When I first came to Smith, I had had three sexual experiences, none of them positive. At thirteen I was groped on a subway, and then later that year I was repeatedly and violently sexually assaulted (he liked to use objects to violate me). Then monotonous, unsatisfying sex with my ex, I’ll call him Kimpchi. Needless to say, I am not a very sexual person. I don’t like sex. I’m not particularly good at sex.
Kimpchi and I dated for almost four years, and regularly fucked. He really wasn’t a good guy and he almost always made me feel horrible about my weight, especially during sex. Not cool. (He’s an asshole.) I’m not a very “sexy” person, but when I finally broke up with him I figured, what the hell, I’m single. I’m going to have fun. So I have been, and each and every time I’ve “had fun,” it’s been pretty fucking fabulous. These guys want me. (We could talk about how slutty it is to have self-validating sex, but I digress.)
Yeah, I’ve been hooking up a lot. (Maybe not really that much, but it seems like a lot.) I guess that’s difficult at a women’s college. But it’s perfectly fine, because I’m a sexually liberated woman. I bang who I want, when I want, how I want. They haven’t all been perfect, but fun and beneficial indeed. Each and every time I’ve been naked with these totally random dudes, I haven’t been self conscious.
Just to give you an idea of how self conscious and modest I am, I don’t wear bikinis, I don’t wear tank tops, I don’t even change in front of my friends. Wait, I didn’t wear bikinis. I didn’t get naked whenever. Now, I feel so empowered not only by sexual expeditions, but also by my environment and friends, that I get naked. Whenever, whatever. For this revelation I give a lot of credit to my hookups. These random dudes didn’t stop in the middle of fucking to tell me how bad my stomach looked, or how I could use some creams for my stretch marks, they told me how hot I am. How they loved my ass and my laugh. These guys, some whose names I don’t even know, have made me feel great about myself.
Recently I visited my friend at a small school near Columbus. It was one of the most interesting and eye opening college visits I’d ever had. I’ve been to a lot of schools, but never had I been somewhere quite like this. (For another post. Blond bimbos? Sorority idiots? Greek life?) Nowhere can compare to Smith. As planned, I hooked up with someone. In fact, I went, I conquered, I left. I’m easily manipulated, but up until this point, had been able to remain in control of my hookup situations. For the first time, I couldn’t tell whether or not I had been. Kimpchi manipulated me regularly, and I only ever caught on after the fact. This past hookup, I couldn’t tell who was in charge. But was it still empowering? Fuck yeah. I am bound only by my own rules.
I’m hot. I don’t need a hookup to tell me that. Before March, I was a really very different person. I would’ve never said that I’m hot. I’m hot. I love saying it, it helps me to believe it. Whatever, the combination of hookups and Smith College have made me an empowered woman. Hookups maybe only carry more weight because of the things that I have learned at Smith? I’m certainly surrounded by flawless group of women.
My hookups have been key to my own personal development. They have made me a much more confident, beautiful person. I treasure each and every experience that I have had because they have made me stronger. Even more importantly, they have made me more confident in myself, my body, and the power that I have over myself and others. Shit happens. You gotta make the best of it. You gotta stay in control, have fun, and play the field.
Sorry for the rambling, biography, whatever. I love Smith College, hooking up (no matter how bad I am at it), and all my amazing Albrighters!
Love love love,
Baby
Friday, June 4, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Don’t think im naïve
For years I told myself that losing my virginity was nothing special, that it was just sex and that I would “do it” whenever given the opportunity. The thing is, the opportunity has presented itself countless times, and alas I am still a virgin. It wasn’t until a conversation with an old friend that I realized that the reason why I had subconsciously turned down the opportunities (including using the “I realize I’m totally naked and on top of you, but I’m tired and am going to go to bed now” excuse) was because I actually do care about losing my virginity. The ability to choose who I lose my virginity with is empowering, and I want to make sure that I won’t wake up regretting my decision.
Yes, I’m a college student and a virgin, but that does not mean that I am naïve or inexperienced. I know exactly how to pleasure myself, and I am not hesitant to tell the guys I’m with what I want. This seemed to make an ex, a president of a frat (so let’s “lovingly” call him frat-boy), rather uncomfortable. He was more than willing to comply with my suggestions of naked canoeing or my love of props, but when it came to me telling him how to pleasure me (without penal penetration) it was as though I had chopped off his manhood. Later on frat-boy had the nerve to tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about, and even prior to being a Smithie I dished out the “ I know what makes my body feel good.”
The past year has changed my outlook on a lot of things. Fellow Smithies have helped me realize the importance of doing things which make me, not the people in my life, happy. At some point I realized the empowerment, and importance, of choosing the right man (or woman) to have sex with. Looking at my friends from home I wonder how many regret who they lost their virginity with, did any of them have that morning after regret. For their sake I hope they didn’t, I also hope that they are confident enough to say what they want. For those of you reading this, I realize it’s a bit of a rant and it leaves a lot of holes for the imagination to fill in. I wish someone had told me in high school that having sex, specifically losing my virginity, was not the only way to feel like a woman, it would have defiantly helped my self confidence. So ladies, have sex or don’t but either way make sure it is what and how you want it.
so much love,
mama bear
Yes, I’m a college student and a virgin, but that does not mean that I am naïve or inexperienced. I know exactly how to pleasure myself, and I am not hesitant to tell the guys I’m with what I want. This seemed to make an ex, a president of a frat (so let’s “lovingly” call him frat-boy), rather uncomfortable. He was more than willing to comply with my suggestions of naked canoeing or my love of props, but when it came to me telling him how to pleasure me (without penal penetration) it was as though I had chopped off his manhood. Later on frat-boy had the nerve to tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about, and even prior to being a Smithie I dished out the “ I know what makes my body feel good.”
The past year has changed my outlook on a lot of things. Fellow Smithies have helped me realize the importance of doing things which make me, not the people in my life, happy. At some point I realized the empowerment, and importance, of choosing the right man (or woman) to have sex with. Looking at my friends from home I wonder how many regret who they lost their virginity with, did any of them have that morning after regret. For their sake I hope they didn’t, I also hope that they are confident enough to say what they want. For those of you reading this, I realize it’s a bit of a rant and it leaves a lot of holes for the imagination to fill in. I wish someone had told me in high school that having sex, specifically losing my virginity, was not the only way to feel like a woman, it would have defiantly helped my self confidence. So ladies, have sex or don’t but either way make sure it is what and how you want it.
so much love,
mama bear
A tribute for Chris.
You were the first person who wasn't related to me to call me pretty. I remember it distinctly: It was in 7th grade, in Mr. Mcnally's classroom, waiting for the buses to be called. You were goofy and so sweet and smiling and jolly (Was it real, this happy demeanor, even then?).
And I was anything but pretty then. I was a blur of anger and hurt and bad fashion choices vaguely related to punk and anxiety. But you saw differently. You were nice to me (you were nice to everyone). And so launched a relationship.
We talked almost every night for years on AIM (god, remember when AIM was cool?), sometimes about BS, sometimes about our demons. I told you about my anxiety and not being able to eat, you told me about your depression and later, your addictions. It always seemed like a cry for attention (why wasn't what we gave enough?). We talked less after I went to treatment. I kept trying to tell you, It gets better! (for you, I guess it didn't).
You told me a few weeks ago you were cleaning things out (Was that a sign? Should I have known?) and found my 8th grade picture that you'd kept. We joked around; I promised to call when I came home and I never did (WHY?).
Last night, I find out that you've ended your own life.
I can't do anything. I can't sleep. I start eating something and I walk away from it. I cry. I've hugged my brother for the first time in years (you've got our attention now, in the saddest way imaginable). I can't imagine that way your close friends must feel. Your sister. Your father. That kind of loss is literally incomprehensible to me.
We weren't even that close since I've left for college, (something I blame entirely on myself for being so ready to get rid of this place). Thanks to that same eager attitude, I'll probably miss your wake and funeral (WHY DIDN'T I CALL YOU?). And all I want to do is be here, with other sad people. I've tried to find my yearbook; I remember handing it to you, you smiled (you always smiled) and wrote something that was sad and sweet and probably mentioned my boobs. But now I can't find it. I've tried so hard to scrub the PA off me, to box the Valley out of my life that when I need it, it isn't here (why aren't you here?).
Too many young people have died in this Valley. I've been to a funeral or viewing of a person under 24 every year since sophomore year of high school. I almost miss the way we expressed grief when the first person we all knew died, in tenth grade. It was loud and public and inexperienced and embarrassing. No one tempered their sadness or edited themselves based on how well they knew her. We all just sobbed uniformly, for her and her close friends and her family, until it hurt a little less. I wish I could grieve for you like I was 15 (I wish we'd talked like we did at 15). I really do.
I sincerely do hope you've found peace. That there has been some relief from whatever tormented you here on earth. You were a good person, and I hope you believed that about yourself. We all did.
<3 The Sheriff
Chris Bennetsen 2/9/89-6/2/10
And I was anything but pretty then. I was a blur of anger and hurt and bad fashion choices vaguely related to punk and anxiety. But you saw differently. You were nice to me (you were nice to everyone). And so launched a relationship.
We talked almost every night for years on AIM (god, remember when AIM was cool?), sometimes about BS, sometimes about our demons. I told you about my anxiety and not being able to eat, you told me about your depression and later, your addictions. It always seemed like a cry for attention (why wasn't what we gave enough?). We talked less after I went to treatment. I kept trying to tell you, It gets better! (for you, I guess it didn't).
You told me a few weeks ago you were cleaning things out (Was that a sign? Should I have known?) and found my 8th grade picture that you'd kept. We joked around; I promised to call when I came home and I never did (WHY?).
Last night, I find out that you've ended your own life.
I can't do anything. I can't sleep. I start eating something and I walk away from it. I cry. I've hugged my brother for the first time in years (you've got our attention now, in the saddest way imaginable). I can't imagine that way your close friends must feel. Your sister. Your father. That kind of loss is literally incomprehensible to me.
We weren't even that close since I've left for college, (something I blame entirely on myself for being so ready to get rid of this place). Thanks to that same eager attitude, I'll probably miss your wake and funeral (WHY DIDN'T I CALL YOU?). And all I want to do is be here, with other sad people. I've tried to find my yearbook; I remember handing it to you, you smiled (you always smiled) and wrote something that was sad and sweet and probably mentioned my boobs. But now I can't find it. I've tried so hard to scrub the PA off me, to box the Valley out of my life that when I need it, it isn't here (why aren't you here?).
Too many young people have died in this Valley. I've been to a funeral or viewing of a person under 24 every year since sophomore year of high school. I almost miss the way we expressed grief when the first person we all knew died, in tenth grade. It was loud and public and inexperienced and embarrassing. No one tempered their sadness or edited themselves based on how well they knew her. We all just sobbed uniformly, for her and her close friends and her family, until it hurt a little less. I wish I could grieve for you like I was 15 (I wish we'd talked like we did at 15). I really do.
I sincerely do hope you've found peace. That there has been some relief from whatever tormented you here on earth. You were a good person, and I hope you believed that about yourself. We all did.
<3 The Sheriff
Chris Bennetsen 2/9/89-6/2/10
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
shoulda put a ring on it...erm, no thanks: Marriage Doubts
Most women who have a bond with her hairdresser find their conversations usually revolving around a single thing: relationships. Hairdressers have long known that allowing people to gush or vent undeterred about their love lives is one of the best ways to garner trust, tips, and loyal customers. And this is an instance where I am no different from most women.
About a year ago, I'd spent much of my appointment gushing over my then-boyfriend and as I was admiring my gorgeous post blowout hair, the stylist said something that made me freeze: "I feel like you'll be showing me your engagement ring the next time you come in!" Now, did I disabuse her of her notions about women and marriage, or did I shut up? I settled for the smile and giggle option, but it left a queasy feeling in my stomach.
I am an optimistic person. I tend to see the best in people. So why my hesitance about marriage (note: I only analyze hetero marriage here because that what there’s a decent body of research about)?
There are the obvious factors, like the American divorce rate, hovering around 50%. There is also my family's marital history, with a divorce rate around 85%. Every adult has been in at least one failed marriage or soured relationship with a baby daddy. This creates a healthy distrust in me of the institution (though I do love me some weddings).
But there's more to it then just simple statistics.
This little tale sums up some of it well: An ancient Indian yogi long ago was known for her wailing and crying at weddings. She didn't cry out of joy, but rather out of sadness, knowing that these two formerly independent young people were forever tying all of their hopes, dreams, and ambitions to one other person, a recipe for failure and unhappiness and a lack of fulfillment. The weight of that burden is simply a crushing thing to put on another person. Also, it’s blatant bullshit. I, and every single human on this planet, am a complete person. I am flawed, but I do not need a legal bond to another equally flawed individual to somehow fill the gaps. Because I have no gaps, bitches (and neither do you!).
And furthermore, I do believe that women have more of this propensity to put their dreams into a partner, to believe that it will make them complete somehow. Whether this is because of conditioning (cough DISNEY cough) or inherent biology (...nah), it's very real. Little girls are taught to dream about their wedding day, when they get to be the princess, to feel chosen.
But this is not a worthy trade off, this feeling of being wanted by one person forever. I'm going to take a passage from Elizabeth Gilbert's book Committed to flesh this out a bit (italics her words, parenthesis mine):
If you are a man, the smartest decision you can possibly make for yourself--assuming you would like to lead a long, happy, healthy, prosperous existence--is to get married. (She then lists the ways men benefit: they live longer, accumulate more wealth, excel at their careers above, less likely to die a violent death, less likely to suffer from alcoholism, drug addiction, and depression then single men).
Dishearteningly, the reverse is not true. Married women in America do not fare better inlife than their single counterparts. (They live shorter lives, take a 7% pay cut on average, are significantly less healthy, do not thrive in their careers as much, more likely to be depressed, and most frighteningly, are more likely to die a violent death, usually at the hands of their husband!).
All this adds up to what puzzled sociologists call the "Marriage Benefit Imbalance"--a tidy name for an almost freakishly doleful conclusion: that women generally lose in the exchange of marriage vows, while men win big.
But the inertia of tradition is strong, and it’s difficult to resist the cultural tide pushing women towards settling down and feeling “complete.” I already have several companions and friends from high school who have tied the knot or soon will. And if you want to get married for your own reasons, by all means, go ahead. I am not critiquing your individual choice; rather, I take issue with an institution that we perpetuate strongly through cultural norms and encouragement that is blatantly bad for an entire half of the people participating in it!
Much love and frustration with cultural institutions,
The Albright Sheriff
About a year ago, I'd spent much of my appointment gushing over my then-boyfriend and as I was admiring my gorgeous post blowout hair, the stylist said something that made me freeze: "I feel like you'll be showing me your engagement ring the next time you come in!" Now, did I disabuse her of her notions about women and marriage, or did I shut up? I settled for the smile and giggle option, but it left a queasy feeling in my stomach.
I am an optimistic person. I tend to see the best in people. So why my hesitance about marriage (note: I only analyze hetero marriage here because that what there’s a decent body of research about)?
There are the obvious factors, like the American divorce rate, hovering around 50%. There is also my family's marital history, with a divorce rate around 85%. Every adult has been in at least one failed marriage or soured relationship with a baby daddy. This creates a healthy distrust in me of the institution (though I do love me some weddings).
But there's more to it then just simple statistics.
This little tale sums up some of it well: An ancient Indian yogi long ago was known for her wailing and crying at weddings. She didn't cry out of joy, but rather out of sadness, knowing that these two formerly independent young people were forever tying all of their hopes, dreams, and ambitions to one other person, a recipe for failure and unhappiness and a lack of fulfillment. The weight of that burden is simply a crushing thing to put on another person. Also, it’s blatant bullshit. I, and every single human on this planet, am a complete person. I am flawed, but I do not need a legal bond to another equally flawed individual to somehow fill the gaps. Because I have no gaps, bitches (and neither do you!).
And furthermore, I do believe that women have more of this propensity to put their dreams into a partner, to believe that it will make them complete somehow. Whether this is because of conditioning (cough DISNEY cough) or inherent biology (...nah), it's very real. Little girls are taught to dream about their wedding day, when they get to be the princess, to feel chosen.
But this is not a worthy trade off, this feeling of being wanted by one person forever. I'm going to take a passage from Elizabeth Gilbert's book Committed to flesh this out a bit (italics her words, parenthesis mine):
If you are a man, the smartest decision you can possibly make for yourself--assuming you would like to lead a long, happy, healthy, prosperous existence--is to get married. (She then lists the ways men benefit: they live longer, accumulate more wealth, excel at their careers above, less likely to die a violent death, less likely to suffer from alcoholism, drug addiction, and depression then single men).
Dishearteningly, the reverse is not true. Married women in America do not fare better inlife than their single counterparts. (They live shorter lives, take a 7% pay cut on average, are significantly less healthy, do not thrive in their careers as much, more likely to be depressed, and most frighteningly, are more likely to die a violent death, usually at the hands of their husband!).
All this adds up to what puzzled sociologists call the "Marriage Benefit Imbalance"--a tidy name for an almost freakishly doleful conclusion: that women generally lose in the exchange of marriage vows, while men win big.
But the inertia of tradition is strong, and it’s difficult to resist the cultural tide pushing women towards settling down and feeling “complete.” I already have several companions and friends from high school who have tied the knot or soon will. And if you want to get married for your own reasons, by all means, go ahead. I am not critiquing your individual choice; rather, I take issue with an institution that we perpetuate strongly through cultural norms and encouragement that is blatantly bad for an entire half of the people participating in it!
Much love and frustration with cultural institutions,
The Albright Sheriff
Monday, May 31, 2010
Check yourself girl, where'd your pants go?
I have a complex about clothing. It probably began awhile ago but became much worse during the semester that I spent in Jordan. The title of this post "check yourself girl, where'd your pants go?" will become a remix to the song "Camel Toe" by the FannyPack. This song is about the "camel toe" which happens when women wear pants that are too tight in the front (something every woman needs to avoid). My version will highlight a new "growing epidemic that really ain't cool:" bitches not wearing pants. Leggings are not pants. It is perfectly acceptable to wear a long shirt/dress/skirt that covers your ass, and then wear leggings underneath it, if it would be too short. However, it needs to cover your ass. I understand that not wearing pants is way more comfortable than wearing pants, but it's not legit. (Disclaimer: I have not worn pants on occasion so this post admonishes my own behavior).
A lack of pants highlights a much bigger problem; a lack of overall clothing. In Jordan, most of the women wear hijab (head scarf) and wear clothing that only shows their hands and face. Yes, it's restrictive and way more complicated than solely related to Islam (another post) but in some ways, I think that it's better. After not seeing skin for so long, I have become ultra-sensitive to it, so anytime that I see an excessive amount of cleavage or almost butt cheeks, I stare. I know that most people will read this and say, well, then everyone should show more skin, and then you'd become used to it again.
But skin itself is not the issue. Our society has sexualized skin and body parts. People including my peers claim that having the ability to wear whatever they want (including no pants) gives them more power over their bodies and their sexuality. However, I don't know how much I buy this argument especially for younger girls. If you look around, very few women in their mid to late twenties show all of their (or even most) of their goodies on a daily basis. It's mostly teenagers. For me, my wardrobe has become a vehicle that I can use to express my sexuality or not and prevent others from sexualizing me. I honestly feel uncomfortable wearing a low-cut shirt or anything high above the knee in front of men that I do not know except at parties. The difference is that at a party, I want to be looked at in a sexual way b/c I am generally trying to get some (and I am usually successful, might I add). But in everyday life, I would prefer that men don't look at me and automatically think "wow, I want to bang her" or "nice boobs." I’ve shared this idea with a few friends and they usually say men aren’t that bad (about commenting on women) as I say. However, almost every time that I have hung out with only guys, they have commented on every single, remotely, attractive girls’ ass or boobs who walks by. I want to control when I am that girl. Maybe I am epically failing and over-analyzing everything, but I finally have found some comfortable pants, so I will wear them!
Lots of love,
Lady Lola
Guest Post: Sexist Slang
Often, the vernacular we apply in our daily conversations expresses much more than we realize. In fact, slang can be – subtle or not—quite sexist.
How would you typically describe the article of clothing pictured here?
Although there is a range of answers could suffice--- from basic to detailed (e.g. tank top, sleeveless tank, athletic shirt, ribbed cotton tank)-- it’s likely to hear the term “wife beater*”. So common, in fact, I noticed the Sheriff employing the phrase in one of her awesome posts (see “SHOTS… of douchebaggery”). Please note that I’m not trying to be a jerk by pointing my finger at some sort of gross hypocrisy: I’m merely making an observation about the unfortunate ease of saying “wife beater”.
Somehow the description of a simple white, cotton, ribbed tank has become synonymous with domestic abuse. People understand what you mean if you say, “he was wearing a wife beater.” It conjures up an image: usually of a lower-class, male chauvinist with anger issues.
The shirt, more typical for use as a undergarment or athletic ware, when worn in public seems to indicate some sort of problematic behavior. In the former Soviet Union, it was called “alkogolichka” due to its association with alcoholics (according to Russian Wikipedia). In America, it also gets a less-than-stellar connotation when used to sum up stereotypes of Italians.
Basically, let’s get the misogynistic terms out of our vocabulary. Think before you speak--- or if you say it, correct yourself-- and encourage others to do the same. Just as describing something negative as being “gay” or “retarded” has become rightful cause for advocacy, so should the use of terms which hint at, or are blatant about, their misogynistic origins.
With love,
Kiss My Ash
_______________________________
* Other spellings of this lovely term include compound words, both with our without a dash (wife-beater and wifebeater). For the sake of this entry, however, I will use two words. Hooray.
How would you typically describe the article of clothing pictured here?
Although there is a range of answers could suffice--- from basic to detailed (e.g. tank top, sleeveless tank, athletic shirt, ribbed cotton tank)-- it’s likely to hear the term “wife beater*”. So common, in fact, I noticed the Sheriff employing the phrase in one of her awesome posts (see “SHOTS… of douchebaggery”). Please note that I’m not trying to be a jerk by pointing my finger at some sort of gross hypocrisy: I’m merely making an observation about the unfortunate ease of saying “wife beater”.Somehow the description of a simple white, cotton, ribbed tank has become synonymous with domestic abuse. People understand what you mean if you say, “he was wearing a wife beater.” It conjures up an image: usually of a lower-class, male chauvinist with anger issues.
The shirt, more typical for use as a undergarment or athletic ware, when worn in public seems to indicate some sort of problematic behavior. In the former Soviet Union, it was called “alkogolichka” due to its association with alcoholics (according to Russian Wikipedia). In America, it also gets a less-than-stellar connotation when used to sum up stereotypes of Italians.
Basically, let’s get the misogynistic terms out of our vocabulary. Think before you speak--- or if you say it, correct yourself-- and encourage others to do the same. Just as describing something negative as being “gay” or “retarded” has become rightful cause for advocacy, so should the use of terms which hint at, or are blatant about, their misogynistic origins.
With love,
Kiss My Ash
_______________________________
* Other spellings of this lovely term include compound words, both with our without a dash (wife-beater and wifebeater). For the sake of this entry, however, I will use two words. Hooray.
Shots...of DOUCHEBAGGERY
I've never really listened to the lyrics of "Shots" by LMFAO (yes, that is their actual name) until recently when I was once again hitting up the classy bars of West Chester, PA. In particular, these lines disturbed me.
The ladies love us
when we pour shots
they need an excuse
to suck our cocks
The women come around everytime I'm pourin' shots
Their panties hit the ground everytime I give em shots
The music video was also being broadcast on a huge, wall-size projection screen, putting the bodies of svelte, tiny women in bikinis (all of whom had more or less the same skin tone, despite being different ethnicities) being sprayed with super soakers and doing shots and fawning all over these heinously ugly men with no lyrical content.
What bothers me especially about these lines is the fact that it completely nullifies the fact that these women might have desires of their own. Hell, maybe they actually WANT to suck your cocks or to drop their panties. But attributing these actions solely to their consumption of shots makes the sexual wants and needs of these women arbitrary. It takes away their agency and replaces it with drunken mistakes as the only source of sexual experience.
On a similar topic of being in totally un-Smith places, I went to Point Pleasant Beach, NJ yesterday. I have some weird affinity for the Jersey Shore that developed long before the reality show; I grew up going to Wildwood every summer, and despite the fact that it's crowded and dirty and full of screaming kids, I love it. It also provides blog fodder!
The shore in particular showcases extreme ends of hetero-normative appearance and behavior. The majority of the women were super-tan, super-thin, scantily-clad with their hair did (huge and Jersey), nails on, and a full face of makeup despite the nigh-90 degree weather. They wore high gladiator style heels and extraordinarily tight pants, displaying an almost grotesque version of femininity with no regard to the discomfort they must've felt. And even as I somewhat pitied them, I felt severely under-dressed, with my bare face and cut offs and flip flops, which indicates only how strong the desire to blend in with the norm on display really is.
I can't speak to how the male appearance of how it makes one feel, being female bodied myself, but the (young) men were all jacked, tanned, and possibly juiced (Snooki, it is a land of plenty for you). Nearly all wore wife beaters or popped collars, had deep tans, and walked with the weight-room-jock swagger that screams "my arms are so large and buff I can't put them down by my sides."
One thing I can say to Point Pleasant's benefit was its multicultural air: white people were close to the minority, and I saw women in hijabi and saris, families speaking Spanish and Portuguese and Hindi. It was a nice contrast to the white-washed, only Irish atmosphere of, say, Sea Isle City.
Sorry if this post is a little scattered. My brain is fried from the Jersey.
Much love,
The Albright Sheriff
The ladies love us
when we pour shots
they need an excuse
to suck our cocks
The women come around everytime I'm pourin' shots
Their panties hit the ground everytime I give em shots
The music video was also being broadcast on a huge, wall-size projection screen, putting the bodies of svelte, tiny women in bikinis (all of whom had more or less the same skin tone, despite being different ethnicities) being sprayed with super soakers and doing shots and fawning all over these heinously ugly men with no lyrical content.
What bothers me especially about these lines is the fact that it completely nullifies the fact that these women might have desires of their own. Hell, maybe they actually WANT to suck your cocks or to drop their panties. But attributing these actions solely to their consumption of shots makes the sexual wants and needs of these women arbitrary. It takes away their agency and replaces it with drunken mistakes as the only source of sexual experience.
On a similar topic of being in totally un-Smith places, I went to Point Pleasant Beach, NJ yesterday. I have some weird affinity for the Jersey Shore that developed long before the reality show; I grew up going to Wildwood every summer, and despite the fact that it's crowded and dirty and full of screaming kids, I love it. It also provides blog fodder!
The shore in particular showcases extreme ends of hetero-normative appearance and behavior. The majority of the women were super-tan, super-thin, scantily-clad with their hair did (huge and Jersey), nails on, and a full face of makeup despite the nigh-90 degree weather. They wore high gladiator style heels and extraordinarily tight pants, displaying an almost grotesque version of femininity with no regard to the discomfort they must've felt. And even as I somewhat pitied them, I felt severely under-dressed, with my bare face and cut offs and flip flops, which indicates only how strong the desire to blend in with the norm on display really is.
I can't speak to how the male appearance of how it makes one feel, being female bodied myself, but the (young) men were all jacked, tanned, and possibly juiced (Snooki, it is a land of plenty for you). Nearly all wore wife beaters or popped collars, had deep tans, and walked with the weight-room-jock swagger that screams "my arms are so large and buff I can't put them down by my sides."
One thing I can say to Point Pleasant's benefit was its multicultural air: white people were close to the minority, and I saw women in hijabi and saris, families speaking Spanish and Portuguese and Hindi. It was a nice contrast to the white-washed, only Irish atmosphere of, say, Sea Isle City.
Sorry if this post is a little scattered. My brain is fried from the Jersey.
Much love,
The Albright Sheriff
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