The deeper into this chapter in my life I get, the fainter the hum of crucifixion becomes.
Incarceration is when nobody writes a happy ending for a woman without a man.
My life views on sex, men, dating, and self-worth were sculpted with the unfiltered ramblings of a drunken misogynist.
The prostate might as well have been a mythological creature like a unicorn or Leprechaun only acknowledged through whispery giggles among women brunching with their gay friends.
I milked my typical persona as a gritty, intellectual sex-positive feminist that men loved to conquer, toss aside, and shove into their conquest collection in the dusty backs of their closets.
But time and time again, I saw the change in their eyes once they’d conquered me. Dehumanization always follows penetration.
But penetration was a big deal. They protected their anuses the way girls protected their hymen in high school, believing that allowing anything beyond their holy gates would permanently corrupt them.
I only knew to treat the male asshole as if it had a grenade buried inside of it that could ignite a deadly explosion of anger, trauma, and sexual confusion.
I am done looking for love where it doesn’t exist. I am done coughing up dust in attempts to drink from dry wells.
You can’t exploit a woman who has based her entire career on exploiting herself.
Patriarchy is women structuring lifelong decisions around men they haven’t met.
I became a feminist upon the realization that, whether physical, mental, or emotional, everything involved in obtaining love and approval from men required some form of self-mutilation.
Even in my most intimate moments with a man, I am alone.
It only takes a tenth grade course on evolution to know that the prostate g-spot’s existence alone is proof that ass play has been done for a very, very long time.
Your true passion in life is what you’d be doing if somebody handed you 100 million dollars.
Children are often like hostages under the care of authority, with spankings and groundings nudging them like guns pointed at their skulls, threatening to shoot if the wrong words are uttered.
Southerners have mastered picking, choosing, and rationalizing religious texts to fit their social agenda better than their own mother’s fried chicken recipe.
Males were expected to be ready to fuck any hole they could slip their dicks into. Boys weren’t considered men unless they were influenced by their carnal instincts to spread their seed.
Seasoned digital daters are like lions who have had their prey killed, butchered, and served to them on a tray in their artificial habitat for so long that they’ve forgotten how to hunt.
We didn’t realize that although the meaning changed, our “dirty places” remained the same.
I grew up missing my mom while she was right in front of me.
Suddenly, the brave warriors parading to combat with bugles and bayonets were replaced by the push of a button.
We were sexual targets, marked as eternal sluts for exploring the desires only acceptable in men.