Hello Queen of Genovia
Anne Hathaway is all kinds of magic.
in hindsight i shouldnt have poured boxed wine and vodka into my can of 4loko last night but on the other hand this body is merely a flesh vessel for my stardust to experience other stardust
It gets better—the guy is deaf, and he taught his cat the sign for “food.” So the cat’s not just saying “put that in my mouth,” it’s actually signing
Not only that, but if you notice at the beginning, the cat *gets the man’s attention* as any person who wanted to talk to a deaf/hoh individual would (well, and vice versa IME). I’ve done sign since I was 5, and generally, w/o eye contact initially, you wave a hand or lightly touch the arm (if that’s ok with the person you’re trying to converse with, of course).
Generally, adult cats meow mostly to humans, but this cat has figured out that’s not going to work and has adapted. Animal companions! They are INCREDIBLE.
EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND LOOK AT THIS CAT.
I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.
I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.
I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?
I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.
I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.
I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.
I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.
I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?
I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.
I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.
I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.
I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?
I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.
Anonymous said: You physically CANNOT be a stripper and a feminist at the same time. It's people like you that give us a bad rap. Please leave
Sorry/not sorry that you don’t understand the point of bodily autonomy and would rather make YOUR feminism all about policing women’s life choices, but that’s “physically” the opposite of feminism. LOL
But…but you can’t. As a stripper, you’re just adding to the state of mind that women are objects. Not living thinking human beings. So…..it kind of does contradict feminism. No matter how you put it. That’s great if you make a lot of money with it. You’re still promoting female objectification.
Oh yeah? Tell me, how long have you been a stripper? Oh, you’re not? Well then tell me how regularly you go into strip clubs? Oh, you don’t? Because anyone who speaks OVER sex workers when discussing our own experiences with the level of over-confidence that you display must have a large amount of anecdotal experience on this topic. So I’m curious as to where yours was obtained.
People sell their bodies as labor all the time. I’m not allowed to sit down on my shift at all—not even when I answer the telephone. Not even when the shift is 10 hours (or sometimes more) and it’s nearing the end of the night and I’m flat out tired. Part of my job description requires that I’m standing, even when the standing isn’t pertinent to the work I’m doing (like, again, answering the phone—or doing some light prep work).
Our bodies are often tied to our work and labor.
Her body just happens to be closer to naked.
An actor/actress sells a performance with their own body to give you pleasure and enjoyment.
A masseuse sells a bodily-interaction by giving you pleasure and enjoyment with a massage.
A stripper sells a performance with their body to give you pleasure and enjoyment. They also—as she has pointed out—often sell their company and conversational skills.
She has also enunciated so many times that she is the one that has the rights in the interaction. She is not an object; she talks back, walks away, demands inappropriate customers are made to leave. She’s an independent contractor that has the control.
Whereas me, at my measly service job for $10.50 an hour, am the object. I have to make a customer’s pizza and listen to his racist jokes. I have to make a customer’s pizza and listen while she degrades me because she ordered incorrectly and I didn’t understand she only wanted olives and herb chicken when she specifically ordered an Herb Chicken Mediterranean pizza (one that comes with way more ingredients). I have to sit and smile pleasantly or excuse myself from the interaction as pleasantly as possible when customers make inappropriate sexual jokes towards me or my coworkers, leaving someone else to continue serving him. I have to sit there and listen to a customer insist they ordered it one way when I remember with perfect clarity that they did not, in fact, order it that way.
The only people we’ve ever had to kick out of our store? Those who couldn’t pay for their merchandise. Not those that were disrespectful and treating us as disposable objects.
There’s a lot to say about objectifying women. It’s happening everywhere in society. But I think it’s a lot more offensive when, say, a magazine lighten’s WOC’s skin tones for their cover. Or when they slim an actress down to make her fit beauty ideals. Or when the paparazzi sells a photo of an actress who was unwillingly sexualized. Sex workers are the ones in control of their image here.
Hey there Little Red Riding Hood,
You sure are looking good.
You’re everything a Big Bad Wolf could want.
“The thing that I keep saying about the movie is that it resides in the place where most romantic comedies elide – most of the time they show two people coming together via montage; I even did it in my movie. I was sort of sending it up, but that’s it: you watch two people fall in love but you don’t actually know what they’re saying or what’s drawing them to each other. It’s sort of a foregone conclusion, and I like that this movie dwells in the realm of ‘Why do two people like each other?’ ” ― Zoe Kazan on What If