University of Michigan
November 2016
WHAT THE F Your Irregular Periodical Issue 10
Jacqueline Saplicki Hannah Engler Erica Liao Paige Wilson Claire Abdo Tori Wilbur Nikki Yadon Miranda Hency Molly Munsell
President Editor in Chief Creative Head Assistant Creative Head Layout Editor Buisness Manager Social Media Coordinator Blog Editor Campus Coordinator
What the F is a non-partisan, non-profit publication operated by students at the University of Michigan. What the F’s purpose is to encourage discussion on significant issues of campus, national, and world interest. The magazine, the executive board, and our sponsors do not endorse the ideas presented by the writers. We do, however, support and encourage different ideas into our community and into campus discussion.
This publication is meant to start conversations - it’s an open channel for all voices. The more voices, the richer the conversation. Because of how we’re raised and who we are, it can be difficult to see past our own experiences. So if, when reading anything in this magazine, you find you have a disagreement, a critique, or another viewpoint, write to us and we’ll publish it. Talk to us at WhatTheFMag@umich.edu.
All writings are real, found in bathrooms on campus, because sometimes we just need to talk to each other.
November 2016
WHAT THE F
Your Irregular Periodical Issue 10
Letter from the Editor 01 Health 02 Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor 04 Angela Davis Opinions 05 06 08 10 12 14 16 Poetry 18 20 21 22 24
Catholic School My (Slow) Sexual Revolution Feminist Feelings Appropriate Attire Damp Feminism Loving Yourself A Mutual Understanding An Ode to the Feminine Over Stimulation When I Didn’t Want to Go Home With You Hand Print Bruise The Morning I Asked Her to Leave
Sources and Sponsors 25
FUNNY, FRESH, Fearless, FEMINIST, & FUCK Contributing Illustrators Taylor Landeryou, Sareena Kamath, Molly
Munsell, Amanda Donovan, Katie Raymond, Edith Zhang, Erica Liao, Destiny Franks, and Sydney Bagnall Contributing writers Rachael Lacey, MacKenzie Campbell, Hannah Gordon, Molly Munsell, Catherine Audette, Deirdre McGovern, Sierra Hansen, Allie Rubin, Rebecca Rosen, Angelica Esquivel, Sareena Kamath, and Hannah Bates Keep the conversation going online! Visit our website at WhatTheFMagazine.wix.com/umich Like our Facebook page at Facebook.com/WhatTheFMag Follow us on Twitter @WhatTheFMag Follow us on Instagram @WhatTheFMagazine Find our Tumblr at WhatTheFMag.tumblr.com
Letter from the Editor: What the F Knows Good Sex*
Welcome to What The F, your feminist periodical! Brock Turner wants you to think college is the problem. It’s been months, but I can’t forget the pure, unadulterated rage I felt when this poor little swimmer boy put the American university experience on trial for his aggravated rape of an unconscious woman. Brock Turner wants you to pop Animal House into the DVD player before you judge him. Brock Turner, in his 11-page statement to the judge, paints a picture of boy-meets-girl: dancing, kissing, drinking. According to Brock Turner, he and this woman tumbled down a hill, rom-com style, and found themselves locked in a drunken sexual embrace for which he then ended up in court. College made him do it. Hookup culture, and beer. Donald Trump wants you to think political correctness is the problem. At the time of this mag’s publication, Donald Trump is our president. The day after the election, women all across campus were crying openly as if in response to a national tragedy. At a What the F bonfire, a girl stood up and said it felt as if the entire country had looked at her at once and said, “you don’t matter.” Donald Trump, a man who has been recorded time and time again calling women dogs, or pigs, or ugly, or fat. Donald Trump, a man who has been recorded bragging about sexually assaulting women. Donald Trump wants you to think that groping and grabbing women isn’t a big deal, because they “let him do it.” This is “just how men talk.” Why drag this ugliness to the surface after it’s been so nicely crushed under layers of news cycles? For one thing, I’m about to graduate – I’m straddling a world between Turner and Trump, between boys will be boys and, well, old boys will be old boys. No matter where I go next, I am supposed to believe that sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll are the gateways to violence, that it comes with the territory. I do not believe this. I will not. Why go into all this as I introduce What the F’s first-ever Sex Issue? Why even have a Sex Issue? (This question I especially anticipate from my family, to whom I say: I’m sorry.) Well, because we can’t let people like Brock Turner and Donald Trump control the narrative. We can’t let them say that a rape behind a dumpster was really a clumsy hookup under the stars. We can’t let them say that the profane and upsetting stories of sexual harassment
are merely “locker room talk.” The contributors to What the F’s Issue 11 know what sex is, and it’s not that. The pieces in this issue cover a sexy variety of sensual topics: one woman’s relationship with her vibrator, for example. We’ve got pieces on the processes of unlearning some super-shitty sex-ed. We have sex diaries, New York Magazine-style, that explore a week in the sex lives of two University of Michigan students. And yes, we have pieces on the muddy, murky places where sex just seems to go wrong – because our brave contributors felt that those stories needed to be heard alongside all the others, and we agreed. Issue 11 – our first sex issue – has been, like all the other issues of What the F, a long time coming. But I couldn’t be more proud that this is my lastever issue as Editor in Chief. This issue summarizes everything I’ve loved so much about being a part of this fresh, funny, feminist, fucking awesome magazine: it’s outrageous, irreverent, thoughtful, and heartbreaking all at once. Even more than that, it is a collection of truths in a boorish chorus of lies. It is a testament to the will of people to continue to create beautiful, honest, and progressive things in our current political climate, which can so often feel like a hopeless horror show. It is, in some small way, an act of resistance. So, thank you, What the F, for allowing me to edit these little protests. Thank you for sharing your funny, scary, intimate stories. Thank you for sharing yourselves. Thank you for the past few years, and for the next ones. Thank you, Natalie, who will take over once I’m gone, and continue on with this wonderful project of resisting.
Stay sexy, feminists. And give ‘em hell.
Hannah Engler Editor-in-Chief
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Health
Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor:
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Why is my partner trying to thunk when I’m shedding my uterine lining?
Should my partner’s secretions ‘burn’ me? Short answer to the question, “no your partner’s fun time liquids should not burn you.” Damn, we all want fire in bed but a different kind of burn, if you know what I mean ;). While this sensation may cause you worry, there is no need to freak out immediately. The kind of irritation that occurs with these types of reactions tends to be common and treatable. First thing first, get tested. Although typically this sensation is not caused by untreated STIs, it’s always good to know—better safe than sorry. You should consult a physician about the ‘burning’ regardless even if you don’t think it is STI related, just to be 100p safe. Odds are it is a form of vaginitis, an alternation in your genital chemistry, or an allergy. The simplest way to think about the flux in your genitals’ physical environment is to think of acids and bases #throwbacktochem. If the acid and base pH levels neutralize, no reaction occurs, yet for whatever reason, when you’re getting jiggy with it, one of the two parties (or more) tends to be more bitter or basic. Now you’re probably thinking, how can my vagina be basic, or at least more basic than a Starbs Pumpkin Spice Latte on a sweater-wearing fall day? Well, if you’re concurrently experiencing exterior itching or abnormal discharge, chances are you’ve got a Yeast Infection or Bacterial Vaginitis. The balance of the bacteria and fungi are upset in these two cases, and throw off your normal pH levels. Totally curable, just pop a pill or a monistat - as per doc’s recommendation. Now obviously the last thing we want to hear is that we are allergic to our partner’s vaginal fluid or spicy semen (talk about a bad reaction, lol), but it is possible. Wear a condom, use a dental dam; dude, latex can be super sexy. Contraceptive city here we cum. Or for those seeking alternatives, ending the relationship is probably the most effective solution.
Amigo looks like you’ve got a case of period passion. Smell can be a serious aphrodisiac, the right smell can send you lusting after something. In my case it’s usually cedar, speed stick, or a fine piece of ass smothered in Carolina Gold Hot Sauce (talk about a food-gasm.) Essentially, smell is a v important part to attraction-- it’s a natural primal instinct. During a menstrual cycle the production of estrogen fluctuates,and this has an e ffect on scent. Luckily for you, your partner finds that stank to be dank. Although it may seem unappealing, plowing, scissoring, or smanging can actually relieve menstrual cramps and quench your vampiric partner’s thirst. Joking aside, the other dilemma you might want to consider is that your partner really does want to suck your blood, and in that case - for sure not your go to gal.
Ingrown hair or Genital Wart? The game is simple, it’s called ‘Differentiating Bumps’-- basically like spin the bottle but for the questionable nodule on your nether regions. First, take a look at the growth, is it puffy, red, flat, maybe it talks back to you, but what you’re looking to see is how it has formed on your skin. Ingrown hairs tend to be red pimple-like formations, while warts tend to be flat pink growths. Second, touch it, how that bump feel tho? If it is sensitive and irritable like your former tween self, the fucker is most likely an ingrown hair. Now if it’s painless, that’s where the real problem occurs, because nothing is more painful than telling your partner you probs have genital warts. Third, before sacrificing yourself to the fungus lords: try and test your doubts with a home remedy, clean the affected area and once dry apply a bit of apple cider vinegar. If the lump turns white, it is most definitely a wart. Lastly, like always, when in doubt get it checked out; plus it can’t hurt to have someone new admire your undercarriage. Obviously this game isn’t ideal, no one looks forward to really playing it (i.e. spin the bottle memories) soooo some other options to avoid this unfortunate guessing game includes the decision to STOP SHAVING, aka BRINGBACKTHEBUSH2017 (for clarity pubic hair not the former president(s). Now from a pubic roots level, the most ideal way to avoid playing ‘DB’ is to use protection and wrap before you tap. Better yet, date idea, go with your bae and get tested before you get blacklisted...for having STI.
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don’t have
S E X
By Erika Tsuchiya
D
on’thavesex. Don’thavesex. Don’thavesex. By the time I was eighteen, this was practically the only message I took away from all of my years of sex-ed. Sex was bad. Why? Because sex causes AIDS. And what does AIDS cause? Death. Do you want to die? Of course not. A video that was probably three decades old played in the dimly lit auditorium explaining the dangers of STDs. My knees cramped as I exchanged looks with my fellow girlfriends. One of them made a gagging motion like she was going to throw up, and I held back a giggle. My fourteenyear-old self mindlessly watched the videos telling me every possible thing that could go wrong if I, a heterosexual woman, were to have vaginal intercourse with a heterosexual man. My eyes wandered across the room. I crinkled my nose. I always wondered what the boys were up to. Throughout the next few years of my high school career, the notion sex = bad only seemed to get stronger. A rumor went around that one girl was sleeping with several guys, and nobody gave it a second thought before calling her a slut. I was a slave to Seventeen magazines where articles constantly reminded me sex was dangerous.
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As if I need another reminder, I scoffed to myself. By the time I graduated high school, the media, health class, and societal norms had succeeded in instilling the fear of sex within my mind. I didn’t know the existence of condoms and birth control -all I knew was that sex was scary, and that I should protect my virginity at all costs. The fall rolled around, and I started college. I was amazed on how casually people talked about hookup culture. I learned for the first time that the average age females lose their virginity was at seventeen (The American Virgin, First-Time Sex Trends of US Males and Females). I was baffled. How could this be possible? If having sex was just to procreate, then why have it in your teens? It was the end of November and snow had begun to fall from the dark sky. I shoved my hands in my pockets as the idea of any other girls having sex confused me. They were just putting themselves in danger. Besides, being a virgin was a satisfying status among the female race. The innocence and angelicness. No, I am not “easy” like those other girls, no. I was pure. I smiled strangely. And through some sick, twisted logic, that made me proud.
A few months later, I walked into my first Women’s Health class feeling a bit ambivalent. A friend had recommended the course to me, and the chills from the January air already seemed to permeate the entire auditorium of half dead looking students. I silently groaned as I braced myself for a semester full of lectures on reproductive anatomy and the menstrual cycle. Soon enough, the professor walked in and the first thing she said was: “Have you guys heard of the purity myth?” I blinked. The purity myth? I exchanged a few confused glances with the girls around me and shrugged. “The purity myth,” my professor continued, “is the notion that a woman’s worth is higher, only because she is a virgin.” I froze. What? As days passed, it seemed like what I had learned in high school was being flipped 180 degrees. Her voice echoed throughout the entire room as she explained our culture’s obsession with chastity and how that shaped the minds of young girls today. It was like the sex education I never received. I was skeptical at first. Years of associating sex with the negative wasn’t wearing off that easily. It took time, but slowly, I began to grow more open about the idea. The terror turned into apprehension. And apprehension turned into hesitation. And hesitation was finally turning into acceptance. The connection between the
“bad” and “sex” was slowly rewiring. It was changing. I was changing. The first time it happened, I admit, it wasn’t the most comfortable experience ever. But I didn’t feel… guilty. As time went on, I came to realize that sex was actually one of the best things I had ever experienced in my life. The shame, the regret, and most importantly, the fear had all evaporated. Who knew sex could be so exciting? Fun? Why didn’t they teach that to us when I was fifteen, sixteen years old? That sex was perhaps an enjoyable experience? Mind blowing, right? The sex-ed I knew only shamed me of my body. It made me feel dirty when thoughts of it crossed my mind. But now I know that isn’t even remotely close to what sex is about. Growing up as a teenager, I avoided it like the plague. The way they presented the subject was so wrong and unsafe that I perceived it as a fear --not even close to a pleasurable experience. Looking back, I wish I had known better. I wish they had taught me about how to use a condom instead of the symptoms of AIDS. I wish they had showed me the different kinds of birth control instead of videos on why sex should be avoided. I wish I had known abstinence is an option but not the whole picture. I wish they had taught and not scared. Educated and not shame. Supported and not guilt. Today, I know that is all I ever wanted. For myself. My kids. My friends. And most importantly, for girls everywhere who were just like me.
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VAGINA MONOLOUGE
T
By Anonymous
he first time I had sex, I didn’t know what a clitoris was. No, I don’t mean I didn’t know the name of the clitoris. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have a word for it. It was that I didn’t know it existed at all. My understanding of the vagina, by the age of sixteen, was something like: THERE ARE TWO FLAPS AND TAMPONS HURT AND WHY IS THERE HAIR GROWING ALL OVER THIS THING?? Have you ever been to Arizona? That’s where I grew up; in a sprawling, overwhelmingly white suburb of Phoenix. Arizona’s a beautiful state, but the people can be as big of pricks as the cacti, and sex in Arizona? You could say it’s a dry heat. But it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t any of our faults. It was a system that failed us. Sex education. Something I grumbled at as a kid, ran out of the room with my fingers in my ears singing LALALALALALA. We all did, right? We were taught that sex was icky, and dangerous, and messy, and impure, and wrong. Of course I didn’t want to hear about it.
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Unfortunately, I got my wish. Sex ed, which we only had in middle school, lasted five days. It was for one hour every afternoon. They taught us really useful things, like what STIs look like, but not significantly more useful things, like how to prevent or treat them. They told us all of the dangers of getting pregnant at a young age, but I didn’t see a condom until I watched my first boyfriend put one on as he towered over me. They told us about our filopian tubes and how our periods are the deaths of our eggs, but GOD FORBID they spend five minutes telling us a little bit about our vaginas. Do you even know what a vagina is? It’s not the whole shebang, you know? To my surprise, the clitoris is not part of the vagina! The vagina is the canal, you know, down there. The one the baby comes out of. I’ve touched it now. I know that it’s soft and warm, that it expands and contracts. I know, after some internet research and taking some Women’s Studies classes, that the vagina doesn’t get “loose” if you put a penis inside of it. Virginity is actually a social construct, and a dumb one at that. The only way to get a vagina loose
is to stimulate it and make us wet. Which, by the way, has nothing to do with the vagina at all, which brings us back to the clitoris. Do you know how MAD I was to find out that every adult in my life had been keeping the clitoris a secret from me? Here I was, a seventeen-year-old girl with her first serious boyfriend, and everyone was like, nah, let’s not tell her that between her legs is the most beautiful, sensitive, moonshine organ that feels the whole spectrum of visible light. Feels warmth, knows love, wants repetition, consistency, thirsts, thirsts for danger, thirsts for friendship, thirsts for alone time. I was a very lucky woman. The first time I had sex, I didn’t know what a clitoris was, but he did. He grew up in Green Bay, and the grass was definitely greener on the other side, because he didn’t let my conservative education take advantage of me. Once, we sat down for a whole hour and he taught me the anatomy of my vagina, my vulva, my clitoris, my lips. I learned how deep I was, how I stretched all the way back to my cervix, to my uterus. I was deeper than I had ever imagined. He told me that it was okay that they weren’t symmetrical. He told me why my vagina was getting all wet (That’s right, I didn’t know vaginas were supposed to get wet. Let me tell ya, that was a stressful day). And he sang to my clitoris. He didn’t have to.
He had a naive girl in his bed who didn’t know she was supposed to feel pleasure, didn’t know her body was capable of it. It scares me how he could have changed the story. How he could have pounded his name inside of me and I would have never known the difference. He could have let me go on wondering why silvery film was falling out of me. He could have had sex with a virgin who would never know that she was supposed to feel something, too. But I got lucky. My first boyfriend was a man who believed in equal pay for equal work, if you know what I mean. I’m just worried about all the little girls out there who won’t meet such a nice guy, men who will realize she doesn’t know what her clitoris is and keep it a secret from her. When I left my sex ed class, I got a little pink bracelet. All the girls did. It said “Worth waiting for.” Fuck that. FUCK “worth waiting for.” We’re not worth waiting for. We’re worth respect for our intelligence, respect enough to know the facts. Respect for our own decision making processes and the right to choose what is best for us. Respect enough that we don’t have to rely on 3 am internet research to understand what the fuck is squirting out of us. I am not worth waiting for. Do not wait up. I’ve got a clitoris and two hands; I promise, I will not be waiting.
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T H E 5 S TA G E S O F
dealing with coercion
By Anonymous
“
Did he coerce you in any way?” These words rang loudly through my head as I slouched on my friend’s couch, sharing with her the events of my previous evening. I paused and sipped my tea, taking a minute before responding to her: “no, he didn’t.” Then, placing my teacup back on the saucer, I took a deep breath and changed the subject. Sam was a guy I had been hooking up with on-and-off for months. I thought I knew him, and until August 2015, I felt safe with him. I didn’t feel like I had been assaulted that night. I didn’t feel like a victim. But for the next month after I told my friend about my experience with Sam, I continued to ask myself the same question she asked me. Did he coerce me in any way?
ANGER.
When I realized that coercion relied on me feeling like the agent in the situation, reality hit. And I was angry. At Sam. At myself. At my friend who introduced me to him. But mostly at Sam. There had been several red flags leading up to that point—like the first time he kissed me and quickly pulled away to remind me that he wasn’t “looking for a relationship.” Or the time he abruptly left my house because I didn’t “return the favor.” Red flag moments led up to the night when he convinced me that I was the one making the decision to consent.
BARGAINING.
Okay maybe Sam wasn’t all bad. Maybe my experience was my fault. My anger quickly turned to bargaining with myself. If only I would have believed him when he said he didn’t want to date me. If only I had deleted his number and snapchat sooner. If only I would have “returned the favor” that one night. If There’s no way he coerced me, I only. Maybe when he said to me, “Well, thought. That was not coercion. It was if you aren’t going to give me head, I just oral sex, after all. I knew what I was don’t really see where this is going. I’ll doing and ultimately chose to engage in leave if you don’t,” he had a point. Maybe oral sex. My experience was normal… I wasn’t moving fast enough for him. right? Maybe I truly did owe him something. This situation was my fault.
DENIAL.
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DEPRESSION.
Sam coerced me. He took advantage of me. He overpowered me. He left me calloused. I didn’t want to let anyone into my life or into my heart again. Every time I saw Sam, which seemed to increase in frequency since I stopped communicating with him (thanks, Universe!), my insides churned. He would say hi, and I would stare at him blankly, speechless. Sometimes I would walk away from him, my eyes immediately welling with tears. Merely seeing him exist near me on campus became an event that took me out of commission for the day. I felt broken and lacked hope that I—or anyone else—could put my pieces back together.
him. Identifying my shared humanity with Sam and deciding to forgive him and to forgive myself allowed me to accept what happened and ultimately emerge from my experience as a stronger and braver woman. A year after everything happened, I ran into Sam more frequently. I found that we shared peaceful nods of respect when we crossed paths on campus, with a mutual understanding that neither of us left the other unchanged. One day, he asked if I wanted to get coffee and catch up, and I surprised myself when I responded, “I’ll let you know,” and continued on my way.
A C C E P TA N C E .
Eventually, I found people who encouraged me, lifted me up, and empathized with me through their own similar experiences. My strong and brave friends empowered me to put my own pieces back together, knowing that I didn’t have to do it alone. And maybe it was the start of a new semester, or the start of a new year… but I renewed my perspective. After six months of denial, anger, bargaining, and depression, I looked back on the August 2015 incident, along with all the incidents leading up to it. I acknowledged them and realized that while they are a part of me and my story, they do not define me. Sam isn’t a bad person; he is a person who did a bad thing. He may not fully understand what he did to me—how he made me feel small, fucked with my emotions, and led me to question my worth and ability to love and be loved—but I made the decision to forgive
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Have You Ever Been Sexually Assaulted? By Anonymous
I
plopped down at my newly organized dorm room desk and reluctantly flipped open my laptop, realizing I no longer had time to procrastinate. The University requires all incoming freshmen to complete an online safety course before the semester begins, and my first class would commence in approximately twelve hours. While clicking through the material, focused primarily on alcohol use and sexual assault, I wasn’t surprised to find I already knew much of the information. Do you know what counts as consent to sexual activity? What stalking looks like? What resources are available to U of M students who have experienced sexual assault? A green check mark ushered me forward. I selected the final module, excited to be on the home stretch before I could join my roommate for our first ever college pregame, until I came to a question that left me feeling as though my alcohol
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induced nausea was hitting me three hours early, a question I somehow didn’t know the answer to: have you ever been sexually assaulted? As a sophomore in high school, I secured my first long-term boyfriend. While I had already experienced my “first kiss” in middle school, I had yet to progress much past a peck, and therefore began to truly explore sexuality for the first time with him. Having no concept for what sex within a relationship should look like, we both moved forward with our own ideas of normalcy. Consequently, I gave my first handjob as the result of my boyfriend repeatedly placing my hand on his penis until I finally did something about it. Although it wasn’t apparent to me that perhaps this wasn’t a healthy introduction to sexual intimacy, I did feel awkward and a bit uncomfortable in the moment, but justified it to myself by
asking if it was even possible to see a real life penis for the first time and not feel weird. The relationship was generally happy and seemingly healthy, although we continued to get stuck on and fight about the same thing: sex. Why weren’t we intimate more often? Why did I never initiate anything myself ? Why was he the only one that seemed to care about sex? I agreed to try harder for him. Knowing sex could be fun for both of us, I would try to make it a priority, yet would soon forget about my pledge and focus my attention on other aspects of our relationship. This cycle continued—he would get mad at me, I would try to fix it, then would drop off again. Soon, another stage was added to the cycle; my drop-off was now followed by him taking matters into his own hands. One moment, we’d be cuddling on his couch in the basement, his hand gently stroking my lower back, my head nestled into the crook of his neck. The next, I would feel the same hand slowly creep down, slip under my waistband, and out of my comfort zone. “Not right now, please,” I would utter, and his hand would reluctantly retract. Despite his usual acknowledgements of my requests, arguments hours later would contradict the idea that I truly had full jurisdiction over my body. I felt as though I only had a certain amount of “no’s” in my arsenal, and his constant bombardment of advances quickly depleted my supply. Despite the fact that his pressure perpetuated my unwillingness to be intimate with him, the guilt I felt for sometimes not wanting the intimacy built up to the point where, only to appease him, we would hook up.
We eventually broke up for unrelated reasons, and while I came away from the relationship acknowledging that he was pressuring, I never felt as though I would ever claim the title of a “survivor” of sexual assault. He was a (usually) kind, smart, and attractive guy, with whom I often consented to sexual activity, enjoyed watching Netflix documentaries, made up fun little stories for, and genuinely texted “goodnight, I love you” to before bed—not someone I would think to label an assailant. However, only a year or two later did I realize that my tendency to brush off my experience was a problem, as the effects of his behavior began to show. While I don’t have flashbacks, worry about seeing my assailant on campus, or fear public backlash for seeking legal prosecution of him--all of which are often terrible realities for survivors of sexual assault--the more subtle results of my experience have permeated my thoughts about myself and my other relationships: that sex can sometimes feel like an obligation I have to check off, and not fun, intimate time with my partner; that I wonder if there’s something wrong with me for not wanting to have sex as often as my partners; that I feel conflicted about my ex-boyfriend, who I consider a good person and a friend, but who still caused me a lot of pain and discomfort regarding my own body and boundaries. 70% of sexual assaults are committed by someone known by the survivor, and it’s often overlooked that, sometimes, that person is the one you love. After mulling over the question of whether or not I had been sexually assaulted before, reviewing my past relationship and introduction to what sexual intimacy should look like in a relationship, I decided to select “yes”.
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Questions I’m Too Afraid to Ask My Female Friends By Lauren Theisen 1. Do I need to put on eyeliner that close to my eyeball? That looks like it would hurt. 2. What clothes can a 5’11” trans woman wear so she doesn’t just look like a dude in a dress? 3. If I root really hard for The Block M, does that make me seem too masculine? 4. Am I reinforcing bad stereotypes with that last question? 5. Should I stop walking home alone? 6. The way my hair naturally just curls up right now, is that okay? Is there stuff I should do to it to make it more feminine? 7. I wish so badly I could wear your clothes. That’s not a question, but I think it every day. 8. Does Nair hurt? Are there better ways to shave my legs than with a beard trimmer? 9. When you look at me, who do you see? 10. When you look at me lying on the couch watching basketball, do you see me differently? 11.
Should I stop eating carry
out fried chicken?
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12. If I got new glasses, would that be enough to make people start thinking of me as Lauren? 13. How should I tell my parents to stop calling me Adam? 14. I’m starting to cry whenever I listen to Death Cab for Cutie. Is that normal? 15. If I find makeup too complicated and time-consuming, am I too much of a guy? 16.
I heard once that “beauty is pain.” Is it OK to be
freaked out by that? 17.
Do you think science will ever come up with a way
to make us shorter? 18.
Will anyone want me if I don’t have surgery?
19.
Can you just call me
Lauren right now, real quick? Just to affirm that I exist? 20. My voice is way too deep. I wish I could word that as a question but it just sucks. 21. How easy is it to get your ears pierced? What’s a good kind of earring to start with? 22. How can I be beautiful like you?
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SEX By Anonymous
Based on New York Magazine’s “Sex Diaries” series, these columns aim to provide an anonymous inner look at the sex lives of students on the University of Michigan campus over the course of a few days.
D A Y
O N E :
8 AM: I wake up to my alarm, today are my last exams, and my long-distance boyfriend, Kevin, is flying into Ann Arbor from Boulder. I’ve planned a surprise for us tonight. I booked a hotel room without telling him, so we do not have to worry about my roommates. I also bought a wig and new dress to surprise him. 5 PM: I walk to the hotel after my exam and check in. I go up to my room and start to get ready. I take a hot shower and then put on my dark and sparkly makeup, a red wig (I’m naturally a brunette), 4 inch heels, and my lace dress. After finishing an episode of Seinfeld, I grab my purse and head to the bar downstairs. 6:30 PM: I’ve told Kevin that the bar at the hotel is on Yelp as being one of the best in Ann Arbor and I told him I was going to the hotel right after the exam to make sure he meets me directly here from the airport. I sit down at the bar and order a gin and tonic. I am texting my friends nervously when I hear Kevin’s voice behind me. I turn around and smile at him, his face is priceless. He sits down next to me, and orders a drink. 7 PM: I tell Kevin I have a surprise for him, take a room key out of my purse and slide it in front of him. He promptly asks for the check, and we head upstairs. Once inside the room, he pushes me onto the bed and we have sex. 8 PM: After an hour of having sex, we hop in a shower and make out a lot. Kevin is hungry, so we head to a restaurant and grab wings, watch basketball, and chat about work and school. 9:35 PM: Kevin and I head back to the hotel. As soon as we enter the room, I take off my pants and hop up onto the desk. He joins me and we have sex again. A little later, we migrate over to a chair, and then back to the bed. Just had to make sure that we appropriately got our money out of the entire hotel room. 10:19: We start cuddling and watch TV for the rest of the night.
D A Y
T W O :
9 AM: We get our wake-up call, and start making out. I climb on top of him and we have morning sex, Kevin’s favorite. 10:21 AM: We lay in bed kissing and snuggling after sex. It’s so nice to finally be together in one area after a month apart. We start planning where we are going to go to brunch, and he starts kissing me neck. Pretty soon he starts going down on me, and we start all over again. 11:36: Kevin and I check out of the hotel and head to Benny’s to get brunch. We order lots of coffee, pancakes, and omelets. He asks me about what I’ve been readings, and we start discussing our favorite books. We hold hands while we eat and I love how much he can make me laugh.
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DIARIES D A Y
O N E :
D A Y
T W O :
I texted him, “what u up to?” over two hours ago. It’s now closing time at Rick’s. I’m starting to panic as I realize I may not have anyone to fuck me tonight. I slither home, feeling truly defeated, I settle for masturbation and an episode of 30 Rock. I’m hungover for the second time this week, thank goodness I don’t have class today. I roll over in bed to check my phone, the constant vibrations started over an hour ago but I’m finally ready to face the aftermath or the previous night. First text: “Omg, did I talk to him? Did I makeout with someone????” I want to respond: IDK, literally if I could remember don’t you think I’d tell you?? Instead, I say: “Oh idk, I’m sure it’s fine. He bought you a drink and then we went home.” An innocent lie. Second Text: “damn, sorry, i fell asleep super early. jet lag.” “What are you doing tonight?”I squeal and roll about in bed as I respond. “Hmm probably going out, maybe see u later?”And it’s on. I spend the rest of the day excited for the evening. I literally don’t get out of bed until it’s time to shower. I proceed to shave my legs, scrub myself raw and then douse myself in lavender body lotion. The night proceeds as usual, we pregame, we wait in line, we dance and I come up with some excuse to escape my friends and head home. It is almost 2 am when I arrive home, shortly after I receive a text, “I’m here.” I rushed down the three flights of stairs to the front door, I act totally chill. “Hey.” We hurry upstairs. I close my door and his coat, shirt and pants are off within seconds. I take my time undressing as I move towards my bed, I feel so powerful as he watches me. Once I make it to the bed he grabs my hair and whips me around so that he is on top of me. He kisses me hard, just the way I like it, and makes his way down my breasts and my stomach. As he starts to go down on me, I have to adjust his head from time to time and remind him to be gentle. Finally I’ve had enough and I’m ready to fuck, so I grab a handful of hair and pull his face towards mine. The next half an hour is blurry and sweaty, and I don’t remember much other than the moment I came straddled on top of him and rolled over. He pulled me in close to him and we spooned until we both fell asleep.
D A Y
one can only understand if not in a relationship. I feel excited and super horny, and then I feel lonely. The loneliness doesn’t last long, as my phone goes off... Tinder: You have received a new message. Oh boy, here we go. A boy I had matched with before break proposes we meet up later that night, I casually agree, he seems nice enough and very cute. At the very least I won’t have to go home alone. But as we continue to chat I start to notice he’s kind of a douche and I brush off the interaction. Once again, my friends and I make our way out with elevated and horny hopes of finding Mr. Right somewhere in the crowd at Rick’s. The night goes exactly as you’d expect it, one two many mind probes, about 4 trips to the restroom, someone in the group (usually me) yelling at some guy for touching me and the final hoorah: Sweet Caroline. I dig for my coat in the mountain of shit and grab my phone, Tinder: You have received one new message. I know it’ll be him. He wants to know where I am and lets me know that he is ready for me whenever. Great, buddy. So my drunk ass walk home, and of course messages him my address and to HURRY. He arrives at my house, as cute and douchey as expected but what the hell. The sex lasts approximately five minutes and afterwards he apologizes and explains he didn’t get a lot of “action,” last semester. Well, awesome. I gave this douche lord the pep in his step that he’ll need to fuck all the other drunk lonely girls next weekend! He leaves pretty quickly and I fall asleep wondering why I don’t feel sad this time.
D A Y
F O U R :
I wake up hungover for what seems like the millionth time. I finally have responsibilities today, like: homework, meetings and work. I update all of my group chats with the events of the previous night, pop 3 ibuprofen and chug a glass of water. I finally leave my apartment and hope I don’t run into any of the men I hate today, knowing this is bound to happen.
T H R E E :
He wakes me up much earlier than I would like, but I never can sleep with anyone else in my bed anyways. I give him head and a kiss goodbye and he tells me he’ll see me later. I always wonder when later is exactly. I spend the next hour feeling the post-sex depression
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Bob
M E E T
By Sadie Quinn
Have you met my new boyfriend? Probably not. Silly question. See, I keep him a secret. I keep him in a drawer, in a Ziplock bag, in the hopes that no one will find him. I keep him away from prying judgmental eyes. I keep him to myself. Why, you ask? I’m not exactly sure. I’d like to think that I’m past being ashamed for pursuing sexual pleasure. Sometimes I fancy that I’m beyond the type of narrow mindset that plagued me in my younger years. I’d like to think I’m a liberated woman. But despite my assurance in the strength and beauty of other women, and my unwavering commitment to not denying them their sexuality, there are corners of my mind that have reservations when it comes to ME. These corners have pressing, pestering questions. Like: What would your mother think? What would your baby sister think? How about how BOB changed your own perception of yourself. Are you an indulgent girl now? This is not a girl I recognize. But maybe that’s because I’ve suppressed that part of me for so long. Scratch that. I’ve suppressed, ignored, and misunderstood my own body and its needs for so long that I don’t recognize a version of myself that doesn’t neglect my own sexuality. No doubt. But BOB has helped me with that. Despite what some traditionalists might argue, ordering my boyfriend off Amazon was better the best decision for my love life. Not because BOB is special, but because when I’m with him I actively seek it, nourish it. It being my own happiness, my pleasure. It seems wrong to deny anyone these emotions, so how can it not be wrong to deny myself them? Am I not human, too? Why should such a good thing be a sin, if it makes me happy and hurts no one else? And yet knowing this in my brain is different than accepting it as truth and in practice. My brain believes in the logic, but my body often rebels against it. This has not been erased by BOB’s presence, but it has been helped. The fact that I don’t own up to him is proof enough of that. Nothing is completely fixed. Besides, me being happy isn’t tied to any notion of fixedness. I just want to accept, embrace, and enjoy my own sexuality without lingering guilt. BOB is not my soul mate, he’s not even human, but he’s been instrumental in my self-discovery and self-appreciation. Now I at least have that off my chest. It’s another step towards the end that is being who I want to be. And now you’ve met my boyfriend. My first, as it were. His name is BOB, short for Battery Operated Boyfriend. Don’t tell anyone about him though, alright? This is just between friends.
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Poetry
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By CristiEllen Zarvas
The Fun Part By Natasia Pelowski When every part of your body starts to breathe my name When the rhythm of your heart is aligned with mine When your mind starts to confuse comfort and my scent You will find out I was breathing my own air all along Never been good at sharing My heart Always two beats ahead I’ve never known comfort You won’t see this coming— I will leave you The moment I have one instinct Not to touch you They say You can’t build relationships this way But knocking the blocks over was always the fun part
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Queer Magic By Author
like baby powder Mother sprinkled on my pillowcase sending me off to faraway lands to swells of stars and floating islands. this magic is different. this magic bewitches its victims like gypsy moths to porch lights, to headlights of full moons glossed like marbles in a doe’s eyes. Mother never blessed me with eyes to look away.
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I am food. I taste good I taste gross I am breakfast for the Gods I am hormonal. I’m hot I’m cold I get sick I need help I’m a pain I’m a joy I bite back. I am magical. I grow I glow I give life I am life I am a gentle dream. I am not perfect I’m used I’m abused I am everything you lack. I am afraid. Been deemed a pussy since 1699 Yet still I rise, The great protector for everyone but myself. Words can never hurt me I’ve been every name in the book Ya-ya, your clever lingo ain’t new Try my real name Try the truth. XOXO, ‘Gina
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touch I am all over you
like salt rocks scattered across the sidewalk, melting into you, sweet pea body lotion damp. Everywhere.
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By Miranda Hency
Cover, Illustration by Erica Liao
List of Editors, Illustration by Erica Liao
Inside cover, Photo by Tegwyn John
Bathroom Confessional, Illustration by Ariel Friedlander
Letter from the Editor, pg. 1, Illustration by Erica Liao
Sh*t I’m afraid to ask My Doctor, pg. 2-3, Illustration by Molly Munsell
My Mother Told Me Not to Make Myself Too Avalible, pg. 20, Illustrations by Molly Munsell
The Fun Part, pg. 21, Illustration by Perry O’Toole
Queer Magic, pg. 22, Illustration by Paige Wilson
Dear Partner, pg. 23, Illustration by Amanda Donovan
The morning I asked her to leave, pg 24 Embroidery by Sydney Bagnall
Back Cover Illustration by Erica Liao
Quote, pg. 4, Illustration by Edith Zhang
Honey, pg. 5, Photo by Molly Munsell
Don’t Have Sex, pg. 6-7, Illistration by Sydney Bagnall
Vagina Monolouge, pg.8-9, Illustration by Amanda Donovan
The 5 Stages of Dealing with Coercion, pg. 10-11, Illustration by Paige Wilson
Have You Ever Been Sexually Assualted, pg. 12-13, Illustration by Adrianna Kusmierczyk
Questions I’m Too Afraid to Ask my Female Friends, pg. 14-15, Illustration by Edith Zhang
Sex Diaries, pg. 16-17, Graphics by Jackie Saplicki
Meet Bob, pg. 18-19, Illustration by Kate Johnson
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