The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #58? Start with the rules, come back May 1st to submit something and subscribe…
My post on aftercare is included in this month’s elust!
PLEASE SHARE WIDELY: The Femme Conference 2014 call for workshops and programming is OPEN!
From now until *May 15th*, submit your proposals for workshops, panels, facilitated discussions, skill shares, and lectures. We are looking for well-planned submissions that recognize and respect the array of Femme experience, and we are interested in work that challenges systems of oppression.
Submit here: http://ow.ly/vVTUy
There are so many roots to the tree of angerthat sometimes the branches shatterbefore they bear.Sitting in Nedicksthe women rally before they marchdiscussing the problematic girlsthey hire to make them free.An almost white counterman passesa waiting brother to serve them firstand the ladies neither notice nor rejectthe slighter pleasures of their slavery.But I who am bound by my mirroras well as my bedsee causes in colouras well as sexand sit here wonderingwhich me will surviveall these liberations.
The Bridge Poem
by Donna Kate Rushin
I’ve had enough
I’m sick of seeing and touching
Both sides of things
Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody
Can talk to anybody
I explain my mother to my father
my father to my little sister
My little sister to my brother
my brother to the white feminists
The white feminists to the Black church folks
the Black church folks to the ex-hippies
the ex-hippies to the Black separatists
the Black separatists to the artists
the artists to my friends’ parents…
I’ve got to explain myself
I do more translating
Than the Gawdamn U.N.
I’m sick of it.
I’m sick of filling in your gaps
Sick of being your insurance against
the isolation of your self-imposed limitations
Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners
Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches
Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people
Find another connection to the rest of the world
Find something else to make you legitimate
Find some other way to be political and hip
I will not be the bridge to your womanhood
I’m sick of reminding you not to
Close off too tight for too long
I’m sick of mediating with your worst self
On behalf of your better selves
I am sick
Of having to remind you
Before you suffocate
Your own fool self
Stretch or drown
Evolve or die
The bridge I must be
Is the bridge to my own power
I must translate
My own fears
My own weaknesses
I must be the bridge to nowhere
But my true self
I will be useful
I Am The Reasonable One
by Rosario Morales
I am the reasonable one. I am the one you can say your spite to, the one you can ask the venomous questions. It’s so hard to say your contempt of these loud, dirty, emotional people if you’re white, rational, and liberal. Your self- expression is so limited by your self-repression and what can you do with your bile?
I am the reasonable one and, best of all, I am your friend. We have sat together, talked together, given and received support, touched hands, touched cheeks. You know me to be kind, to be thoughtful.
You know me to be reasonable, to be rational. You know me to be almost white, almost middle class, almost acceptable. You can count on me, hopefully, to answer quietly, reasonable, and if I don’t, you can say “Don’t take it personally.” You can ask, “You’re not angry with me?” You can trust me, nearly, to answer “No.”
I am the one Puerto Rican you can ask, “Why don’t they learn English?” And what I answer is full of love and understanding of those people, your ancestors included, who were forced by the acculturated jingoist migrants of a previous generation to abandon their languages—yiddish, irish, chinese, japanese, tagolog„ spanish, french, russian, polish, italian, german—to give birth to your acculturated jingoist selves.
I am the one who hears it all. You can speak freely about “them,” about the lower classes, about puertoricans, about blacks, about chinese. When you lower your voice to ask about them, to talk about them, you don’t lower it to exclude me. You know you can tell me.
I am the one you can say “people like us” to, meaning white middle class women who are fine, who are right, whose ways are the only ways, whose life is the only life.
And if I say, “not me”—oh and I do say, “not me—you do not need to listen. Surely! You can pooh-pooh my stubborn clinging to being different. You know me better than I know myself. You know I am white like you, english- speaking like you, right-thinking like you, middle-class-living like you, no matter what I say.
And through this all, I have ever been the reasonable one, never wanting to betray myself, to become before your eyes just exactly what you despise: a loud and angry spik, cockroaches creeping out of my ears, spitty Spanish curses spilling out of my wet lips, angry crazy eyes shooting hate at you. All victims of all racist outrages look like that in your eyes, like your own evil personified, the evil you participate in, condone, or allow.
But now I tell you reasonably, for the last time, reasonably, that I am through. That I am not reasonable anymore, that I was always angry, that I am angry now.
That I am puertorican. That under that crisp english and extensive american vocabulary, I always say mielda. I say ai mami, ai mami giving birth. That I am not like you in a million ways that I have kept from you but that I will no more.
That I am working class and always eat at the only table, the kitchen table. That taking things is not always stealing, it’s sometimes getting your own back, and walking around in my underwear is being at home.
And I am angry. I will shout at you if you ask your venomous questions now, I will call you racist pig, I will refuse your friendship.
I will be loud and vulgar and angry and me. So change your ways or shut your racist mouths. Use your liberal rationality to unlearn your contempt for me and my people, or shut your racist mouths.
I am not going to eat myself up inside anymore. I am not going to eat myself up inside anymore. I am not going to eat myself up inside anymore.
I am going to eat you.
Published in Getting Home Alive