aseriesofdoorsinmyface: I just want to say I admire your response to that guy about the porn.
Thanks. It was actually a girl, and she seemed to have—good intentions?
It’s hard to tell these days.
(Unless you were talking about the facebook conversation)
I read an essay recently that got a lot of things wrong, but one thing it got right was its description of a certain type identity politics that happens to thrive here on tumblr.
The essay described it as “driven by a priest’s desire to excommunicate and condemn, an academic-pedant’s desire to be the first to be seen to spot a mistake, and a hipster’s desire to be one of the in-crowd.”
So yeah, someone read a conversation I had that condemned people who strip women of their personhood and treat them violently and thought “oh wait, no! Kink-shaming! I found one! Wrong!”
So often it’s not done in the spirit of trying to reach mutual understanding, it’s people operating under the assumption that most people don’t know as much they do about allllll the rules of identity politics.
"The danger in attacking the [this behavior] is that it can look as if – and it will do everything it can to reinforce this thought – that one is also attacking the struggles against racism, sexism, heterosexism."
When actually you’re attacking the priest, the pedant, and the hipster.
Who, incidentally, all walk into a bar…
diekneipe: The thing is, though, that some women in the industry actually do seek out that kind of thing and do sign up for it because that's what they like. It's an emotional and physical experience that some people really enjoy going through. Maybe someone's tastes are a little more "fucked up" than yours. Doesn't mean they shouldn't enjoy what they want to enjoy. Don't try to speak for people you haven't spoken to.
Oy vey, I knew someone on tumblr would come in with kink-shaming accusations.
I’ll fold this into a Read More so only people who want to get into it will get into it.
The bag is pulled off your head and you find yourself on the poured concrete floor of a small, dank room with stained walls. Your hands are tied behind your back, so tight that the rope grates away skin every time you move. A group of men in the shadows speak to each other in a language you don’t recognize.
A single fluorescent light turns on, flickering weakly, throwing dingy green highlights into the room. A man enters and steps into the light—the men in the shadows fall silent. He stares at you, appraising you, then jabs you twice in the ribs with the butt of a rifle. You double over, gasping, and choke out “What do you want from me?”
The man’s lip curls into a sneer and he lowers his face until it’s right in front of yours. His breath makes you gag.
He asks you a question in the same language you heard the other men speaking. “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re saying,” you tell him, looking at his cheeks, his mustache—anything but his eyes.
He grabs your hair and pulls upward until you’re forced to meet his gaze and he repeats the phrase—this time you understand it.
open the door! its me baby stewart and byron the dog!
Nobody born after internet journalism was invented.
Also ayup anyone who recognize this b****.
This my girl Marjory, the talking literal trash heap that gave advice on Jim Henson’s Fraggle Rock, a thing that really happened.
Uh, I just found my only remaining audio project from my high school hard drive.
(It is a batshit crazy person remix of Paper Planes.)