We’re all staying up all night. Everyone’s in the other bathroom. We wrote BUS NOTES! Everyone’s going home. It sucks. We were gonna do Ouija board and ask Kurt Cobain if Courtney Love killed him, but considering Noreen went to bed already I don’t think it’s gonna happen.
These clothes were made with our bodies in mind. To see that reflected on a runway — models of all sizes and ages and races and styles, outfits for occasions ranging from going to the gym to a black-tie formal event, all with a queer point of view — and to be a part of such a vibrant reaction to that made my robot heart grow three times. Queer Fashion Week wasn’t just about an aesthetic. It was about our community beyond just our sexualities, about body positivity, about representation, about celebrating and supporting each other in all things queer.
Riese tells me there was no new queer stuff on Salem this week, but that there is lesbian stuff on Lizzie Borden. I am juxtaposing those two things because of all the blood and how I can’t watch them.
Sometimes we love people who don’t share our same value systems or knowledge sets. It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t love them, but it can mean we need to work hard to make sure we aren’t compromising our own values just to placate them.
In the last half of 2011, I lived inside my depression. I alternated between sadness and numbness, between hyper-productivity and three-day crying jags where all I did was eat buttered toast and listen to Elliott Smith. In 2012, poetry taught me to feel other things again. I fed off Sylvia Plath’s tragedy, took whimsical journeys with e.e. cummings, grounded myself in stories with W.S. Merwin, got high on Anis Mojgani’s hope, riled myself up with Audre Lorde. I related deeply to Eileen Myles and Adrienne Rich and wasn’t quite prepared to process why.
Poetry didn’t convince me everything was going to be ok — too many great poets died by suicide or died alone and angry for me to believe poetry could be a cure-all — but they showed me that I was not alone in my not-okayness. They showed me there was more to life than being fucked up, and they reminded me I deserved better.
Orphan Black is back, y’all, and I am practically catatonic with fear/excitement. To get you in the mood to make crazy science, I’ve rounded up about a
billion Cosima/Delphine fics. Some of the stories are one-shots; some of them are portals to dozens more Cophine ficlets. There’s enough sweetness and smut to keep you occupied far beyond tomorrow night’s season three premiere on BBC America. YOU’RE WELCOME.
Surely every queer generation has been through this — this looking at the world around us and marveling at how different it is than the one we expected as kids and even as twentysomethings. So this is our time.
What does it mean to be a queer adult? Who the f*ck are we? Let’s find out.
The Lesbian Sex Survey
— open to all female-identified folks who have sex with other
female-identified folks — garnered 8,566 complete responses (and another
7,000 incompletes), of which 89% came from people between the ages of
18 and 36. In addition to asking about the sex you have with other
humans, we had quite a few questions about the sex you have with
yourself. Let’s get into it.
Honestly ladies, the more I get into this data, the more it seems to me that pretty much every stereotype about lesbian sexuality is nonsense and we’re actually very sexually active, very sexually adventurous and very sexually preoccupied. It’s a loose hypothesis for now, and of course we realize the implicit bias of a voluntary survey, but we’re gonna dig into it and see what we can find.
For now, we know simply this: y’all love yourself, it’s not a sin, you can’t control what’s happening, ’cause you just discovered, imagination’s taking over, another day with (or without) a lover, the more you come to understand the touch of your hand. You feel me?
Riese just spent a whole lot of time looking over data about your masturbation habits. Here’s what she learned.