Female privilege is getting to claim a headache to avoid sex.
Female oppression is having to claim physical illness to avoid sex because men won’t take a simple fucking “no” for an answer.
Female oppression is men being so entitled that they think being denied sex is oppressive.
‘Men get raped and molested,’ should be a whole sentence. If you have to tack on the word ‘too,’ then you’re using the experience of male victims to silence females instead of giving them their own space.
He will brush against your thigh and pretend that he didn’t, and he’ll look you in the eyes and tell you he likes them. He will take the band out of your ponytail because he likes your hair long, he will let you listen to his favourite song and it will get stuck in your head. He will kiss your lips until they are numb and he will hold your hands until they go numb too. Don’t watch the sunset with him, because you won’t be able to watch it again without missing the smell of his cologne. Don’t make him call you by your nickname, because afterwards you won’t be able to hear it. Your heart will be heavy and so will your head but just remember you were beautiful before he said so.
The fact that white people equate a Starbucks joke to being enslaved, being racially profiled, being stripped of basic human rights, being denied jobs, being treated as less than human, being seen as suspect by default, and being hated from the moment of birth just proves how far they are from seeing our side..
They have hurt feelings while we have dead children.
Here it is: You have been touched so many times that a hand on your back doesn’t make you flinch anymore. Your legs spread effortlessly, your lips bloom, your hands turn to waterfalls.
We were seated across from each other, having a conversation about the weather, when his hand slipped under the table. Your eyes widened for a second and then you went right back to spitting up thunderstorms and floods.
I wonder the last time you were touched and felt something; when you didn’t just close your eyes, lie back, and hope it’d be over soon. You’ve told me story after story about the bedrooms you’ve seen. Boys who lived with their mothers. Men with shiny, modern lofts overlooking screaming cities. Women who decorated with candles and stacks of books. I wonder when you last brought someone into your bedroom and let them see something besides the smooth insides of your thighs. When they saw your journals, your dog-eared books, your photographs, your thoughts.
You are better at the language of sex than love. I get it. Sex is simple. The game of “grab your clothes and go” always plays out the same. There are rules and restrictions in it: don’t ask them to breakfast first, don’t leave anything behind, don’t text back, don’t get attached. Sex, when it’s just sex, is easy. It’s nothing. And that’s fine. But being wanted is one thing and being loved is another, and I wonder now if you say “I love you” with a shut mouth, shut eyes, and open thighs.