December 12, 2022 by aczodryn

Pleasure and Correspondence

content warning: sex and masturbation

Oddly enough, I remember my first orgasm. And that’s simply because it wasn’t too long ago, about over a year to be exact. It’s aggravating how the shame I felt towards my body kept me from exploring it. The repressed Christian girl is no foreign stereotype to us, but we never seem to focus enough on the shame hoisted upon young girls that makes them conceal any and every part of their sexual nature. Why was “acting your own age” or “not looking too grown” a priority for my middle school self when I had just barely started to develop tweenage crushes on my classmates? The only people who were in touch with these notions I had no idea existed were the adults around me. My body as a child shouldn’t have been a battleground where I had to prioritize mannerisms over my black girl joy.

Looking back now, coming into my body has been a long and tiring journey. My family’s obsession with purity stems from the dominating Christian culture we came from. The ideals instilled into me as a young girl weren’t just the opinions of my aunt who raised me, but that of her mother and her mother’s mother. For generations, no, eras, we were told to protect young girls through forcing them to adhere to paltry rules about how we use the space we take up. But who am I to break the sanctity of these rules? They seemed to do enough for my female ancestors who succeeded in having families of their own.

Don’t think for a second, I didn’t rebel. I wore what I wanted, listened to punk rock music, and tried my best to escape my family’s expectations. I even came out as pansexual in middle school, which my family brushed off as a phase but was still mildly appalled by it, to say the least. Back then, I thought knowing my sexuality meant being comfortable within it. I was pretty far off.

The sin of masturbation was never discussed by my family, but the weight of it was still there. In my late teenage years I explored my body in the few hours I had the house to myself. All I remember was the constant rush of shame every time I attempted to get myself off. I could only ever think of the judging stare of God from above or that my ancestors or guardian angels were disgusted with me. Despite this shame, I never even reached a climax. Maybe it was what I deserved.

Eventually, I entered my first relationship and there went my virginity. Many people were actually surprised I stayed a virgin for so long as I always tried to make myself come off as the raunchy, sex-positive funny girl. Despite wanting to be known as a “sexpert” in my youth, I never took my chances to engage in any sexual acts until I was a legal adult. I convinced myself this was the safest option to avoid being grounded into oblivion. It wasn’t until I bought my first sex toy that I actually learned the extent of my own pleasure. Like a great number of people with vulvas, clitoral stimulation led to my first success.

It was a moment of cathartic relief like no other. Any feeling of my body being broken immediately left me. Is this what my shame kept me from my whole life? Feelings of purity and shame no longer mattered, because I had finally come into my individual pleasure. Shame only held me back, which is why I refuse to give into it any longer. Those moments of fear now correspond to a time long ago where I was afraid of my body.

December 8, 2022 by windowville

pussy (n.) 1. Nice name for a cat

Slang for women’s genitals
Cowardly

_{Credit to Urban Dictionary for the lovely definitions.}

Being born with a body that possesses a vagina has always been…well, there isn’t one word I’d use to describe it. It can be joyful at times, and a burden the next. It can hold me back from feeling immense happiness, and it can also make me feel on top of the world. I never thought I’d have complicated feelings about my vagina, but now as someone who is taking testosterone and seeing the effects it has on this important body part of mine: I can’t help but feel constantly conflicted. Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way saying I want phalloplasty. I, frankly, would prefer if no surgery had to happen within/outside/around my vagina. But I still can’t help but feel this weight of it pulling me back from fully being myself, and fully feeling happy.

And why is that? I mean, the short answer is dysphoria. But OK, try a different path: even if I was cisgender, would I still feel conflicted in having a vagina? Could I join the cisgender women in arms and discuss how owning a vagina makes me the most badass, powerful woman on Earth? I mean, maybe. The reclamation of the vagina as an empowering symbol has its appeal to me currently: I’m a man with a vagina, suck on that Republicans! But still, that concept of my genitalia never meeting the “norm” for a cisgender man will always feel as though it’s holding me back. And yes, I know, the “norms” were created by folks who wanted a mass genocide of the Black, Brown, queer, disabled, and all things deemed “other” – so knowing this, why do I still feel the need to appease this massive dictator of a concept?

One answer could be: it’s just easier to submit to society. Another could be that I’m just starting to unlearn these things as the “norm”, so falling into “old habits of thinking” is prone to happen. And, perhaps, the third answer is just that it is also the “norm” for transgender men to feel dysphoria surrounding their genitals, to feel as though they are “lesser”. And maybe that’s the norm that I find myself stuck in: I have to be depressed about my vagina, because I’m trans and society says I have to feel sad about being trans. By actively going against this, and creating joy out of the otherwise dysphoric – it begins to open up a world of new possibilities. The thing that once felt as though it was holding me back, now holds significant power – just as it does for others.

October 1, 2022 by aczodryn

Upward Spiraling Out of My Body Dysmorphia

Image by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

trigger warnings: body dysmorphia, suicide, mentions of disordered eating, illness

If you remember what your body looks like, I think you’re one of the lucky ones. If you don’t, then I’m not so glad this is what we have in common. Coming from an older West Indian family, my body was always a discussion. No matter how many soccer practices I showed up to, salads I ate, nor how well I did in P.E. class, whenever an aunt approached me it was always “You’ve gotten bigger!” Even throughout my adulthood my body has gotten bigger. I know I’m big, but I wish they knew that I didn’t need to be reminded every second of my life.

I think it’s important to note that I wasn’t always fat, but I still struggled with food and dieting at a young age. Having to deal with cholesterol issues during elementary school was the start of my long, relentless relationship with food. I remember sitting in the doctor’s office with my uncle, his eyes glazed over, listening to every word my pediatrician said. My relationship with food not only originates in this moment, but also with my family’s history of heart disease, diabetes, and many other debilitating diseases. By the time I reached high school, my uncle had a coronary angioplasty, stent insertion, triple bypass heart surgery, and several other surgeries for various kinds of cancer. He never wanted me to suffer like he did.

For as long as I can remember, my uncle micro-managed everything that graced my plate. There were even times we fought at the dinner table so he could see whatever takeout I’d brought home. The stress of bringing home any form of food that he would scrutinize started to transfer into other aspects of my life. In middle school I discovered how uncomfortable it made me feel to eat in public spaces. In high school I even went as far as to become the library aide so I could escape the daunting task of consuming food in the adolescent-filled cafeteria and tried my best to retreat back to the library every lunch break. The library was my safe haven, a place of structure for the moments where I felt the most vulnerable. This is still a habit I have today, I always look for security.

It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started my first romantic relationship. He was beautiful, smart, and even had a piercing on one ear that was the jackpot of my teenage girl fantasies. Being with him was the first time someone told me I was pretty. For someone that had only dreamed of having a boyfriend, that meant the world to me. I naively thought that feeling would last forever. As the pandemic raged on, and quarantine forced us into our isolated nests, there became an evident strain on our relationship. Still, we continued to stay with each other. I never noticed when his demeanor changed or that I couldn’t fit into half of my jeans anymore, or even that I was getting bigger than him. I made a huge mistake. You know that horrible mistake people make when they get lost in a relationship because they already have constant bodily validation? Yeah, that one. I gained the “happy weight”, I let myself go. People hate happy weight because being fat makes you feel empty and alone after a relationship. Nobody thinks that you’re attractive anymore and it feels like now there’s this huge responsibility that you have to get back to when you were skinnier. I fucked up.

Coming out of that relationship I became extremely depressed. I moved back in with my family, back to a space I never felt secure in. Endless nights spent scrolling through Tinder, a space where your body is always being perceived, felt completely invalidating. I was a completely different person. And I didn’t feel that way because I had loved and learned valuable lessons about navigating relationships, but it was because I was fat. Everytime I looked into the mirror, a devil appeared on my shoulder pointing out every flaw on my now monstrous body. It’s like my ego had turned against me.

I didn’t want to live in my body anymore. I thought I was nothing without the comfort of another person telling me I was good enough. I can’t say that I never feel that way today, but I’ve worked on it. I’m not about to go on a spiel about how much it matters to love yourself, nor about how self-love is a journey and not a destination… but would love really be worth it if it meant that I had to be skinny, athletic, or fit any of the aesthetic qualities guys on dating apps wanted? Probably not. But I want to be better, because I know that the moments in between these feelings of doubt and despair are much more important than these superficial views of my body. Though, how I never saw myself changing is still a phenomena to me.

In the end, I’m still trying to upward spiral out of this feeling called body dysmorphia.

We Go Jim

For the entirety of my life up until college I was living with the view that how society saw me didn’t matter, that I could reach my goals by acting and looking however I wanted. I was naturally skinny and with my tall build I looked like a noodle. My social skills were severely underdeveloped, I wore clothes that didn’t help my appearance, I only showered when I felt like it; for a time my hair looked like I went to the barber and asked for the lamest looking cut they could think of. My first semester living on campus I decided to change that. I started going to the gym. I made a friend there, and we started going to the RAC everyday at 7:00 in the morning. I liked the progress that I saw from working out, and my newfound confidence helped me make friends in my dorm. We went shopping together to buy clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs and three sizes too big on me, and eventually I found that my lame old self that I pitied was gone.

This drastic change in my life has altered the way I view society. Society today has taught us that we don’t need to change ourselves because we are perfect the way we are, but that is simply untrue. Unless you are your best self you should always be changing and bettering yourself in everyway possible; that is evolution. Now whenever I see someone defend their lazy actions it irritates me that they believe that they think the choices they are making are correct. “Oh, I have a fast metabolism, I can’t gain weight!” – eat more, “I don’t have enough time to workout.” – cut out the time wasters from your day; these are statements from people that I regularly see do the absolute minimum to take care of themselves, and prioritize indulging in media instead of being productive. They’re unenergized, they’re not social, and they wonder why they are depressed. They remind me of who I used to be before I started working out, and I truly believe that everyone would be an infinitely better version of themselves if they started to “Go Jim”.

September 24, 2022 by TKS

“I’m Not Racist, I Have a Black Friend”

For years, I have heard everything under the sun when it comes to being one of the “only’s” in my group. As an adopted and mixed biracial child (27-year-old kid at heart currently), who lived in the mountains of Maryland as a teenager, coming to grips with how the world might view me and my curly-headed naivety was rather unnerving. I came to understand the reference of being the token black friend that allowed for the N-word pass or in other cases, being the only black friend in the class, group, seminar, etc. These experiences heavily shaped my perception of what it means to deal with race.

Personally, I am under the belief that Racism and Phenomenology go together and proclaiming to not see racism or ignoring the effects of racism on our current/past generation(s) is just downright sad. Phenomenology, or in my opinion, the study of the first-person point of view, can contextually be used to define how one person may “feel” in multiple facets of life. Regarding racism, are we to ignore any subject or mention of race, because it did not directly relate to our own lives? Or is race completely made up, and another reason for people to divide themselves from another individual or group?

The biggest change in my feelings of being different, and knowing that I was one of the only’s, came to me when I first heard the N-word, with a harsh r, referenced by a classmate in 9^th grade. While it wasn’t said to me directly, it made me immediately focus on the issues behind the people who cannot or will not, for the lack of a better term, filter between what is racist and what may just be an awkward-ass conversation. Being raised within a school that was predominately 95% white was different, but fitting in and being myself was never an issue for me. Hearing the term, “I’m not racist, I have a black friend!” or “you’re not a black person, you’re white” was all predicated-on ignorance and a lack of socialization. I didn’t understand at the time, the importance that we placed on color, but I know what I experienced can be directly linked to misguided views and the sum of young adulthood. Looking back, it’s comedy. Which leads to my understanding of what phenomenology is. Color me shocked after spending at least – 30 minutes thinking deeply about what this long word could be condensed into, but I think the first-person point of view is a great example of what this study means.

When it comes to my personal experiences with racism and bigotry, I feel as if the instances I experienced as a child paled in comparison to others. While extreme to some, I would classify these lessons as just that – lessons. I fall somewhere beneath the idea of creating your own destiny and acknowledging the effects that racism may have had on our entire society. Personally, these instances did not break me and made me even stronger. Hell, now that I am slightly older and have experienced a gumbo-sized stew of diversity in Texas, race means nothing to me. We’re all different and accepting people as different is the key.

As a child, I “felt” as if what I experienced was profoundly true. Even if I was the black friend, call it racist or not, what did that other person feel when they muttered the N-word? If it was of no malice, it’s hard for me to take that comment personally. If I meet someone from a completely different location, that had a different lifestyle than I do, how can I not look at them and wonder where their family tree stems from and how that influenced them today? Asking these questions and looking deeper could 1000 percent be me overthinking, but I think that’s exactly what the study of the phenomena is; putting yourself in another person’s perspective and “feeling” (or at least attempting to understand) why they feel the way they do. Hoping for awareness, I have faith that talking and sharing our experiences as a society can aid in the attempt to ensure blatant racism does not continue to effect generations to come.

January 26, 2019 by Alex M.

How do we boobify it? A look at bodies and abilities in video games.

I have recently been spending my spare time sitting on my couch, waiting in anticipation for the new “Resident Evil” survival-horror video game to release. I played the demo of the game last week, and it was great! I was tense for many hours after, but it was worth it. I love a good scare, and in video games there is the sweet feeling of starting over again even after failure, so there is usually a feeling of relief. After playing it though, I started thinking about video game characters throughout time, and how they kind of always typically find a way to make everything look good. Continue reading →