Silvia Preview

TREATMENT The amount of hair and where it is clear-cut or cultivated is a personal decision for everyone. There are many advantages to just letting it grow, whether it’s under your arms or under your lip. Hair provides natural oils that keep skin healthy. It also provides warmth in cooler temperatures and padding for those who tend to trip over their own feet. Rather than elim- inating body hair, having fun with it may be a better option. Dye it fluo- rescent colors and jazz it up with body glitter (who says body glitter is just for drag queens and strippers?) For those who do decide to pluck, wax, or mow, remember, there is no shame in having a little 5 o’clock shadow. If it’s sexy on George Clooney, it can be sexy on you too.



SEX



You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome OU SAY SLUT LIKE IT’S A BAD THING SYNDROME Ycauses a sudden urge to stop people on the street and yell, “If not for women having sex, you wouldn’t be here!” The urge to loudly defend your sex life may be difficult to stop, especially when walk- ing near politicians on their way to work to curtail your reproductive rights. Note: The Syndrome Mag fully supports women yelling loudly during and after sex, even if you’re home alone masturbating. This syn- drome almost never appears in men, especially heteronormative men or men who don’t know what “heteronormative” means. Symptoms and signs If you have ever taken the Walk of Shame and wondered to yourself, “Why should I be ashamed of having a regular sex life? Why do I have to

42 You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome walk home instead of the guy I just hooked up with? When am I going to remember to carry comfortable shoes in my purse, so I don’t have to walk home in heels? Should I buy chocolate-scented condoms because those beer-scented ones that dude had were disgusting? Hey, is that a lost cat? Should I try to find their owner? Look, a butterfly!” then you probably have You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing, and a touch of ADD. Although many women experience this syndrome at least once in their life, the exact causes have not been pinned down. Some blame the Ma- donna/Whore complex. That’s Madonna as in “good girl,” not Madonna as in the “Like a Virgin” singer, although that Madonna may also be some- what responsible for the anxiety many women have about the fact that they want regular sex. Other researchers suggest that a man’s brain (not that brain) wants to believe that all women have saved themselves for him alone, so when he finds out that is not the case, he falls into a pattern of slut-shaming to self-soothe. And, of course, others suggest this syndrome is caused by public schools funding abstinence-only curriculums, resulting in youth learning the mantra “You have sex and then you die!”

SLUHHTS AND THE DOWNFALL OF THE DECENT MAN by Vedma DON’T BE A SLUT. Our society has reliably been run by men because they are much smarter and stronger than women. And that’s how things should be. Men are intelligent, rational and steady, and therefore much better at decision- making than women, who are irrational, emotional and have no idea what is good for them. Unfortunately, this optimal world order is being undermined by sluts. Just look at all the carnage coming out of #MeToo and #TimesUp. And that Harvey Weinstein guy, a fine example of a man, is just the tip of the iceberg. Don’t the sluts realize they’ve crippled Hollywood forever?? Are we doomed now to a diet of social justice documentaries for the rest of our lives? Yawn. But back to the sluts. If you’re a man, you know that a slut is a woman who has sex with whomever she wants, which is, obviously, wrong and unacceptable. And worst of all, these women, er sluts, often want to have sex with the most upright of men—governors, senators, representatives, etc. These men are well-known as exemplary husbands, loving fathers, and

44 You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome defenders of traditional Christian values… To make things worse, sluts are truly careless about keeping their sex lives secret. Inevitably, a carnal relationship between a slut and the upright man becomes public knowledge, causing this poor man much embarrass- ment, and sometimes even inconvenience. In an extreme case, the upright man may be forced to step down from office, thereby depriving our coun- try of his leadership. This is how women (sluts) are ruining America. But the winds of change are blowing. Unfortunately, the only ones who are threatening to save our political environment are not ordinary sluts, but “sluhhts.” If you’re a man, you know that the difference between a slut and a sluhht is that a slut will have sex with anyone, while a sluhht will have sex with anyone but you. If you are a man in power, the best way to hold on to that power is by not firing sluhhts. If they turn down your advances, you might want to keep them as your employees! They may not share your sexual fantasies, but they might actually be hard-working, reliable, and efficient. So, if you’re a woman (slut), please don’t make our country great again by becoming a sluhht. I appeal to you not to do the tough suffragette thing and speak your mind. Where’s it going to get you anyway? Just be normal and have sex with whoever thinks women need to be punished for having sex. Go ahead, jump in the sack with one of those sexy weekend golfers who preach chastity while drooling at the sight of your boobs… Whatever you do, just don’t become a “bee-atch!”—you know, the smart, opinionated and strong type. None of that fighting for your pro- motion, starting your own company, or running for office stuff. Because female politicians rarely have to step down for thinking with their gonads instead of their brains. If they get going, the future might be female. The future might even be sluhhty.

YEAH, I’M A SLUT by Charlie Syns A FRIEND ONCE told me, “After you hit 30, not being able to re- member their names makes you a slut.” She didn’t mean 30 years of age but 30 partners. So, to avoid becoming a slut, you should either keep your number un- der 30 or you should remember everything about partners #30 and on- ward: first names, last names, locations, favorite toothpaste. This rule seemed reasonable enough at the time. But there are exceptions to every rule, and somehow, I became a slut despite my best efforts. You see, yesterday I accidentally forgot to use my turn signal and some guy called me a stupid slut. How did he know whether or not I had slept with more than 30 people? Was he some kind of secret agent or private dick who had been following me all day? I’m confused. Am I, a slut or not? Is not using a turn signal some kind of sign no one told me about? I mean, I am and have always been fairly attractive (don’t hate me be- cause I’m beautiful). But generally, speaking, attractive or not, there’s usu- ally a man or two-hundred waiting to date you. You’re probably going to lay at least one of them now and again, which I have. People just look at me like they think I’m a slut. So, I guess that makes me a slut. I’m also a feminist. Naturally, you probably assume I want to be paid

46 You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome the same as a man. And I do. I’d also like to get laid without all the hassle, the same as a man. So, I guess, yes, that must make me a slut… an attrac- tive, feminist slut. That’s not all though -- I also work. I have a career. Back when I first landed my job, I overheard one of my male co-workers say “You know Jenny in accounting? Man, she’s a real slut.” Who was this guy? Another secret agent? Since I also work in accounting, I guess that must make me a slut as well… an attractive, feminist slut, working in Accounting. You’d think I’d be able to keep track of all the men I’ve slept with. You should probably also know that I work out. Once I ran into a guy from my gym at a bar and he tried to kiss me. I turned him down and was disappointed that he had tried to make a move on me. I’d never go out with him, even though he’s got a tight little body. But guess what? The next day at the gym, I found out he’d told every- one that I’m a massive slut! So, if he said so, I must be a slut… an attrac- tive, feminist slut in accounting who works out. Oh, and I’m also married. There’s a woman who wanted to sleep with my husband. On Twitter, she said I was his “slut of a wife,” and that I control him and keep him on a short leash. But I’d like to clarify: What she said isn’t true. My husband and I have never been into using leashes. But if she said so… I guess that makes me an attractive, feminist, married slut in accounting who works out and doesn’t use her turn signal. Well, I guess that solves it. The evidence concludes that beyond a shadow of a doubt, I am a slut. I feel so relieved to have finally figured it out. But… If I’m a slut and everyone knows that I’m a slut, what’s the point of calling me a slut? I’ve never seen anyone in the checkout line shout angrily: “You’re a cashier!” Has anyone ever insulted their rival by shouting “You, stupid son of an insurance agent!”? Or has anyone ever given up on their partner because “I just can’t take it anymore—my wife is such a dirty, stay-at- home-mom”? It doesn’t make any sense to call me, your mother, your wife, or your sister “sluts”. We already know.

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 47 I’m going to celebrate this new-found revelation by watching Pretty Woman for the 500th time. Because all of us sluts would agree that, among us, Vivian is clearly the best.

48 You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome TREATMENT The primary objective of treatment for this syndrome is to convince suf- ferers that sex is fun, healthy, and a normal part of everyday life for women and men (and also goats and llama and giraffes, although not all together). A great approach to reducing symptoms is to replace shame with celebra- tion. For example, each time a woman returns home from a booty call, she should not skulk down the street with her tail tucked between her legs, but instead, should blow a condom into a balloon, pump her fist in the air and yell, “Got me some last night, people! It was average, but what are you gonna do?” Additionally, helpful for women suffering from this syn- drome is to replace the word “slut” with a term that eases up on its societal expectations for women to 1) refrain from sex altogether or 2) lay limp and not enjoy sex at all. Sex-friendly alternatives are “tart” (which is also a delectable dessert) or “harlot” (which sounds intellectual and exotic). Or just go with “woman who had sex and is proud of it.” It’s wordy, but it works.





Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syndrome F YOU’RE ALIVE and into sexy time with others, you have probably Isuffered from this syndrome every time you’ve hooked up, gotten down to business, or entertained thoughts about doing the horizontal Floss (which is much like the horizontal Mambo, only hipper and more likely to cause a back injury). Symptoms and signs Most who suffer Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syndrome are plagued with a rash of questions (which is better than being plagued by a rash, but only slightly): Does my soon-to-be partner have a condom or dental dam in their pocket or purse? Should I bring one or a dozen? Will they wear it or make a balloon giraffe out of it? Is a condom/dam enough or should I also bring bubble wrap and duct tape? Should I ask about their STD test status beforehand or just use a black light to check them for germs? Is sex with another human really worth it when I have a reliable vibrator at home?

52 You Say Slut Like It’s a Bad Thing Syndrome You know you’re suffering from Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syn- drome if the thought of getting between the sheets with someone causes sweating, nausea, self-doubt, stuttering, paranoia, insomnia, incoherency, and a little incontinence.

SAFETY AND PASSION GO HAND IN HAND by Salomé I DON’T REMEMBER ever worrying about STDs when I was in my early 20s. After having unprotected sex, I was more worried about getting pregnant and I would light extra candles to the Virgin Mary. Maybe it’s because in those days we didn’t talk about it as much, or maybe I was just an idiot. Since then, STDs have taken first place on my list of things that trigger my anxiety. I’ll admit that there have been a few times that I had unpro- tected sex with guys I didn’t know all that well. I can say I gained some experience with men in these years, even if I am not a complete and to- tal… wait what is the female equivalent of player? Ah, yes, slut. After a night of passion, first, I’d call a girlfriend, and admit I’d made a mistake, “Sure, it was fun, but we didn’t use any protection. It should be okay though, he didn’t finish inside me. Still, maybe I should light a candle.” Then I’d desperately search for signs from the universe indicating he was healthy, that I had nothing to worry about. “I mean, he was clean. He has a good job and he seems very mature for his age. We know a lot of the same people and he even said that he’d gotten a flu shot. And I saw him eating a salad. So, he obviously cares about his health.”

54 Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syndrome In my experience, when I’m with someone, I’m the only one in the room concerned about STDs. There have hardly been any cases where the man was worried about the condom before I insisted we use one. And none of these men ever asked me about STDs. Apparently asking “How’s your vaginal health? Any bugs down there?” is not acceptable foreplay. Although I gotta say, any man that pulls a condom out of his pocket gets me hot. An interesting phenomenon takes place when asking a man to get tested. He immediately begins to project his own preconceived ideas about women onto me. For example: 1. Oh, She of Little Faith: “Are you joking? You think I have an STD? I have never been tested, but I know I don’t have anything. I mean, look at these biceps.” 2. The Paranoid Neurotic “…Are you sure you’re not just being a hypochondriac? None of my other sexual partners worried about me.” 3. Whatever You Want, Mom: “Okay fine, since you’ve already asked me a million times, I’ll get tested if it will make you feel better. I suppose you also want me to wash the sheets?” (BTW, this guy never follows through with either). This feedback usually comes after the man in question has bragged about screwing his way across several continents, but always with “good girls” who were very clean and are friends of friends. We’re not all that different from men, you know, the flesh is weak. Men have no idea how nice it would be to hear, just once, “If we don’t have a condom, I won’t do it! Let’s just go see that new movie you’ve been raving about,” or “Without a condom? Absolutely not! Who do you think you are?” Or maybe he goes and gets tested because he wants to, and insists repeatedly that I go with him. So romantic. It’s probably true that we females need to get smarter, but I would like

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 55 to argue that the male gender, in particular, should make an equal effort. Or even any effort. I don’t think the point is to treat others as you would like to be treated because sometimes, we are willing to treat ourselves rather poorly. And when one of us lowers our guard, or when we consciously decide to risk it together, it’s important to remember that it’s not about blame. It’s a chance to look out for the other person, even if it was a one-night stand and nothing more. If that’s too much to ask during a moment of passion, then maybe you don’t deserve any passion.

TURNS OUT REBOUND SEX CAN HELP YOU GET OVER A BREAKUP, OR SO I HEARD by Cecilia Calado “Post break-up sex That helps you forget your ex. What did you expect from post break-up sex?” – The Vaccines THESE AREN’T MY words, but the lyrics to a rock song I really like. I remember singing these words out loud after an intimate encounter with someone who had just gotten out of a relationship. Oops, my bad. It was at that moment I noticed a pattern in my behavior when I’m around the recently dumped: I tend to want to fix them and that doesn’t always work out so well for me. I know I’m not alone in this. Imagine this scenario: A guy (let’s call him Manny) has broken up with his fiancée and it’s been a while since he has had sex with another woman (except in his imagination). Let´s say you meet this guy and you like him. And he is into you, so you can’t resist being the Band-Aid for both his lonely heart and his forgotten genitals. It is then you realize that more than just a bandage, what he wants is to have sex with another woman, but he’s too raw or still too connected to his ex to be a good partner, even tempo- rarily. Here are a few things you should be willing to deal with when providing sexual aid and comfort to the recently uncoupled:

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 57 Speed Most of the time, Manny is in a rush. He wants to forget his ex now! He wants to get over the nostalgia and wipe away those memories of ecstasy and pleasure with the woman that broke his heart. He is so desperate to replace them with something new and exciting, that he wants to do it right away. Of course, #NotAllMen, but for many, five minutes after asking your name his tongue is in your mouth and his left hand is in your pants. The Solution You, as the bandage, feel more like shouting “Calm down! What are you 17?” The thing is, this can sound very rude, even selfish, not to mention, it’s hard to talk with someone else’s tongue in your mouth. You remind yourself that the moment requires some patience. Here are some tips for slowing him down. • Tell him you want some music in the background, to make the moment a memorable one, and choose Ravel´s “Bolero”, which starts really, really slow. • Ask for a glass of red wine, so you can both feel more relaxed. Do not accept a beer or anything else. If he doesn’t have red wine, make him get dressed and go out for a bottle. Ask for a reserve wine from the year you were born! • If that still does not produce the desired result, you can always go to the balcony and tell him you will only have sex with him if he can identify seven constellations in the night sky. If he is not a sailor or an astronomer, it is possible that dawn will come before you do, and you end up falling asleep before spotting Ursa Major. In other words, the worst thing that can happen with these strat- egies is that nothing happens, and you end up sleeping together without having slept together.

58 Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syndrome Condom, What’s That? Manny is not used to condoms anymore, having been in a long-term mo- nogamous relationship. He has almost forgotten how to put one on since over the past few years they were trying to have children, which did not happen and that’s why they broke up. Or his ex took the pill. But now he looks at the condom you hold up for him like you’re asking him to solve a math problem involving a farmer, some goats, and a wolf. The Solution First, you always need to have a few condoms on you—but you already knew that, right? Explain that you are insisting not because you are afraid of getting pregnant, but you want to avoid sexually transmitted diseases. Open your bag and ask him to choose from a wide range of flavors and textures: from non-latex (in case of allergies) to extra-large (in case of 'that'), or ultra-thin (better be prepared for all kinds of sensitivity). If you want to go the extra mile, you can also have female condoms with you. So that nobody can point their finger at you and use it for something else. You Are Not Lisa That’s right, you are not Lisa, Marie, or Sandra, whatever his ex was named. You are you! We all know that having sex with someone we don't know very well can be exciting, but it can also be uncomfortable. Espe- cially if the person you are with, in spite of being happy for this oppor- tunity to get over their ex, is still pining for her. He may try to get you to do things like she always did, like wearing socks to bed or doing a little dance before. Worse yet, he may assume that what she liked sexually will get you going too. And of course, it’s always telling when he calls you by her name. The Solution Dealing with this experience requires keeping a cool head so you can choose between pretending to be someone else or just politely bring his awareness back to the present moment. If this doesn’t work, call him

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 59 Manny (unless, of course, his name is Manny) and see how he reacts. Or tell him that your last partner had a sex swing over his bed and then laugh and say, “See how hard it can be to live up to someone else’s expectations?” Of course, you may not even be aware of these hang-ups until it’s time to say goodbye. You may have seen the clues, but he didn’t tell you the whole truth. Maybe he got dumped two days ago, or he is still stalking his ex on social media, despite the fact that she has moved on and already has a dog with some other guy. Let these hard-earned tips help you avoid future encounters with the freshly exed. But if this is your thing, then by all means, enjoy yourself, but know what you’re getting into!

60 Love in the Age of Chlamydia Syndrome TREATMENT If you are unwilling or incapable of wearing a chastity belt 24/7, the best way to deal with this syndrome is to talk things out with a potential part- ner until you’re blue in the face BEFORE the first kiss (you know you can’t trust yourself once your libido is all hot and bothered). Medical pro- fessionals suggest you have an in-depth conversation about preventing STDs while each of you is locked in a separate large dog crate on opposite ends of the room. Set a timer and talk for 2 hours before a third party unlocks the crates and lets you out for fun-time.





Not Asking for It Syndrome OMEN ASK FOR A LOT OF THINGS, such as equal Wpay, gluten-free lip gloss, and pockets to put our extra .23 cents in and lip gloss in, for example. (NOTE: If you find yourself living a life that delivers on those requests, you have another syndrome called “Wow, Are You Lucky Syndrome.” Please do not tell anyone about your symptoms. You may have things thrown at you.) Symptoms and signs If you walk around the world in the body of a woman or the body of someone who presents as a woman (whether intentionally or not), chances are you have experienced Not Asking for It Syndrome at some point in your life. The surest sign that you may have this syndrome is that you have had someone touch you inappropriately and without your consent (for example, placing their hands on your pregnant or not-pregnant-but- cutely-round belly) or shouting out some boundary-pushing nonsense like

64 Not Asking for It Syndrome “Smile, honey!” or “Wanna ride my pogo stick, baby?” Unfortunately, as with other diseases such as fibromyalgia and “woman’s rage,” many health care professionals think this syndrome is “all in your head” and often claim that women have the opposite problem, Asking for It Syndrome. They may claim that your outfit, your lifestyle or your failure to choose a life of cloistered agoraphobia is the source of your problems. These medical professionals should be immediately escorted to a shipping center and mailed to a small deserted island (in a box with packing peanuts so that minimal injury occurs during the flight) where they can’t do any harm to anyone except themselves.

IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD: CONSENT SYNDROME by Giugi Carminati IN A WORLD where pop culture, radio shows, and dating advice col- umns tell people to “read the signs” and “know what she wants,” it’s easy to assume ESP is key. If she says she doesn’t want a present for Valentine’s Day, she obviously wants one. If she says she’s okay if you don’t dress up, she obviously wants you to wear a suit—or a mascot costume, depending. In a world that jokes and jests that women are “so complicated,” of course mind-reading is the answer. Because women are so confusing and myste- rious. We’re lucky to figure ourselves out, right? And yet, when it comes to sex, we magical wonderous unintelligible creatures who spend our days in the land of unicorns and fairy dust, be- come clear as day to the men who want to bed us. Does she want to have sex? Always. With him? Of course! How do we know? BECAUSE A MAN JUST KNOWS THESE THINGS. Okay then. But how does he know? She was wearing a skirt (that he liked, even though she’s never met him before and could not have picked it out to turn him on). She was smiling. A lot. (At whom? About what? What does “a lot” mean?).

66 Not Asking for It Syndrome She was wearing a thong or no underwear or a particular type of un- derwear! (Does he have infrared vision? How did he know? Which type of underwear means sex?). She was drinking alcohol! (Does the type of drink matter? Does vodka mean she wants sex while beer means she just wants to hang? Where is this codebook for which drinks = sex or what kind of sex?). Or she was just “one of those girls.” (Who has sex? Who doesn’t have sex? Who looks like she wants to have sex? Who looks like she wants you to think she doesn’t want to have sex but really secretly does want to have sex?). I remember being 10 or 11 and a grown man asking me to have sex with him. Just like that, in the middle of the street, while I was thinking my own thoughts—probably about unicorns and fairy dust. I said “No.” “But why?” he asked, in that whining tone I would hear so many times throughout the rest of my life. I didn’t have an answer. Of course, I didn’t. Society doesn’t teach girls how to answer that question. I didn’t learn how to answer until much, much later. I told him, “I have to go,” probably to do my homework, and left. I remember being 15 or 16 and another grown man asking me to have sex. I lied and said, “I’m waiting for my husband.” Because it would be more likely that I was married than I didn’t want to have sex with him. So many stupid lies we tell men so they will leave us alone. “I’m having my period. I’m pregnant with triplets. I have to fly to Sweden to accept the Nobel Prize early tomorrow morning.” Because our not wanting to have sex isn’t enough. When I was 15, a classmate came up behind me, dragged me down a hall, put his hand over my mouth, and pushed me into a bathroom. I tried to bite him. I tried to push his hand away with my tongue (Note to self: Your tongue is not that strong). I tried to grab the walls. I tried to get away. Eventually, I did. But I never said “No.” I never screamed. I guess I should’ve been clearer about not wanting to have sex with him. I guess my skirt must’ve been talking to him in ways I couldn’t hear. Do they sell

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 67 skirts that say “No”? You know what saved me that day? Rage. Anger. Fury. I kicked him. And kicked and kicked and kicked. And I got away. I was starting to learn. It’s not about not saying “No,” because to people for whom consent doesn’t matter, learning about consent is a joke. Are you laughing yet? I remember being 20 or 21, leaning into the trunk of my car, and a man in his car driving up: “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.” And then he said something about sex. “What the fuck is your problem?” I screamed, “Get the fuck out of my face.” Rage, rage, and rage. I was finally getting it. I remember when I was 23, a guy walked up to me, asking for sex. So, I answered, “No, thank you.” “But why not?” “I’m married.” It was true, but not the point. “He doesn’t have to know.” “But I’d have to remember fucking you. And who wants that!” He went silent and walked away. I was getting better at this. Later that same year, another random stranger asked me for sex, and I said “No.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want to fuck you.” That’s all that matters. We forget that. It gets lost in our “Maybe,” “Yes, but,” “No, because.” I don’t need a reason to say “No.” You don’t need a reason to say “No.” But he didn’t know that. In fact, he thought I’d said “Yes.” Somehow, again, so many things about me—sitting alone, at a bar, minding my own business—had somehow convinced him of the opposite. Again, maybe my skirt, or my shirt, or my drink, or something else had “spoken” to him. (Is there a dictionary for the language of clothing?) But there was my voice, my actual voice, drowning out the rest of this so-called messaging. It took a long time to learn and I had to watch my back leaving the bar. Because while any number of things can “get you” raped, a “No” can get you killed. Funny how that works, huh?

68 Not Asking for It Syndrome The fact is, consent is easy, really. I mean, it’s easy if you care to know whether your partner is consenting. It’s asking: Do you want to have sex with me, right now? It’s asking a would-be sexual partner and waiting for an answer and then (here comes the difficult part): accepting that answer as valid. What’s hard about consent, if anyone wants to say it’s hard, about en- thusiastic affirmative consent, is accepting that it exists. That’s it. What’s hard is accepting that women have a right to say “No” to what goes inside, on, or around their bodies. What’s hard about consent is just accepting that sometimes, a particular person you really, really want to have sex with just isn’t that into you. Sometimes, she just doesn’t want to fuck you. And dude, you need to make peace with that. Because that’s your problem, not hers. *Addendum: This article is admittedly heteronormative. It also depicts men as sexual aggressors. While it is true that women can be sex offenders and that same-sex sexual violence is just as much a reality as hetero vio- lence, the vast majority of aggressors (whether in straight or same-sex cou- ples) are men, and women are overwhelmingly victims of intimate partner violence.

THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO GROPE, GROPE, GROPE by Katherine Shaw DEAR ENVIRONMENTAL PROTECTION AGENCY, I am writing in the hopes that you will grant me a lifelong exemption from environmental quality controls. I lived in Seattle for six years and utilized public transportation 5 days a week. That’s 1,560 days of being environmentally friendly! This at least entitles me to be exempt from vehi- cle emissions testing until 2022; by that time, I fully expect to be living off-grid because I REALLY can’t handle society much longer. My body and psyche were put through the wringer in order to keep your precious ozone layer healthy. If my exemption is not granted, I’ll have no other choice but to leave the freezer door open, light firecrackers in August, place recyclables in the garbage, and drive a van sans exhaust pipe. To aid your decision-making process or whatever you do in those government buildings (Magic 8 Ball everything?), below is a chronology of my bus experience. Year one: I GOT OFF WORK EARLY! And the bus demographics sure are different. The 3:30 dress code is what I would describe as “Burn- ing Man Casual,” except I’ve never been to Burning Man because crowds and fun make me uncomfortable. A gentleman up front is chowing down on donuts. He proceeds to offer fellow riders his half-eaten donuts, for a

70 Not Asking for It Syndrome mere fifty cents each. Oddly, no one takes him up on this offer. He winks at me and mumbles something. Commuting sure is entertaining. This isn’t so bad! Year two: Everyone on this bus is pissed and sweaty, including me. Then it gets worse because this preppy asshole steps on my foot. HARD. I grunt and wriggle out from under his brown-leather loafer oppression. I felt a CRACK, so I know at least one toenail is broken (turns out to be two). Does Mr. Asshole even say sorry? Nope. He eventually registers the horror on my face, lifts his cloven hoof off my foot, and pivots his body away so that he may continue to ignore my existence. This special kind of sociopathy is only found on the bus. Year three: I lost 40 lbs. this year. What was I thinking? Being really fat has advantages; not only are you overlooked by men, but I never before questioned my ability to punch out perverts. Today, the guy across from me refused to accept my eye-rolls and crossed arms as a sign that I wanted to be left alone. He had the nerve to reach over and pat my hand to get my attention. Good thing I bought hand sanitizer. And pepper spray. Year four: An inebriated man serenades me, swinging his Tall Boy side to side with each lyric. Very sternly, I say that he’s not allowed to drink beer on the bus. He ignores me. He sings. I tell him to knock it off. I’ve become more confrontational over the years in order to survive public transportation. I can’t tell if my fellow bus riders are made uncomfortable by him, or by a woman speaking up. Maybe I just need to accept that I’m the drunk man’s catnip. HISSS. Year five: I hear a belt unbuckle. I hear a zipper unzip. I hear the man behind me direct his lady-friend to DO IT. Oral sex is one of the many community activities you’ll get to witness while on public transportation. I have the audacity to invade their privacy: I march to them, glare, and then ask very loudly if the lady is alright. She can’t answer for herself be- cause a little something is in her mouth. Does this happen to everyone, or am I just cursed? Year-I-can’t-take-it-anymore-six: Another crowded bus. Everyone is uncomfortably touching and being touched by each other. But there’s this

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 71 one special dirtbag behind me that’s too close and…WAIT. Why is dirtbag grinding his dick on my ass? I turn around and give him the ugliest face I can muster. He backs off. A tiny twenty-something gets on the bus, and his dick magnetically sticks to her! She looks like she’s about to cry. I’ve no choice but to start yelling at him in front of everyone. GET YOUR DICK OFF PEOPLE! YOU ARE NASTY! When I declare I AM CALL- ING THE COPS, he bolts off the bus. I am livid. I am also smacked with the uncomfortable realization that I didn’t make a scene until someone else was assaulted. I seemed to have simultaneously disappointed patriar- chy and feminism today. The gender pay gap never allowed me the option to spend $320 a month for parking. Approving this exemption is vital because each day I go without a penis, I risk financial ruin. Perhaps I should just start burning old tires or stretched-out shapewear ASAP to supplement my income! And so Environmental Protection people, doesn’t it seem an unfair choice? Drive myself to work and increase this carbon footprint that I’m supposed to feel guilty about, or, face another marriage proposal by some drunk guy who may or may not hurt me if my reply is no (or yes). Sincerely sick of all this bullshit, Katherine P.S. I was going to write the White House, demanding improved safety measures as well as a culture of accountability for public transport, but I have an inkling my efforts would backfire in the form of a Presidential pussy grabbing. Call me crazy. I just want to commute in peace. My sexual assault-free future is in your hands. Treatment Outrage at being blamed for the uncontrolled behaviors of others is a tem- porary fix but living with anger day in and day out will only exacerbate the problem (and give you permanent resting bitch face). Because you will always be held accountable for whatever happens to you, it’s important to make a list of all the things you are NOT asking for, save it to a flash drive and carry that flash drive with you at all times, even when you’re naked.

72 Not Asking for It Syndrome Some items you may want to include on your list: non-consensual touch- ing, cat-calling, weird stares, stalking (either online or IRL), posting of private photos, and much older guys who think you’re into them because you said “Hello” just to show you’re not ageist.





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Dating is Weird Syndrome LMOST EVERYONE WHO has been in the dating pool for Amore than a month will end up spitting out a mouth full of chlorine and whining “Why is this so hard?” to their 13 Chihuahuas or to any human who happens to pass by. Chances are if you are single and actively attempting to mingle, you have at least the earliest stages of this syndrome, which include: Symptoms and signs • Angry outbursts while watching The Bachelor that usually begin with, “Why can’t he see she’s a bitch?” • Carpal tunnel syndrome from swiping left for hours at a time • A closet full of clothes that are either slutty or sweaty, but nothing appropriate for work • Scarred shins from anger-shaving

78 Dating is Weird Syndrome • A long list of boys’ names you will never be able to use for any future children because men have ruined them for you forever • Plan B (contraceptive), Plan C (girlfriend calling to rescue you from bad date) and Plan D (faking a seizure in case Plan C doesn’t work out) Dating is Weird Syndrome is primarily psychological and for most suf- ferers seems to start in early childhood with exposure to fairy tales. (Why aren’t parents inoculating their children against those yet?) Despite stories of women sleeping in glass boxes in the forest who are kissed non-consen- sually and girls who have to grow their hair long because their boyfriend is too cheap to spring for a rope, the majority of women grow up believing in happily ever after. Hugh Grant hasn’t helped any; in fact, one specific form of the syndrome that causes women to believe that anyone with a British accent will end up being their one true love, has been named for him. When dating does not live up to unrealistic expectations, those with the syndrome may experience delusions, hallucinations, and drunk tex- ting, all of which can lead to long-term consequences such as settling for marrying the first person who doesn’t ask you to spin straw into gold.

NO ONE CAN MAKE YOU FEEL INFERIOR WITHOUT YOUR CONSENT, OR SO THEY SAY by Katherine Shaw EMBARRASSINGLY ENOUGH, 90% of my therapy woes revolve around a very uncool topic for a self-proclaimed feminist: men. What keeps my neurotic head above water during these dead-end relationships is reading the words of trailblazing women. Except for Eleanor Roosevelt. She can fuck off. “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” she once said. Ok, but did she ever date a psychopath? Also, I doubt Eleanor was ever ghosted. And did she have to search Urban Dictionary for three-letter ac- ronyms such as “MBA”, only to find out that a man did not, in fact, earn his Master of Business Administration, but that he’s Married But Availa- ble? Eleanor Roosevelt blabbity blah blah’ed this notion of emotional con- sent, but it’s time to throw out that advice. Unlucky me, I dated multiple maybe-psycho-but-definitely-loser guys. I’m certain Eleanor would roll her eyes and tell me to take responsibility for my dating decisions; she just wouldn’t get it. No date ever asked per- mission to insult me! And I never received a Terms of Use from a boy- friend! I was fully unprepared for mistreatment. Below are the rap sheets of all the men I’ve dated. I’m sharing this

80 Dating is Weird Syndrome information because I am a philanthropist. Think of all the therapy funds saved if ladies could rapidly identify personality flaws and avoid dating “maybe psycho” men. Or at least dump their asses faster. However, if a man veers more into the “definite psycho” realm, don’t try ghosting him because that’s just plain rude; instead, consider faking your own death. Play it safe because initiating a breakup might result in a lady becoming a homicide victim (according to the many Forensic Files episodes I’ve fallen asleep to with one-eye-open). Down memory lane, we go. WEE! The Apathetic Stoner seems harmless. Don’t let this wolf in hemp clothing fool you like he fooled me! Being young and consuming romantic comedies regularly, I failed to realize that hormones are sneaky little bas- tards that distract women from understanding that you should NOT be with someone who stole your birthday present from the college bookstore, and more important, when are you ever going to wear a sweatband? I re- alize this sweatband gift was a nudge to hit the gym. This prank-present was absolutely the cleverest thing he ever concocted. He mentioned being hesitant to commit to a fat person; never mind that he was fat. I am VERY lucky he did not pick me. I am also VERY lucky to be fat. Then appears the Lola Man, who showers me with compliments and attention. Being divorced and then abandoned by his baby-momma is great news because he’s desperate. THE UPPER HAND IS FINALLY MINE. One night, with a few drinks under his belt, he begins to swing his hips like a 1950s bombshell. Ok, cool, he’s just sassy and comfortable with his feminine side. Then comes a dramatic shift in behavior and over- all aura, and I come to discover he’s got a FEMALE ALTER. You know the song well: Lo lo lo lo Lola. Striving to be an “open-minded” person, I continue to date him/her. Until that snotty Lola proclaims that she finds me boring. Perhaps Lola is correct. I only have one persona. Narcissistic Weasel is a fascinating case. Nearing month two of dating, we meet for lunch where he presents me with flowers and a card. How sweet! Except, he’s cutting ties. Fortunately, I have ample trust issues and already became suspicious of a lady on his Facebook. Interestingly, Facebook

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 81 lady’s “In a relationship with Narcissistic Weasel” was posted just three hours after he dumped me. In confronting Narcissistic Weasel, he claims, “it’s not what you think” and some other convenient versions-of-truth. The entire time dating him, my gut sent RUN FAR AWAY signals that I mistook for being hungry. I gained a few pounds. I also gained a newfound appreciation for the phrase “trust your instincts.” Now for the minor offenders. These fellas are not as detrimental to a lady’s emotional health as those aforementioned. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t pass up a pedicure or solo Netflix chill to date them. The lineup consists of: • The Too-Long-Fingernails Guy • The Homophobic-Wanna-Be-Tony-Soprano Guy • The Insulted-That-I-Refused-To-Line-Dance Guy • The Why-Are-You-Calling-Me-Honey-On-Our-First-Date Guy • The Lied-About-His-Age-And-Had-Super-Obvious-Dyed-Hair Guy With the Maybe Psycho/Definitely Loser profile in hand, feel free to go out there and say ‘no’ to men. There are thousands of available men to reject! Is he holding that puppy a little too much like an accessory? Swipe NOPE. Is he incapable of discussing autopsies over dinner? Swipe NEVER. I’ll bestow one last snippet of advice to my fellow lady-daters. Before getting serious with someone, I ask myself: 1. Is he rich? 2. Is he elderly, terminally ill, or easily led to cliffs? If the answer to both 1 and 2 is yes, I immediately acquire a life insur- ance policy on my new beau and proceed with dating him. My vast Forensic Files knowledge will come in handy if he ever displeases me. After a socially appropriate grieving period, I’ll hire male escorts to

82 Dating is Weird Syndrome serve as my companions, thanks to those sweet life insurance funds. And the escorts will be provided a Terms of Use for review, of course.

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN by Bernice Jing Ye I DIDN’T COME to the US until I was 21, and even though I had missed my chance, the concept of prom still blew my mind. What?!? Schools and teachers will organize huge parties and obligate teenagers to go on DATES? Parents will pay for fancy dresses, hairdos and suits so their children can lose their virginity at the end of the night? That is the exact opposite of my teenage days. Our school wanted us to be as ugly as possible so we would focus on studying. Girls were not allowed to have long hair (a bob was the longest allowed), or wear skirts that hung above the knee. All the boys got the exact same buzz cut from the school barber. My mom actually took me there and got me the same buzz cut. Dating was strictly forbidden. Oh, forget about dating, Dad wouldn’t even let me talk to boys. It was school policy that the different sexes weren't even allowed to walk side by side, unless in groups of more than 4 people. And what about double dates, “open relationships” and LGBTQ? Lit- tle did I know then, narrow-mindedness left loopholes everywhere. So, you can probably imagine how excited I was when I went to uni- versity. Not that I was eager to date, but I was absolutely stoked by the idea of being far from home, I could finally have long hair and walk next

84 Dating is Weird Syndrome to a boy without feeling like a criminal. So yeah, I’m going to dye my hair. I’m going to wear short skirts. AND YOU BETTER BELIEVE I’M GOING TO TALK TO SOME BOYS! Oh, I forgot to tell you what our dorm rooms were like. Despite the fact I went to Peking University (they say it’s the Harvard of China, and known for its beautiful campus), our dorm rooms were barely humane. Six of us lived in tight quarters that were no bigger than your standard American master bedroom. Every night at 9 p.m., they locked you in the building and shut off the power. After watching Orange Is the New Black, I’m pretty sure Piper Chapman had better living conditions in prison than we did in the dorms. So, what’s dating like in this setup? First of all, it’s college but we were still not supposed to date. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know why. Maybe the concept of dating was acceptable, but any signs of real dating (affection, kissing, making out), if ever seen, would bring on tons of gossip and public shaming. So, my personal policy was, don't get caught. The problem was, there was no privacy anywhere. We were a bunch of poor students living in a cell with a 9 p.m. curfew each night. Luckily, our campus was on the former site of the Qing Dynasty imperial gardens and had this beautiful lake that was the one and only place that a little romance could go down and remain unseen once the sunset. The funny thing was that between 8:45-9:00 p.m., you would always see flocks of couples scurry out of the woods then all walk off in separate directions. What if I wanted to spend a little more time with my boyfriend, say sleep together or (shhhh) have sex? Oh boy, that was always a full opera- tion. First, you had to save up! You would need to book a “hotel” room well in advance. Second, you needed to come up with a believable excuse for why you had to stay out that specific night and let your other five roommates know so they wouldn’t get suspicious. Typically, I would come up with a dead- line from my research lab that meant I needed to work all night where there was power to use a computer. Clever, I know ;) But one of the girls

RANDOM FEMALE SYNDROMES 85 was also friends of this guy who worked at the same lab, and she would definitely end up fact-checking with him. So, I would intentionally make an appearance at the lab, pretend to work until everyone was gone, and come back very early in the morning. I took another nap on the desk so there was no doubt that I had pulled an all-nighter in the lab. Third, you had to be extremely discreet when going to the hotel. Al- ways arrive at least one hour apart. My boyfriend needed to go first so he could text me the room number. Always leave separately. He left last be- cause there was no way I was going to walk out and pay a bunch of cash for getting a room for one night! Last and most importantly, I had to create every little detail about my work in the lab that night, so when the girls asked me later, I could be so specific that my story sounded like it had to be true. I truly attribute my comedy writing skills to all my desperate efforts to hide the fact that I was having sex.

86 Dating is Weird Syndrome TREATMENT Other than swearing off dating forever, the treatment is in the syndrome itself. Most sufferers have had the best results by letting their leg (and pit) hair grow. Not only does this save hundreds of dollars on razors, but hairy legs are also a good way to screen out dates who are only interested in sex, not a long-term relationship. Although be forewarned: one or two Sas- quatch fetishists may slip into the mix. But you may be into that.