have three now) just came to me. One second I had blank skin, the next I had yet-to-be-inked tattoos. They had become part of my body before I’d even seen them sketched on paper. I firmly believe that you know when it’s the right tattoo, because it feels like it’s already there and has always been there.

On “bad” tattoos:
The only tattoos I would deem “bad” are those that were decided upon rashly (or drunkenly), which isn’t to say all quick decisions are bad (both of mine were quick), rather that they should be thought through; those that didn’t have thorough research done into artistry and safety; and those that are oppressive–i.e. racist or sexist tattoos.

There are a lot of tattoos in the world that I don’t find aesthetically pleasing, and a lot whose artistry leave a lot to be desired. But I assume that if someone made the commitment to permanently mark their bodies, it has meaning.

But who cares what I think? What surprised me the most–and I experienced this with my other tattoos and will surely experience in the future–is the assumption others have that they have a right to express an opinion about my tattoo or my motivation. Sure, in the purely legal sense they have a right. But to assume they get some say in my body, to treat my body as an object upon which they can comment and judge, to assume my motivation is theirs to know–and approve or reject, is a sign of just how pervasive the attitude of body-as-object is.

These people are my heros. Dr. Carhart and a very few others continue the late Dr. Tiller’s essential work–providing late-term abortions.

I’ll write in depth in the next few days about reproductive justice. For now, I implore any and every reader to sign the Physicians for Reproductive Health and Choice Petition/Bill of Rights. It takes just a moment and shows your solidarity with these brave men and women.

As well, if you want to send a note of encouragement or thanks to Dr. Carhart, please do!

We say it defiantly, we say it celebratorily, we say it defensively. We say it in response to the hundreds of messages we hear each day that tell us we are too fat, too thick, too curvy, too bodacious, too too too.

But what are we really saying? We’re saying I will still allow mainstream ideals of beauty to define me. We define ourselves in the negative–we are NOT what society is telling us to be. And by doing so we continue to play into hegemonic ideals and messages that damage us all.

We’re saying I will continue to compare myself to the women on magazine covers. The women who are genetically predisposed to have very little body fat and small bone structure (figures place the incidence of women who look like what we think of as “models” at about 3% of the general population). The women whose very job depends on fitting the socially defined construction of attractive. The women who get oodles of help in the form of lighting, hair and make-up artists, personal trainers, photoshoppers, on and on.

We’re saying if you don’t look like me–curvy–you are not a “real” woman. So what about our sisters, friends and lovers who aren’t “curvy”? Are they not real women? What are they, then, fake women? Imposters? Less worthy of our love and affection? Unable to experience and forge solidarity? (Another unsettling factor of this sentiment is what it implies about transwomen–many of whom do not have what we term a “curvy” body by dint of being born biologically male. Are they not women?)

We’re saying I will continue to let the capitalist, patriarchal hegemony divide and conquer because a game of us vs. them stops us from rattling cages. The oldest trick in the book, by the ruling class, is to create divisions within movements. If we’re infighting we simply won’t have the time to take on our oppressors. When we castigate women for meeting a culturally sanctioned ideal–generally because we ourselves do not–we act in accordance with the oppressor. And every time we oppress a woman for not being “woman” enough, we oppress ourselves.

So let’s celebrate women. Let’s celebrate the fact that the human body is an amazing, beautiful, sensual thing that comes in a variety of shapes, sizes, colours, abilities. And let’s refuse to buy into a system that turns allies into enemies to blind us from the truth.

1. The world is not fair. It’s full of people and structures that actively seek to perpetuate injustice. It is your duty to confront injustice when you see it.

2. Sex is fun. Lots of fun. Have lots if you want. Have only a little if you want. And if you don’t want any, that’s okay too.

3. Love is important. Friend love is important, family love is important, romantic love is important. Don’t privilege one over the other.

4. Related: you get to choose your people. These people might be friends, they might be family, either way, they are both and they are neither. They belong in your heart even when you don’t see them for years. They know the best of you and the worst of you and they love it all.

5. Don’t be in a hurry to have sex for the first time. Wait until you like yourself, know how to cum by yourself and are excited by the idea of being naked with that someone else.

6. A person worthy of sharing sex with you is respectful and mature. They seek consent and check in all the time. They never pressure you. They don’t just look for an absence of no, they require the presence of yes (yes! yes!). And for you to be a person worthy of sharing sex you have to be and do all the same things.

7. Your body belongs to you and you alone. You get to dress it, feed it, adorn it how you choose. Don’t listen to the myriad messages that come from all angles telling you you’re not ______ enough or too ______. They’re trying to make you feel shitty so you’ll buy something–products or bullshit messages about worth and gender.

8. It’s okay to love whoever you love. And it’s okay to be attracted to whoever you’re attracted to. These two won’t always intersect, and you’ll get your heart broken by some or all, but you’ll also have a lot of fun.

9. Sex does not look like what you see in the movies. It’s funny and sweet and weird and beyond ridiculous. There are no rules beyond safety, respect, consent and pleasure. It may not ever involve penetration, it may involve more than two people, it might involve toys and safewords, it might involve food and literary characters. Try new things, retry old things. Don’t judge others’ proclivities as long as they’re consensual, and don’t judge your own.

10. Life is what you make it. Make intentional community with like-minded people. Find joy in the small things and humour in the hard things. Take risks. Always act with the question “how would the person I want to be act?” guiding you.

Assuming (as this is what I’ve always experienced, and this particular phenomenon is what I’m writing about) it’s a man–usually a fair bit older–talking to a woman, let’s look at exactly what that seemingly benign statement is really saying.

1) You’re merely decoration in my life.
How dare you pop up in my life as anything but sunshine and sparkles? Don’t you know that I would be made so much happier if you just smiled at me for the 37 seconds we will interact?

2) My wants trump your agency.
The sheer volume of privilege needed to ever consider uttering that command is mind-boggling. The male privilege that allows a man to view a strange woman as decoration–eye candy–is the same privilege that allows him to think he gets any say whatsoever in my facial expression. It’s a way of being in the world that assumes ownership over any–and every–woman. And it’s almost always invisible. Try to call a guy on it and he’ll defensively tell you he was just trying to cheer you up! Calm the hell down! Which leads to…

3) I have a say in your mood.
We’re taught (as in the blog post below) that women are nice. We’re polite, we acquiesce. If we dare to challenge that cultural narrative–even in such a seemingly inconsequential manner as by not walking around beaming–we challenge gender norms. Thus we challenge the viewer’s masculinity. And God knows we can’t have that! So our helpful stranger immediately reasserts what he’s been taught: girls are nice, men keep girls nice.

4) Nice=Pretty=Nice=Pretty
The real message being communicated by “Smile, baby!” is “you’re not performing for the male gaze. Fix it!” Nice girls are pretty, and pretty girls are nice. Of course, “nice” has nothing to do with being kind, generous, warmhearted. It has to do with playing a role. Playing the meek, docile, well-mannered girl. When you’re playing nice you’re performing “girl.” And the easiest marker of nice is a great big smile. Who cares if your dog just died/you just got fired/you just don’t fucking feel like smiling today, you’ve gotta play nice!

How should one respond to these directives? Well, first and foremost, your response should depend on how safe you feel in the moment. My usual response is a wary and somewhat disgusted glance at the offending party as I walk on by. I feel like, for me, that’s not enough, though, so I’m coming up with some different possible responses. A withering glance, while a natural response, does not create change. It allows privilege to go unchecked*.

The best response I’ve heard of is a snapping of the fingers followed by a forceful”DANCE!” Now, not everyone is going to get it, but for those who make the connection, it could be life altering. No one likes being ordered to do something for someone else’s amusement and the order to smile on command is precisely that.

Another option, which I’d like to use one day but may never is inspired by my mentor who both diffuses situations and learns more about motivations by simply asking more questions. It could look something like this:

Guy: Come on, why’s a pretty girl like you not smiling?
Me: Why would you feel like you can command me to smile?
Guy: Hey, I’m just trying to cheer you up! Don’t be such a buzzkill.
Me: I’m perfectly cheerful, thanks. The question remains: what makes you think you have the right to order me to do something with my body for your own amusement?

Of course, going down that line could get ugly, so using your instincts is paramount. If the person feels at all volatile this is not the way to go. If they seem open, though, it could turn into a really interesting conversation.

The great thing about biking everywhere is that I have few of these types of interactions these days. One more reason to love my bike!

*Is it my responsibility to challenge every asshole’s privilege? No. Of course not. But if you want a better world–and I sure as hell do–making people confront their own privilege is a big part of it. It’s a shitty job, and it shouldn’t have to fall on those burdened by others’ privilege, but such is the way of the world.