What The F Issue 19

issue 19

University of Michigan

What the f

Your Irregular Periodical February 2020

Staff

Caylin Luebeck Co-President Emily Spilman Co-President Alexandra Niforos Blog Editor Lia Baldori Cielle Waters-Umfleet Rocio Cuesta Julia Haberfield Aditi Kannan Elya Kaplan Maria Wueker Maggie McConnell Jessica Burkle Ariana Shaw Regina Egan Emma Goodman Hayleigh Proskin

Editor-In-Chief Assitant Editor Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer/Artist Staff Writer Staff Writer Art Director Assistant Art Director Assistant Art Director Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist

Lindsay Calka Jill Graham Livvy Hintz Kendall Lauber

Design Director Designer Designer Designer

Sophia Jacobs Claire Blestas Nikki Keramati JJ Wright

Events Events Events Events

Director Coordinator Coordinator Coordinator

Gracie Meinke Social Media Staff Emily Bedolis Social Media Staff Lindsey Hentschel Lindsey Smiles Emma Keer

Finance Director Finance Staff Finance Staff

Maria Marginean

Website Manager

What the F is a non-partisan, non-profit publication

operated by students at the University of Michigan.

What the F’s purpose is to encourage discussion on significant issues of campus, national, and world interest. The magazine, the executive board, and our sponsors, do not endorse the ideas presented by the writers. We do, however, support and encourage different ideas in our community and in campus discussion.

WtF funny, fresh, fierce, feminist & fuck!

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issue 19 february 2020

Letter from the Editor

Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor: A Safe Guide to BDSM Tales of a Third Wheel

From Lisztomania to Beatlemania My “Boyfriend”: A Story of How I Realized I am a Lesbian Crushin’ It I’m Not Exotic, I’m Exhausted An Observation: Americans Hate Sitting Next to Each Other Naturally Human & Disconnected Thoughts on Love Bad Nights with “Good” Boys Girl Crushes Splat!

Buying Sex Toys Tell Me Yours

Letter

from the editor Welcome to What the F, your feminist periodical !

Happy Val/Gal/Pal-entine’s Day everyone!

A few weeks ago, I indulged the tiny middle schooler that dwells in my heart and declared the theme of this issue “Crushes” (!!!) I expected groans and protests from the rest of the staff, but instead everyone rose to the challenge without complaint. All this power is getting to my head. Anyway, here’s some of what we’re working with: On page 22, you’ll learn how Natalie Portman’s Princess Leia gave one of our writers a new understanding of the term “girl crush.”

Read about the difficulties of finding a new crush after a breakup on page 10.

Remember when you would’ve sold your pinkie toe for the chance to breathe the same air as [insert early 2010s pop star]? Turn to page 6 for a historical analysis of the celebrity crush phenomenon.

We also threw in a fair amount of sex. Here at What the F we’re all about keeping things interesting...

Our fabulous assistant editor Cielle took it upon herself to research the nuances of BDSM for this issue’s “Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor.” Her careful unpacking of the acronym will leave you adequately prepared to get creative in the bedroom, should you feel so inclined. (Remember: Safety is sexy!)

Ever found yourself nervous and uncertain in the Adult section of a Spencer Gifts? You’re not alone. Flip to page 26 for one writer’s insightful account of their first sex toy purchase.

Lastly, because I hunkered down and wrote another one of these letters after weeks and weeks (and weeks) of putting it off, I’m rewarding myself with a shameless plug. As you’ll see on page 28, I decided to give Tell Me Yours another go-around. Once again, I turned to Instagram, our e-mail list, and various friends/family. Once again, I posed the question: “Can you sum up your first sexual encounter in twenty words or less?” Once again, many people could, and the results ranged from funny to sincere to heartbreaking to a combination of all three and then some. All of them (and everything in this issue, for that matter) are worth reading. I encourage you to check it out!

If you were planning on spending the month of February alone, picking stucco off the walls, avoiding all things red, lacy, and love-filled, dry those tears. It’s me now. I’m your Valentine. This magazine is your card. No give-backs. Or take-backs or...whatever. No backs, period.

Sorry if you wanted chocolates! I’m not made of money.

Lia Baldori Editor-in-Chief

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Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor

a safe guide to

b d s m by cielle waters-umfleet

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, one movie saga is on everyone’s minds and in everyone’s pants: the 50 Shades of Grey series, based on the bestselling adult romance novels by E.L. James which follow the ~non-traditional~ relationship of Christian and Ana Grey. While sexual deviance is almost as old as sex itself, this film and book phenomenon has recently brought to the forefront the darker, more secretive sides of intimacy, as well as the associated taboos and misconceptions, namely around BDSM, an umbrella term encompassing multiple types of kinky sexual relationships. Proponents of BDSM warn that the 50 Shades series is not an accurate (or even healthy) representation of the relationship style, which leaves those who have no prior exposure wondering what a good example looks like. So, let’s pull back the blindfold and take a peek!

What does BDSM stand for, and what does that mean?

BDSM, or Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, and Masochism, is a concise term that refers to a wide array of kinks and fetishes involving restraints, humiliation, role-playing, pain, and more. As neurobiologist Dr. David J. Linden puts it, talking about BDSM is kind of like talking about sports: Both represent numerous subcategories, and when someone likes one or more of those, it does not necessarily mean that they will like another. But even though BDSM covers a lot of sexual interests, far more than can be sufficiently summed up in one article, most BDSM relationships fall into one of three categories.

Bondage/Discipline: This relationship type involves one partner using bondage, or restraints used in a sexual context, to tie up the other person. It may include infliction of pain as well. Typically, the other partner is infantilized, humiliated, and/or “punished” for their bad behavior, all as part of a prediscussed scene.

Dominance/Submission: This is the “Dr. Grey” kind of relationship most people think of when they think of BDSM. It involves both a dominant (“dom” for short) and a submissive (or “sub”) partner. The sub, at least in the moment, gives up control to the dom. The dom will often restrain, inflict pain on, or boss the sub around in a roleplay, all through acts that are determined to be consensual before the action begins.

Sadism/Masochism: Perhaps the best-studied and documented of the bunch, this refers to the dominant partner, the sadist, inflicting pain on the sub, the masochist, within the limits of the sub’s pain tolerance (which the dom should be aware of beforehand). Both the giving and receiving of pain can produce pleasurable sensations and emotional reactions in both partners.

Even though most people are not into all aspects of BDSM, the subcategories are not mutually exclusive, either. Each of the three overlaps the other, plus there are countless other fetishes that fall under the umbrella, as well as a world of even more interests that don’t fit the BDSM heading. When figuring out what you’re into, it’s essential to take time beforehand to consider and discuss the possibility of engaging in certain activities with your partner and also to agree to stop if one of you suddenly isn’t into it. You can never truly know until you try, but the imagination is a powerful first step.

So what do I...do?

According to experienced practitioners, creating a sexual encounter with BDSM elements, called a “scene,” takes years to master, but there are activities that are easy enough for beginners that can be modified and intensified as you and your partner grow in your comfort levels. Sexual expert Sunny Megatron breaks these activities, called “play,” into four parts: sensory deprivation, sensory play, impact play, and bondage. These do not need to be done in any particular order, nor do all four need to be present for a satisfying experience.

the lower back or abdomen. Padded areas like the thighs and butt are better. As for bondage, the most concerning risk is cutting off circulation and/or causing nerve damage, and for that reason, never, ever, EVER use zip ties! They only go in one direction, and that is tighter. In addition to that, avoid stretchy fabric such as nylon, as they can quickly become dangerously tight, too. Do NOT tie anything around the neck except for collars made especially for that purpose, which

Sensory deprivation is the dampening of one or more of the sub’s senses (read: blindfolds, headphones, and sometimes bondage) in order to increase the experience of others, usually touch. Sensory play, by contrast, is the addition of a sensory stimulus, usually something the sub can feel, to provoke a physical or emotional reaction. Tickling or teasing with feathers is a common example, although you can use just about any household item or sex toy that the sub likes.

Frequently, this is done as a warmup for impact play, which means striking the sub in some way to produce pain, such as spanking or whipping. Lastly, bondage, as mentioned earlier, is using restraints to tie the sub’s limbs together, and this can be done with ropes, chains, handcuffs, and sex toys.

Keep in mind that impact play does not have to be painful, because the point should be to elicit a reaction, not necessarily to hurt. Plus, how much force and where on the body matter, so communicate clearly and often with your partner about what’s hot and what’s not.

Are there risks to BDSM? Yes, but those can be easily avoided with the general mantra of “safe, sane, and consensual” play, a phrase used by many experienced practitioners. “Safe” means that you and your partner(s) are staying within your limits and comfort zones and that you have taken every precaution to minimize the risk of physical and emotional injury. “Sane” refers to ensuring that everyone is in a clear state of mind, as in, in a good emotional state, aware of their boundaries, and not under the influence of drugs or alcohol. “Consensual” should go without saying, but as a reminder, everyone involved in the scene must give their clear, informed, and enthusiastic consent before and during the encounter. Plus, you should always check in with your partner(s) afterward to make sure that what happened was okay for them, too.

Still, how does one minimize risk? All sexual acts have risks associated with them, but in terms of BDSM, impact play and bondage are the most dangerous. For impact play, communicate clearly with your partner about what feels good and what doesn’t, regardless of who’s getting hit. If you don’t know you or your partner’s limits, err on the side of caution.

You can always go harder later, but you can’t go softer once you’ve made contact. Also, never hit bony areas, like shins or ribs, nor areas where major organs are exposed, such as

you can buy at sex stores. And with any material you use, make sure to leave a 1-2 finger gap between the restraint and the skin, just in case. Struggling is part of the fun, so preparing for movement is preparing for safety.

But safety doesn’t end with preventing physical harm.

Before even entering the bedroom, all parties need to have an in-depth discussion of exactly what they want and what their expectations are for that particular scene. Some people do this verbally, whereas others use written communication like yes/no/maybe lists. Either way, consent must be given freely and unambiguously every time for every activity, and it’s the dom’s responsibility to check in with the sub continuously to make sure they’re okay.

A simple and unambiguous way to navigate consent is to establish “safewords,” or special words or phrases that one partner can use to indicate that they want to stop.

Contrary to the norm, words like “No,” “Stop,” and “Don’t” aren’t great safewords, as sometimes people use them in roleplays, so they can be confusing. Instead, pick a word that you wouldn’t normally use in a sexual context to get your partner’s attention. One way to do this is to use a traffic light system: “Red” means stop, “yellow” means slow down/check in, and “green” means more, please. Whatever you choose, everyone must know the word ahead of time and, of course, must listen and respond as soon it’s said.

Consent doesn’t end with the act, either. While everyone

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should check in with their partner after sexual encounters to see what they liked and disliked and whether they were comfortable, this conversation, called aftercare, is especially important in BDSM. Doms and subs alike should take some time to discuss what went well and what didn’t and, especially if pain or humiliation were a part of the scene, remind the other of their affection. Trust is essential in all sexual and romantic relationships, but in BDSM, it is critical.

When does playful?

play

stop

being

Perhaps the biggest misconception about BDSM is its constant conflation with relationship abuse. Safewords and aftercare are good and all, but what happens when one partner refuses to listen? First, it would be pertinent to distinguish BDSM from domestic violence. Abuse is completely out of the control of one partner, is done with the intent to injure or intimidate, and leaves both parties with negative, painful emotions. BDSM, on the other hand, requires consent (and therefore control) from all parties, is meant to be fun, and leaves everyone feeling good in the end. Although both involve some of the same actions (hitting, insults, etc.), the distinction is consent. Subs have power over the situation; abuse victims and survivors do not. Therefore, they are not equivalent, and communication is the barrier that keeps one from spiraling into the other.

That said, BDSM can cross a line into being psychologically unhealthy, too. Sadism and masochism as a whole are no longer considered psychological disorders, but two illnesses called sexual sadism disorder and sexual masochism disorder are. These disorders consist of obsessive fantasies and actions regarding sadomasochism, to the point of causing distress and bodily harm to oneself or others. While just about everyone fantasizes about sex occasionally, when thinking about sadomasochism begins to affect your daily life and ability to function, it’s no longer just a kink. Thankfully, treatment options like cognitive-behavioral therapy and antidepressants to reduce one’s sex drive are available.

Conclusion As strange as the idea may be to some, many millions throughout the world find BDSM to be an enjoyable way to mix things up in the bedroom and bond with their partners.

Since the 19th century, psychologists have studied why people like BDSM and have proposed a number of explanations, from genetics to learned behaviors to just plain wanting to try new things, yet none completely answer the question.

Perhaps people like it simply because they like it. Does there need to be an explanation? BDSM certainly isn’t everyone’s thing, but with a little imagination and communication with your partner, maybe it could be yours next!

“Trust is essential in all sexual and romantic relationships, but in BDSM, it is critical.”

Tales of a Third By

Julia

“Acting president, vice president, secretary, and treasurer of the Planning Committee.” I suspect these words to be branded on my forehead. The rest of the advertisement reads, “Hire me for all of your relationship needs—specifically as they pertain to the woo-ing of one of my cherished best friends.” As it turns out, the role of Third Wheel comes with a myriad of previously listed, unanticipated sub-roles. These I have come to conglomerate into one horrendous and masterful Third Wheel monster role.

Per my title, I prepped my hopeless comrades by arming them with wingwoman schemes, birthday surprises, promposals, and the occasional paramount advice. I instructed them to consult my Google Calendar during the high season of Valentine’s Day and later on in the month of April, the masochistic period before prom. As I transitioned into college, the latter became an obsolete offering. For now, a review of my past work will highlight my dedication and romantic ingenuity—the grace with which I accepted my role and shone within it.

My clients came to me as the disheveled counterparts of the people I care for most in the world. As someone who often knows more of my friends’ likes, dislikes, hopes, and dreams in the realm of romance than their significant other, it was fitting that I was the one to help plan such special and personalized engagements. It didn’t hurt that preparation of such affairs jostled me with excitement, both for my love of detail and planning and the resultant happiness of my friends. To begin, I demanded but one spark from my clients to light my creative flame.

When Sheikh Rathod came to me asking for advice for a promposal, all he knew was that he had to sing Chris VanLowl “their” song. Knowing that Chris spilled his heart out to me on a near-daily basis, Sheikh allowed me to run with his vision. And so, when the day came, I made sure Chris was distracted so Sheikh could climb to his roof. I threw pebbles at Chris’s window to get his attention in accordance with a joking daydream Chris once relayed to me and held up a sign directing him up to the roof. I texted his parents to make sure they were present and gathered an enthusiastic audience, and then I held up posters, which I had colored in to spell P-R-O-M. The surprise on Chris’s face, the hug that united the two of them after the song, and the prolonged gittery excitement that ensued made clear the success of the whole charade. As my involvement in the planning could be assumed, the few nods I received for my help was all I both needed and anticipated.

When Dan Berg came to me for Anna Joel’s 18th birthday, he had nothing. As I was present at the time of their first meeting and was a close friend of them both, he afforded me the creative liberty to recreate the day they met after dark in the camp Rec Hall, as well as the activities and ambience that ensued. I had friends deliver her to the Rec Hall that evening where Dan and I were waiting.

Board games were astrew as they were that day, her favorite

Wheel

Haberfield

snacks were placed on the stage, and an unplanned rendition of “Bop to the Top” was being performed by friends on a broken ladder. When we all trailed down the hill to turn in by curfew, Anna had reached the gleeful level of jumpy I had only seen her exude on the happiest of occasions. Another success.

Somehow, word of my ways spread around the outer circles of my highschool. While I kept my best ideas on reserve for my close friends, primarily because I was able to make their experiences truly personal due to all that I knew, I dabbled in occasional brainstorming sessions or smaller to-do’s. As my network expanded, some of my like-minded friends assembled by my side, relaying group-made ideas and tying loose ends here and there.

And so, when one of best friends, Matthew Schaunson, envisioned a movie recreation to ask Emma Manderaine to homecoming, we collaborated to the tune of Roman Holiday. I had my team pick up magnolia cupcakes and carnations while I painted a punny poster. When the day finally came and her friends failed to get her to Washington Square Park at the designated time, the plan B that I always concocted for such intricate affairs went into full effect.

The crew rode the subway uptown for the plan’s ultimate kickoff in Central Park. And as the data had predicted, my romantic gesture (and Matthew’s, I suppose) was once again greeted with a jubilant bout of emotion.

However, I’ve since been away at college, experiencing an increasing distance from my role as _______. And it is here that I will declare a departure from our time together. That is, myself and the third wheel role—we will be taking a break, an indefinitely long one at that. The past few years, being a third wheel is all I’ve known, unbothered and rather pleased by the opportunities it’s provided me with. Mind you, my friends have given me with outs, always courteously grateful and reminding me of the fact that I “don’t have to do this.” But because I had such a good time doing it, brushing off their placations became a part of the job.

However, this year is different. The space I’ve had from my work made me realize the gravity of its effect on me. The accumulation of it all was taking up room that I now wish to devote to myself.

And so, as yet another season of love rolls around, I’ve come to see my focus on others as something that takes away the possibility of my own rendezvous with grandeur. A self-imposed lockdown of sorts, being a third wheel has barred me from an unexplored array of experiences by transferring my hopeless romantic inclinations onto others.

Whether I move on to a romantic endeavor of my own or some other vessel to satisfy my whims, I am hereby ready to graduate. So, as one does with their diploma, I will take my prior experiences with me, perhaps continue to dabble with what I once did, but also move beyond it. This Valentine’s Day season, with this platform, I am putting it in writing that I will focus more on myself. Whatever that may mean, I am ready to find out.

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TO

FROM

OMANIA BEATLE MANIA

By Elya Kaplan Today, public displays of fangirling and fanboying have become commonplace when celebrities are seen at concerts and meet-and-greets as well as during impromptu sightings.

But this expression of appreciation for celebrity crushes was not always the norm, nor was it openly accepted in society. A manic scream in response to the flip of the hair or the shake of the hips of a celebrity became popular far later in history than one might expect, especially considering how long celebrities have been revered. Fangirling and fanboying can be described as the emotional response of many aficionados to their celebrity of choice, which can be expressed in any form of extensive, “obsessive or overexcited” behavior. In exploring responses to crushes, I have decided to examine the process by which fan-mania came to be how it is today, taking it back all the way to the 19th century when Franz Liszt made history and became the world’s first rock star.

When I think of a 19th-century Hungarian pianist, I don’t immediately jump to the image of a dream-boat musician worth hanging up on walls and crying over (not that I’ve ever owned a poster of a celebrity’s face… or cried over one… gosh), but according to The Telegraph and NPR, among other sources, Liszt was quite popular with the public. He was such a hit that the phenomenon of his fan base was dubbed “Lisztomania”. Coined by poet Heinrich Heine, this was used to describe fans’ aggressive behavior, fighting over piano strings and bits of his clothing, even going so far as to take bits of his hair. Stephen Hough, a contemporary classical pianist from the UK, says that women used to throw their clothes on stage and put his cigarette butts in their cleavages. Liszt was known for his seductive performances and

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his ability to captivate his audience. He invented the modern-day performance tactics that have become so popular among musicians, both classical and otherwise. According to contemporary musician, Kirill Gerstein, Liszt “invented ‘pretty much every possible pianistic device that appears in modern piano writing. Composers ever since have used these, or elaborated on the seeds of keyboard ideas that he planted in his works’”1. He was the first to march on stage from the wings to take his seat, as well as the first to turn the piano so the audience could see his profile as well as that he wasn’t playing from a score, an act that was perceived as arrogant before Liszt claimed it. He changed the way people performed in the musical world, influencing composition as well as playing onstage and becoming known as someone who “played the orchestra as an instrument”.2 When we hear of this phenomenon today, it might remind us of something similar that occurred in the 1960s in response to one of the most widely loved musical groups ever to grace the stage: The Beatles.

When The Beatles came to fame in the 1960s, the public’s reaction was so overwhelming that it was dubbed “Beatlemania,” and though the origin of the term is contended by many, it is not unlike the terms used to describe the mass hysteria displayed by fans of Liszt, Elvis, and Cliff Richard.

The phenomenon has been characterized by fans crying, screaming, and throwing themselves at the band, desperate for any little bit of contact or proximity. The seemingly unprecedented attention and aggression of Beatles fans can be attributed to two significant factors not present during Liszt’s career: high population and television. The Guard-

BBC. “Culture - Forget the Beatles – Liszt Was Music’s First ‘Superstar’.” Clemency Burton-Hill.

NPR. “How Franz Liszt Became The World’s First Rock Star.” Staff.

ian explains that, due to the baby boom, there were more teenagers during the ‘60s than there had been to support Elvis or Richard and that they were embracing the modernity of the decade which seemed inherently linked to pop music and the rebellion against the rigid societal expectations of the time. To be a teenage girl in the ‘60s was to experience severe sexual repression and be expected to remain pure and prim while mainstream culture was increasingly sexualized.

The sexual abandon of the fans and the blatant sexualization of The Beatles were “in form if not in conscious intent, to protest the sexual repressiveness, the rigid double standard of female teen culture… It was the first and most dramatic uprising of women’s sexual revolution”.3 This marked a revolutionary shift and linked The Beatles to the developing manifestation of female sexual expression.

Beatlemania had its critics, as had Lisztomania before it.

Many of the critics found points of contention in the moblike followings of youth that they saw as dysfunctional, devious, and stupid failures of their generations. Fandom was regarded as a representation of excess and thus as unfavorable, and the expression of female sexuality was also criticized by many for being lewd and inappropriate. This criticism of female sexuality is tied to the critique of Lisztomania and the general repression of female sexuality and its characterization as a disorder. By the Victorian era, female sexuality was dubbed as “hysteria,” a word with origins in the Greek word “hysterika,” meaning uterus, and associated with the ancient Greek belief that “a wandering and discontented Uterus was blamed for that dreaded female ailment of excessive emotion, hysteria”This critique of female sexual expression has continued into the 20th and 21st centuries, heightening critics’ disgust over the manic representation of The Beatles’ fandom.

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However, more contemporary bands such as Boyz to Men, NSYNC, Big Time Rush, The Jonas Brothers, and One Direction have seen a more inclusive demographic in their fanbases. Despite this increase in diverse audiences, these bands’ accomplishments were diminished because their fans were mostly teenage girls, costing them the reputation generally afforded groups who top the charts. To combat this, these ensembles have built growing support bases and have thus changed the image of fandoms over the last few decades. While The Beatles did have a varied audience in terms of gender, they were initially more appealing to the female youth than any other demographic. Similarly, the bands of today have a predominantly female fanbase, but recently have been attempting to cater to a wider audience.

Each musical group has its new term: Justin Bieber’s fans are the “Beliebers,” the One Direction boys have their “Directioners,” and Lady Gaga has her “Little Monsters.” (Gaga herself is the one female outlier in this celebrity collection of musicians with manic fanbases, and she also attracts a wider demographic of fans due to her values and public focuses.)

These names might not be as revolutionary as “Lisztomania” or “Beatlemania,” and though they denote a group rather than a phenomenon, they represent a similar idea: the passion and commitment fans can have for their celebrity crushes and idols. They allow for admiration and reverence of the groups that provide an opportunity for audiences to express their appreciation, excitement, and sexuality without exploiting the members of the bands or their admirers.

While some may argue that the One Direction boys and Justin Bieber became the sex symbols of their time, they may have some competition with Hungarian musical icon Franz Liszt, who was arguably one of the first sex icons of the musical world. Now the question that remains is: What will the future of celebrity crushes hold?

Chicago Tribune. “SCREAMS HEARD `ROUND THE WORLD.” Barbara Ehrenreich.

AND BEYOND

My “Boyfriend”: A Story of How I Realized that I Am a Lesbian When I was fifteen I managed to assure myself with an iron-clad conviction that despite my crush on his sister, I was indeed heterosexually in love with my boyfriend.

He was tall, brunette, with a gentle smile and a feminine air that was for many reasons appealing to me at the time. We met at camp the summer after eighth grade, and there I learned how the attention of a “cute” boy translated into social currency among me and the other girls. After he asked for my phone number, my friends pressed me with a deluge of questions about the details of our conversation, joking around and nudging me whenever we spotted him at a campfire. When he asked me to be his girlfriend, I said yes, and I sensed a change in the way the other girls viewed me—as if the accessory of a boyfriend consummated some sort of maturity in the stage of adolescence.

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“Dating” him was fun. The excitement of the performance. The teasing attention from my friends. The thrilling notion of newfound romance. The remarkable part of it all was that at the time I was completely aware of my crushes on girls, like the one in my art class or the young woman who worked in the ice cream shop. However, the willingness to consider myself anything other than

By Regina Egan straight was simultaneously not yet in my vocabulary.

The day before camp ended, my boyfriend and I kissed for the first time.

We leaned in, and he pressed his slippery lips, agape and stiffly puckered, to mine.

At best, it was about as passionless as kissing my grandma on the cheek. At worst, it induced an instant urge to sprint away and wash his saliva from my face and mouth. What served as my most faithful camouflage was the generally regarded fact that first kisses are usually sloppy, which is how I rationalized my distaste for kissing him.

Shortly after camp ended and we left for our respective hometowns still dating, he told me he loved me. I told him, “Thank you.” Sadly, being loved by a teenage boy is hard to ignore when he is your boyfriend, and he keeps asking for you to say it back. After a while I eventually caved and placated him through hollow words.

The hundreds of miles traversed by our teenage “love” served less as a buffer between myself and him; instead, it protected me from the encroaching cognizance that the safe heteronormative structures I inhabited were predicated on the denial of a deeper, foundational truth, entirely enabled by long-distance.

Through limited interaction, we texted and called each other every so often. We sent letters and Christmas gifts. One year, he even sent me his family Christmas card that included a photo of him and his sister.

She shared his brown eyes and gentle smile, and I thoroughly enjoyed all that I could glean about her through my innocuous questions that were frequent, but not frequent enough to arise homosexual suspicion.

As my crushes on girls persisted, it became harder and harder to remain his girlfriend. After a year of dating, I finally accepted that my heterosexual undertaking would never amount to the concept of passionate love I had been sold in movies. The realization that our tepid companionship lacked skipping heart beats, blushing cheeks, and butterflies in stomachs induced an unceremonious parting between me and my one and only “boyfriend.”

Following the breakup, I did not yet comprehend the electricity that I should have felt during that year with him. Instead, I experienced the symptoms of my first genuine and authentically heart-aching crush during my sophomore year in high school when I met Riley.

crush; I simply could not bring myself to allow these thoughts to exist outside of my head. I knew that to make tangible an abstraction was to validate it—to turn conception into birth.

After a page of X’s, I put my pen down and cried.

Holding my diary with both hands, my thumbs traced the binding on the spine—scarlet stitches sewn into a linear pattern above my initials. Crafted with scarlet thread, brown leather, and hand-stitched paper booklets, this was a self-made space for my thoughts to take shape. When we dated, I wrote lies and hollow words about my feelings for my ex-boyfriend, and if I could not be honest here and now, I would continue living in the deceitful sepulcher that surrounded me my entire life. With an indelible stroke of ink upon the page, I would be writing away my ability to erase and deny. I would commit to a permanent and lucid account that confirmed my emotions and disposed of the straightness to which I tried so scrupulously to conform. I picked up my pen, wrote her name, and shut my diary.

She was tall, dark-haired, and quiet with a lean elegance that turned my cheeks an embarrassing pink and drew a timorous sweat from my brow at even the slightest thought of a monosyllabic greeting to her. Nervousness begot a rush of excitement that I looked forward to on weekday mornings when I could execute a thoroughly-rehearsed “Hello” or a flawlessly nonchalant wave from across the room.

One day, Riley asked me to venture out and roam the halls of the school with her. This was my chance to talk to her, to get to know her, to impress her. With blushed cheeks and a sweaty brow, I politely made conversation with her before my heart skipped a beat and my feet froze at the sight of her hand slowly extending toward my forehead.

“You have a piece of hair…um…”

Startled at the prospect of her touch, I jerked backwards as she leaned towards me. She flushed. I flushed. We returned to walking—this time, silently.

When I meticulously documented these events in my diary later that night, I used Xs to substitute her name, never indicating her gender. X asked me to walk with them…X reached towards me…X’s hand almost brushed my forehead… My self-censorship did not grow out of the fear of someone finding my diary and reading a girl’s name as the subject of my

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CRUSHIN’ IT

By Katie Beekman

10

Any day last June I could be found driving fast down the highway, belting out sad songs in northern Michigan. I was completing Step 2 in my Plan to Get Over Someone, right between Step 1: Crying and Step 3: Smiling because I’m ~so~ much better off without him. One of those summer evenings, I decided to get to work on the final, most important phase: Finding Someone Else. Someone to wonder about and make imaginary plans with and glance at across the cafeteria. A crush. I figured that my emotional energy was transferable and, because I had so much of it, I thought that finding somewhere else to place it would come easily. By this point in the Plan I was studying at the U-M Biological Station, a research and teaching site on Douglas Lake, which had plenty of crush-worthy options. When a tall, nice-looking boy a few cabins over came to help me and my roommate start a fire, I decided he was as good a candidate as any. We would both be stuck within a three mile radius of each other for the next four weeks, so why not?

In the moment, this seemed like all the time in the world to make something happen.

When the school year started, I chalked the summer up as a dry run. I’d had a lot of time to myself, so I was more prepared than ever to invest some mental time and energy into a relationship, even if it was likely never going to happen. At the beginning of my second class of the semester, I turned around in my chair and saw someone who made my heart skip a beat. The almost-crush from the Bio Station would have been a welcome surprise, but I wasn’t so fortunate. Instead, I caught a glimpse of the person who had inspired the Plan, the person who had caused me to cry, drive, smile, and repeat. When it clicked that I would be breathing the same air as this person for three hours a week until December, I grew determined in my quest for a new crush. I’m pretty sure everyone does that thing the first day of classes where they scan the room to get a good look at who they’ll be spending the next fifteen weeks with. To get a sense of the room’s potential for potential. I did that for the first month. It’s silly now to think about the people I had in mind for possible crushes, and worse to think about how desperate I felt before winding up disappointed.

Whenever I was bored, I would search for him in the cafeteria. I think I even talked to him once or twice. Occasionally we would make random eye contact… but, I reminded myself, that’s what people tend to do, look at each other. By my reasoning, absolutely nothing was happening between us. And yet, I tried. I went back through the Plan; I cried more, drove more, listened to more sad songs, and smiled more. Then, if I remembered, I kept an eye out for my “crush.” But life isn’t like a movie montage. No matter how badly I wanted to speed up the process, I was still aching from the guy I had fallen for years before I arrived at the Bio Station. By the time I cleaned out my cabin at the end of the four weeks, I knew I had failed. I was still miserable. And crushless.

Midway through the semester, I gave up. I stopped searching for a boy to fixate on and instead when I felt lonely, I focused on everyone. I looked people in the eye when I ordered my tea or talked in class or passed someone walking home. I tried to notice things about other people that felt genuine to me. Knowing I would feel that way again toward someone, I tried my best to admire everyone.

I guess it was like exercising my crush-having muscle without the commitment. The exercises didn’t make me feel any less alone, but they did make me feel more connected, if only for a few seconds. Is that what a crush is? A fleeting-but-appreciated flicker of warmth?

I’m still not sure.

A week or so ago, I was chatting with a friend about how nervous I was that I would continue seeing June-heartbreakPlan-person around campus based on our shared major.

“Oh Katie,” my friend sighed, “you really just need to meet someone new.”

I simply nodded.

Then a few days later, I was catching up with a friend who had gone through a similar struggle to mine.

“But,” she said coyly, “I met someone new!” Then she whipped out her phone to show me pictures.

It’s the circle of life. The turning point in the movie. The everlasting spring of drama and heartache and all things good and evil. The crush. However, for as inescapable as it feels, I don’t think I’m going to have one for a very long time.

Bored in mid-October, I was poking around Snapchat when I came across something interesting, a term I hadn’t seen before: demisexual. I did a quick Google search and clicked on an informational article. Are you super picky in terms of who you’re attracted to? Yes. Have most of your unrequited feelings evolved out of friendships with the gender you’re attracted to?

Yes. Do people think of you as being prudish? Problematically, yes. Then you might be demisexual!

Being demisexual means that one’s sexual and romantic attraction stems from being emotionally attracted first, or in other words, really getting to know the person. It doesn’t mean that you can’t feel physical attraction; the physical attraction just won’t last long enough to, say, develop a crush on someone.

Reading about being demisexual felt like I was reading about myself. I could picture summer Katie willing herself to feel attracted to someone she had just met at the Bio Station and then getting frustrated when she couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t! I didn’t know him. So, while I’m not completely set on identifying as demisexual, it’s helpful to know that I’m not alone in my lack of crushes and my struggle to develop them. Additionally, I’m still not completely sure of what having a crush means. What I have learned though, is that trying to have a crush, even if it doesn’t work out, is still an admirable endeavor. It means striving to see the good in others. And, if you do subscribe to the line of thought that having a crush is an entryway to pursuing something more, it means recognizing that you deserve love, too. At the end of the day, no matter how serious the crush, that’s what it’s all about—trying to love others and be loved in return.

I’m not exotic,

I’m EXHAUSTED

By Jaya Thyagarajan I remember entering college as nervous as I was excited for college relationships, casual sex partners, hookups, and so’ons. Let’s just say, I wasn’t getting much action in high school, and I was ready for my f*cking sexual liberation. I vowed to slay some dick and make some grown men cry.

As soon as I entered the dating scene on campus (which, tragically, consisted primarily of frat parties and Tinder,) I began receiving compliments that were different from anything I had seen during my sexless years, but at the same time felt like they had the same underlying messages.

Boys [not men] hit me with lines like: “You’re so foreign.”

I was born in Livonia, a full twenty miles from here.

“You [act / talk / look] different from other Indian girls.”

Really Chad? How versed are you in Indian culture?

“Is your dad strict, and now you’re looking to be a baddie?”

This conversation feels like a bad porno.

Worst of all: “I’ve never had Indian!”

Like I’m a fucking entrée at a restaurant.

12

Ann Arbor reeks of cultural fetishism. It’s the odious cloud over your trash can that you can’t fully escape, even when

if you take out the dirty bag and scrub the bin. I can’t seem to evade comments about my skin and my features, even if they’re spoken with good intentions.

All through history, people of color have been used to perform services for white people. Many white people still don’t want us involved in their everyday lives unless it’s in the bedroom, where we’re considered a taboo and kinky way to “spice things up.” Am I a dildo?

Whenever my skin is complimented for its novelty, I find myself thinking about my first [fake] love. Y’all remember your first love? They made your chest race when you saw them in the hallway, but if they didn’t see you, you pretended you didn’t see them either. You’d wake up excited that you might talk to them that day and would text them for homework that you had already finished. It wasn’t real love, because you were still in the process of understanding what the real stuff was, but it was the closest that you could imagine.

My first love of this variety was in ninth grade. I remember being excited every morning for Algebra 2 [which shows how fucked up I was] because we were in the same class. Like most prepubescent teenage boys, he’d walk behind me and step on the backs of my shoes just so I’d touch him in some way, though it was usually me punching him in retaliation.

He would steal my belongings and make fun of me until I screamed at him, which we definitely both secretly thought was hot. I remember he had these sultry cocoa eyes that begged for attention, like a brown Labrador. And I gave him so much f*cking attention because I’m a wh*re for white boys with deep brown eyes.

One day I confronted him with my feelings over text [because, come on, back then we only talked to our crushes that way.]

He texted back exactly what I was most insecure about: “You’re not my type. I like girls with brown hair.”

“You’re not my type” is code for “people who look like you aren’t attractive to me.” When it is said to a person of color, it generally references their race and the traits that come with it that apparently make them too foreign to be appealing.

With the uneasiness of my first crush behind me, you might think that the onslaught of Tinder “compliments” regarding my culture would be a refreshing change of pace for me.

I’ll admit that after many years of being told my race was a bad thing, I was surprised to be praised for it. Worse, I was thrilled to be called a “cool Indian” by my friends or a “caramel goddess” by my partners; it made me feel like I was somehow better than those brown people.

Still, these comments also felt icky at their core. I began to realize they belittled my complex, sophisticated personality to a few dehumanizing traits. Yes, everyone has physical preferences when it comes to partners; y’all know I melt for a dude with deep chocolatey eyes. However, there’s a big difference between liking an eye color and fetishizing a culture; one is a meaningless characteristic and one is the most important aspect of my identity. You’re basically saying I’m beautiful only in relation to my culture, not my beauty alone.

Y’all spent most of the 2000s (and every century before that) shit-talking our skin, our ethnic cuisines, our clothes, our languages, and our facial features. Women of color (like me) learned that we weren’t attractive to people outside of our

own race and should be HONORED when an average-in-bed white boy gives us the minimal amount of attention. Boys who saw me only for my skin showed little respect for me.

They showed no effort in getting to know me, didn’t value my time, and assumed I was a certain way in the sheets. [And they never, ever, went down on me.] They saw me as an item in a category, and for most of my life I tolerated this kind of treatment, because I thought my race somehow correlated to not deserving the same love as white people.

As I transitioned into adulthood, I began understanding more about my identities and the complexities of racism. I learned that comments like these are known as microaggressions— you are communicating your prejudices about my race in a way that is disguised as a compliment, even if you didn’t have bad intentions. This is a form of subtle racism, and it reaffirms stereotypes. It no longer validates me to be complimented for what you have oppressed me and other people of color with throughout our history.

“Jungle / curry / yellow / [insert other] fever” is not okay; neither is “BBC,” “Spicy Latina,” or anything else you use to represent another culture with for your own pleasure. I’ve gotten better at reading between the lines when I’m dating to make sure I’m not being stereotyped. If you want to compliment me, keep my race out of it.

AN OBSERVATION:

Americans Hate Sititing Next To Each Other.

By Aditi Kannan

Let me guess. Your prized possession is your “personal bubble of space.” Oh, you said your AirPods? I guess you did not read my previous article.

I noticed how highly I value my “circumference of solitude” one day as I was patiently waiting in line at a restaurant. The person behind me—not to offend them—was right on my ass. They were shoving me up the line, trying to see if scooting me forward would accelerate the waiting process. They had no qualms about robbing me of my one true happiness in life.

Even though I was annoyed with this person trying to grind on me, I gave them mad respect. They made me think about how selfish I am for wanting to take up so much space in an overcrowded world.

How? They were not assaulting me or harassing me; they were economizing space. Lines tend to occupy a LOT of space inefficiently. They are human walls blocking transverse movement and are a symbol of impatience. We were in a crowded area in which people needed to navigate around us. The person behind me might have just wanted to grant more space to a person attempting to cross that wall.

This experience sparked a chain of epiphanies about the intimate relationships that Americans specifically have with space and how this relationship is mirrored throughout American society. American people like to have their space. And don’t you worry, I’m an American, and I sadly have the infection as well. Whenever I can, I spread out like a goddamn elephant toothpaste challenge. I put my shit everywhere. I man-spread. I create a buffer seat between myself and the next person on the bus, in the movie theatre, and at coffee shops. I realized that day that I am an egocentric, bothered imbecile.

You can see this cultural norm exemplified in the episode of New Girl, “Double Date,” in which when Lamorne Morris’s character Winston acts as preposterously as possible in order to vacate the entire community dining table for his fellow loft-mates. The scene demonstrates how those dining at the community table would instead give up an opportunity to eat at a fine restaurant than sharing a space with an individual who was causing a minor ruckus. You can see it in the movie theatre, where it is more preferable that the world would end right then and there than that somebody would dare sit immediately next to you. You can see it on the bus, where if the side of your butt touches the side of someone else’s butt, you mentally vaporize. It is so ingrained in our daily life that we even learn about the “personal bubble of space” in elementary school.

But wait a second. That bubble of space is essential. It keeps us safe from theft. Safe from assault. Safe from a rabid five-year-old who has a pair of scissors and a vendetta against your lengthy locks of hair. Having a “circumference of solitude” is not something to be ashamed about. It is the loyalty to the circumference and how it is reflected in our society that is problematic.

Americans have become infatuated with and possessive of their right to personal space. We have done so to the extent that the structure of our communities reflects it.

Americans have destroyed their homeland’s biodiversity by constructing sprawling suburban subdivisions with buffers as grand as the houses that they separate. We advertise our country as a place where everybody can enjoy its “wide open spaces.” We have made man-spreading a norm in this country, and if you look at most other highly populated countries, you will see that they do not share in this habit.

To give them some credit, highly populated countries in South and Southeast Asia such as Malaysia, India, Thailand, and Indonesia have higher population densities than the United States. This predicament of population distribution in those countries was the driving factor to economize space to adapt to spaces that were shrinking due to an escalation in population growth. People living in those countries, like my grandparents, typically live in smaller spaces and have to squeeze into cramped high-rise buildings. The United States does not have that problem of a disproportionate ratio of acreage to population. However, we should still act as though we did because we are effectively destroying our much-aggrandized “wide open spaces” by building expansive shopping centers, suburban homes, and office parks.

This mentality of claiming your own personal space is especially reflected in the rapid suburban sprawl that can be observed today. Americans want their own spacious palaces because they correlate wealth with access to a castle-like lifestyle instead of living in cozy apartment buildings or even smaller single family homes. People in countries with populations higher than ours do not have the luxury of bountiful unclaimed land that we do yet still manage to develop efficient methods for housing, transportation, and entertainment. When I visit India, there is no such thing as a personal bubble when you can touch the car or bike idling right next to you.

have the right to personal space and to defend your comfort zone. However, you should also be conscious of your spatial impact. If you ever have the opportunity to buy a smaller home, defend zoning laws, or talk to your local representative about municipal development priorities, take it. We have to invest in a future where plants and animals do not lose their homes at the cost of an ugly-ass McMansion (Check out “McMansions: The houses that people love to hate” on YouTube and get angry.) Get involved in the decisions your community makes about preserving and developing its lands.

And most importantly, v o t e. You heard me. Some representatives aren’t aware of the potential impacts of sprawling out, and of course, there are others who do but do not give a flying fuck about the land that we live on. And most importantly, they do not have enough respect for their constituents’ futures to worry about our impact on climate change.

V O T E to see those changes enacted in our society and our living standards. At the polls, remember to make a little space for the flora, fauna, and indigenous peoples who are being crowded out of your bubble.

In America, we destroy environments and lands laden with a rich tapestry of biodiversity just because we do not want to see our neighbor taking a shit through our windows. We ravage untouched land for development instead of efficiently occupying spaces that we have already destroyed. This problem mainly stems from the romanticization of king-sized dwellings, perpetuating a desire for those dastardly-yet-covetable McMansions. Immigrants dream of the “white picket fence” reality that only a few see in their lifetime. Films like The Wolf of Wall Street and reality television comparable to Keeping up With the Kardashians and MTV Cribs prove to their audience that if they want to appear wealthy, they will have to purchase a large estate. However, living in a spacious house or driving a personal vehicle makes it difficult for a large population to exist in a way that does not cause extensive damage to the environment. Every day, I see an area that was once a deeply wooded area razed and converted into an expansive business park instead of a single lofty high-rise.

The American obsession with space has roots in neocolonialism. When people purchase large single family homes, it is clear that they have an interest in peacocking to their neighbors, friends, and family. We want to show them what castle we are the king of. However, in addition to the devastating environmental impacts of expansion, we have to remember that we stole those lands from indigenous people and that just because someone holds a property deed does not mean that land is rightfully theirs.

I do not want to shame you for craving a little space between yourself and the next person, but I implore you to understand the way this habit has impacted our surroundings. You

15

He sat up from the grass

and raised his head.

The trees turned to admire

his hair in the breeze.

Softly, the bees kissed him,

leaving pollen in his lashes.

As he looked towards the hive,

the workers anticipated.

They lay down their work,

bringing to him their labors.

He picked the honey up, touched it

to his eyes- his irises filled.

And with that love he turned away,

remembering his conception, As if but in a dream and

spoke with the warm breeze,

“I love you.�

Naturally Human

By Anonymous

16

When I lost my virginity

I was told I would never

Get it Back.

A part of me had

Disappeared, and God

Resented me.

But all I felt as I

Lay in the tub the next

Morning was a slight ache.

My mind had processed the

Night before, and felt

Ultimately Indifferent.

When I said “I love you�

for the first time,

all there was was a rush.

My full being craved

Acknowledgement and

Security.

Whether I got that or

Not remains in the moment,

But I remember nothing about

my Reception,

only my Giving.

My body has been

Protected by the ideas

of others.

However much I savagely

Dismantle that image,

I remain pure.

disconnected thoughts on love; or, oversharing

By Anonymous

But my love, my life force,

stays shied away

from prying eyes.

No one dares to comment

on me, delegitimizing and

overemphasizing it in bated breath.

If I continue to Peel back my Skin

Repeatedly, will someone

stop me?

Does it all lose strength as I

continue to spread myself for

any weary heart?

17

WITH

Bad Nights “Good” Boys

By Caylin Luebeck

I’ve been thinking about consent a lot these past few months.

my brain. It’s always felt like an itch I can’t quite scratch, maybe sharing it will help.

I’ve thought about how in sex ed we are taught, or at least I was taught, about basic biology. What parts fit where in a completely heterosexual, cisgender interaction. Sex was treated solely as a physical act. I was taught how to avoid pregnancy, but I was never taught about how sex should be a mutual understanding, let alone what healthy sexual relationships looks like.

The summer after my sophomore year, I stayed on campus, interning and spending time with friends under the lazy Ann Arbor sun. With little else to do, my close friends and I downloaded Tinder for shits and giggles over a bottle of wine and a bag of chocolates. That’s how I met Josh1. Josh had a cute dog in his profile, and thus, like anyone would, I just had to swipe right. Canine companion aside, Josh seemed really sweet. We went on an adorable first date to one of my favorite dinner spots and walked around town as the sun set behind the railroad tracks. He bought dinner, I paid for ice cream, and playful banter filled the evening. I remember him complimenting my blue and white jumpsuit, my cheeks adding a patriotic red flare to the fit. Over the next few weeks we went to poetry readings together, he came over and helped me with puzzles, I baked him cookies, and we watched action movies. It was a light fling that filled the endless gaps of time that can only exist during the summer.

I’ve thought about how, when I came to college, programs like Change it Up and Relationship Remix showed me examples of what can prohibit consent (parties, alcohol, drugs, etc.,) how there are different types of relationships and types of couples, and how to be an active bystander. Still, I never considered my own situations relating to consent.

It all seemed so Black and White: yes means yes and no means no. But what happens when those lines are blurred? What happens when “Yes” is “Yes, I’ll give you this hand job so you’ll stop asking me to.” Or, “I’ll go down on you because, well...then this can be over,” or, “Yes, because then hopefully I can be done with you.”

What happens when “Yes” is not because you want to, but because you feel obligated to?

These questions are largely inspired by Radiolab’s beautiful, thought-provoking podcast, “In the No,” a three-part series discussing consent. In this podcast, Kaitlin Prest talks about how consent is constructed around the gender binary of our modern world, where women can be sexual beings but not necessarily enjoy casual sex. She considers how women often feel pressured by society—weighed down by expectations to be people-pleasers and to give in to sexual situations that conflict with their true desires. I stumbled across this podcast for the first time in late September and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I want everyone in the whole world to listen to “In the No” and learn to talk about the issues that it presents. [Trigger warning: it is quite graphic, not about rape, but about sex.] At the same time, I want to keep it private and close to me, as my own personal 45 minute audio affirmation. One of my best friends has called it “a sexual awakening.” Since listening to it, I have rethought every hookup, make out sesh, and sexual interaction I’ve ever had, the good ones, the bad ones, and the ohmy-god-why-did-I-do-that ones.

One situation in particular keeps crawling back into

One night I was at Josh’s place and things were getting hot and heavy. He paused mid-kiss and asked me point blank: “Do you want to have sex?”

I muttered something about No, not yet. Cheeks flaming, I avoided making eye contact, and returned to making out with him. After a few more minutes, he asked me again, this time with a little more pressure.

“C’mon, it’ll be quick and I’ll be gentle.”

Again I said no, my cheeks hot because I had told this boy I was still a virgin. [Side note: I’ve never bought the social construct of saving your virginity for someone special, but I was hoping for something more than a twin bed in a basement apartment with a boy whose last name I hadn’t even learned how to pronounce. In essence, I don’t care about “virginity,” except maybe I do a little bit. Back to Josh’s basement.]

I thought he heard me, so when he began taking my clothes off, I let him. I assumed he was doing it with the understanding that we weren’t going all the way.

It was a slow process, so slow I didn’t quite realize what was happening. First my shirt, then I wiggled out of my shorts. Then he asked again. After my third “No,” I heard him sigh loudly through his nose, his 1

Name changed here

19

whole body exuding frustration. I said something along the lines of, “Let’s just stay where we’re at.” He seemed to agree. But then he asked again. And again. And again and again and again. Somewhere in the back of my head, I started getting angry. Then I thought “Fuck it,” quite literally, and proceeded to let him fuck me.

With Josh inside me, I laid there staring at the ceiling. I felt my eyes prick. Why am I doing this to myself? I felt a pit of self-loathing and anger form. My stomach was clenched and I felt mad at the universe. I felt betrayed by myself, betrayed by my own knowledge and confidence. And then it was over. Josh rolled over and asked me if it was good. I nodded, too upset—too shocked—to speak. I laid in his twin bed with its dirty sheets and haphazardly thrown clothes, contemplating what had just happened. I thought about why I had said yes, even when I knew I didn’t mean it. I wondered why he couldn’t sense that I didn’t want to follow through.

Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t my body language suggest my reluctance? Why was I able to read his body so much better than he was able to read mine? Why was a night that seemed so good, actually completely terrible? With these thoughts racing through my mind, I abruptly sat up. I wanted to scald my skin and shed every piece of him from my body. I told Josh I needed to go home. He was already half asleep, but after I made the motion to leave he turned to look at me. Concerned, he asked if I was okay, making me question my anger for a moment.

I did say yes, right? His eyes were half open, his face readable, and he looked utterly content. I couldn’t relate; I couldn’t stand the thought of staying in that bed any longer, I uttered an, “I’m fine,” and scurried out the door as quickly as I could.

In my haste to leave Josh’s, I left one of my socks on his floor. It was a black, completely ordinary sock. He texted me about it the next day. It felt like an over-eager excuse to see me again. I made up reasons to be unavailable and convinced him to leave it in my mailbox. Truly romantic, I know. That is still the thing I tell people if they ask me about my first time: “He returned my socks to my sublet’s mailbox the day after” I leave them to imagine the rest, filling in the gaps in my story with their imagination.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to slowly phase Josh out of my life. He left Ann Arbor a few days later for a month-long trip in August which made it easier to pretend it was the distance, not the coerced sex, that spoiled our summer romance. However, the feeling that night left me with was hard to shake. I told myself that I had no reason to be angry. After all, I had said yes, hadn’t I?

20

Once classes started and fall arrived in her golden glory, Josh started to reach out again. In the spirit of a new school year, I replied, but cautiously, and only over text. He would try to make plans and I’d evade, telling him I was busy with classes, and how I didn’t have time for a boy in my life. It felt as if somehow our evening together had solidified an emotional bond in his mind. But, he’d tell me he also “didn’t want anything serious,” and, “it could just be casual.” As if that was what I wanted to hear. Eventually, he started saying that we could be just friends. He offered to study together. He said he missed spending time with me more than anything else. I felt guilty for trying to ghost such a nice boy. I thought he might be lonely, maybe he had a hard time making friends at such a large university. Summer in Ann Arbor makes the city seem more intimate and approachable. All that is lost in the chaos of fall. So I met up with him for coffee to see if a friendship could work. I thought I could put aside our past.

We ended up having an amicable study session sprinkled with light conversation. I convinced myself things were okay. He asked if he could buy me a cookie, and I let him, as the chocolate chips were enough to sweeten me to a nonexistent apology. As I walked home I felt accomplished, as though I had checked him off my todo list.

A few nights later, Josh asked me to come to his house to help him set up his room decorations. I went over.

I don’t know why. I guess I thought it was an earnest enough request because I had frequently teased him about his poor decorating skills over the summer.

He basically lived in a dungeon. As I helped him set up fairy lights, the sun sank lower in the sky. He lived across town from me, so when he asked me to stay over I agreed to it, but I explicitly said nothing could happen. In hindsight I know it sounds like a stupid idea, but I have other male friends whose houses I’ve slept at, so I thought, “Whatever.”

In the middle of the night, I woke up to Josh pushing my hand down his pants. He whispered, “It’s been so long, I’ll be quick I promise.”

It was salt in a bitter wound.

After that, I muted his notifications and erased him from my life. So much for being a “nice guy.”

I’ve only told a few people in my life about Josh. The first I told by accident. I was drunk with my friends, pregaming before a night out. While in the bathroom, I heard my friends’ conversation shift to virginity. Their voices were muffled from the door but I heard them

chatting together and it made me smile. My two friends didn’t know each other well and I was their connecting link. I felt eager to hear them carry their conversation beyond small talk. As I exited the bathroom, I exclaimed, “God virginity sucks, I wasn’t even ready to lose it when I did but at least that’s over,” and then giggled as if it wasn’t a big deal. Both girls turned to me, silent, shocked and a little bit confused. Spilling my story I realized that there is nothing like the anger of best friends on your behalf to make you feel validated. It was the first time I heard that I wasn’t wrong for feeling the way I did, the way I sometimes still do.

Since then I’ve come to understand how awful that night was. How violated I felt. How angry I still am about it. It’s an ugly feeling that I’m working to process. One lingering thought I have is that I can’t help but feel upset with myself for never telling Josh that what he did was wrong.

So that’s my story—of how a “No” can turn to a “Maybe” and then to a “Yes” that doesn’t actually mean YES. That’s why “In the No” and a sexual reawakening around consent has occurred in my life. It causes me to question all the interactions I see. It’s made me stay up late talking to my girlfriends, asking, “Why?” It’s become overwhelming in the best and worst kind of way because, while sometimes painful, it’s important to unveil these nuances around consent and acknowledge the limitations of our current understanding.

What is remarkable about “In the No” is how many people shared similar experiences on the podcast. The host interviews several women and men to ask about their own encounters where consent has been blurred. Nearly every woman she talked to had an experience like this—feelings of confusion and doubt around their own sex stories. The men, on the other hand, each shared an

instance where they felt they had pushed too far. They talked about how it was this socially-ingrained idea to “get girls drunk and fool around with them,” or, if they weren’t “getting some” from a woman, there was no point in getting together with her at all. This fucked up ideology is instilled in aspects of hookup culture, dating culture and relationships. I’ve seen it play out more often than I’d like to admit on this campus. I’ve shared my own story with the hope of shifting the narrative.

In any sexual situation, “No” is where the conversation should end, yet it is often rebutted. That’s why, despite our precise definition of clear consent, I am still grappling with a concept we should all already be comfortable with. I want other people to know that “No” at any point should be the stopping point. You shouldn’t feel pressured or pushed into doing more than you want to.

You shouldn’t feel like you have to give a man a handjob/blow job/sex or whatever because he has “blue balls.” Because fuck men who think they have some right to your body and fuck the pressure to be a people pleaser. If a man doesn’t like you after you’ve told him “No” once, well honey you should never tell him “Yes.” Since the summer of my sophomore year, I’ve found a man who respects my boundaries. Who, when I say I’m tired, laughs and says “Okay” and asks me if I want a back massage. Since sophomore year I’ve found someone who restores my faith in the male gender and by god I hope everyone finds someone like that. Because, let me tell you, most men certainly aren’t making it easy these days.

I’ve found someone who, for the first time, makes me want to say yes, but this time it’s for me. I wish the same for you.

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GIRL

By Rocio Cuesta

CRUSHES

When I went to the movies as a little girl, I was always most captivated by the strong and beautiful female protagonists I saw on screen. Namely Natalie Portman as a badass space Queen and Senator in the Star Wars prequels. More often than not, I would be very drawn to the women in movies and tv, but I would assume this attraction was due to me wanting to be more like them, or wanting to have a really close friendship with them. I didn’t know there were other possible reasons for my fascination with these women.

Growing up on a small overly-religious island made for an environment that was like a bubble.

The only things I learned about sexuality and romance where what they taught me in my Catholic school: the basic heteronormative ideals of only men and women being together for reproductive purposes. Not once did they even mention homosexuality or bisexuality, so I didn’t know I could be anything other than straight. Thus, I spent a lot of my tween and early teen years thinking that my interest in Natalie Portman (and other women) was simply an intense admiration before I started taking stock.

The first time I ever met someone who was openly gay, I was in the seventh grade; I grew up with three much older brothers, and our house was more often than not the Party Hub. Since I was only thirteen, I loved to sneak down and spend time at these parties and talk to their friends, and they would tell me stories about life. At these parties, where I sipped on grape juice that I would carry around in a glass of wine to feel as if I was part of the group, was where I first learned how to play beer pong, but more importantly where I was taught about a lot of the liberal ideals that would become part of my core beliefs, like the pro-choice movement.

One time, one of my brother’s classmates from med school, Mario, came to one of these parties.

Since Puerto Rico is so small, I already knew his sister Juliana, and she had told me that we had a lot of shared interests, namely in our tastes in fiction, so I already liked him by association. As

As soon as he entered the room, with his commanding presence and handsome features, I knew I wanted to know him better. Once he had settled on the couch outside, I plopped myself down next to him and started interrogating him about his life, as that was the only form of socialization an awkward thirteen year old like myself could manage. We talked about books we had both read, and for a while he talked about philosophy and the issues of our island, which is how he landed on the subject of homophobia. He asked me if I knew anyone who was gay, and I told him I had never met anyone. He told me that I likely had met a lot of queer folk, but since we lived in such a toxic environment, they had no choice but to hide this part of themselves (he was right—after graduating around fifteen people in my class of one hundred students have since come out of the closet.) How he spoke of love, and the feelings he had for people of his same gender really resonated with me, and I cannot forget the feeling of yearning that this conversation gave me. It was like something was gnawing at my insides, and I recognized his feelings and his frustrations more than I ever imagined.

After my conversation with Mario, my brain felt rattled. The oddly familiar sentiments were difficult to shake. So, I started looking at the movies that were a big part of my childhood, from Star Wars, to Divergent, to the Marvel movies, and I realized that while I was occasionally drawn to the guys in these films, the women captivated my attention, and it wasn’t just because I was seeing female characters who were just as strong as their male counterparts for the first time (though I did love that too). In all honesty, scenes like Natasha Romanoff’s entrance in Iron Man 2 were a big deal to me because I was seeing beautiful women in a space where I felt comfortable enough to dream about them in a romantic light.

In the darkness of a movie theater, or the privacy of my room, I let my imagination run free, and I felt protected enough to think about what it would be like to date girls. Imagination was all I had. Besides Mario, no one really spoke of these topics, and I was always afraid that if I googled things like “Am I Gay?” quizzes, someone would see the search history in the family desktop and know more than what I was ready to tell them.

It took me a really long time to realize that these feelings I had were crushes. I didn’t see it until it was so glaringly obvious that I felt stupid for never having had noticed it before. And even after I could admit to myself that these were romantic feelings that I had toward women, I didn’t immediately find a label that fits me comfortably enough. I like guys too, but I tend to like girls more, so I ended up finding that if I have to label myself, bisexual fits me best. I sometimes still get frustrated with myself for taking so long in discovering this part of me, but sexuality is like that; the big moments of recognition come in different speeds for everyone and you can’t force yourself to define it before you’re ready.

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By Gabby Ceritano

S p l a t !

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The first crush I remember having was in kindergarten. He had light brown hair and was the class clown, and of course I was drawn to him because he always made everyone in our class laugh. But having a crush when you’re that young is a bit scary because little kids don’t know how to show their emotions properly. I remember the day he found out I had a crush on him after someone told him my secret. He teased and teased me about it until the whole class found out. I had never felt more mortified, more exposed. How could I have let him make me feel this way? And why was he making fun of me for thinking he was amazing? Why was that such a bad thing? It completely cost him his appeal in my eyes.

That was my first time being crushed by a crush. It was like being stepped on by an elephant: splat!

But I never gave up on chasing boys. I found myself in heartbreak over silly crushes multiple times throughout elementary and middle school. Who gave them

the right to hold so much power over me? They were just stupid boys with stupid pretty eyes and stupid curly hair, so why did I let them have so much sway over my emotions?

The thing is, I’m the type of person who gets completely consumed by a crush but will never actually tell them because I’m afraid of how they will react.

This pattern has been the same all throughout my life, and where has it landed me? Stuck running around in the same little circle of fearing rejection. Still, I somehow find myself doing everything possible to attract their attention and finding excuses to be near them. In high school, I liked this one boy I didn’t have any classes with, so I always made an effort to catch up with him in the hallways between classes and start small conversations with him. He never checked his phone and was the worst at responding to any kind of text or snapchat, so how else was I supposed to get his attention? I even started wearing makeup to school, just for those miniscule interactions with him. Pathetic, right? Nothing happened in the grand scheme of things, like usual, and I felt crushed over something that really had no potential in the first place because of my obscure way of showing my feelings.

Again, splat!

The worst part about it was, this happened to me again and again throughout my whole high school career. I was always too afraid to tell people how I felt because of my fear of rejection. It’s just a character trait of mine that I can’t seem to shake.

But my problem is, the second I start to think I might have the slightest chance with a guy, I become fully enamored with him.

I find myself inventing scenarios in my head of an idealistic future with this guy and wind up butthurt when he doesn’t give me the attention I’m craving. I build this image of him up in my head only to have it torn apart when he doesn’t say or do the right thing.

And this has become so toxic for me, especially when I wind up grieving a relationship that didn’t have much potential to begin with because I was so scared to make the move, put myself out there, and be vulnerable.

Trying to date in the technological era is even more complicated.

I might sound like a 50-yearold boomer when I say that, but times really have changed! It’s rare for people to talk to each other face-to-face because most of it is done online. And this

makes talking in person awkward and uncomfortable, even though you might have been talking to someone for weeks or even months over text or on social media platforms. A snapchat can hold as much significance as an in-person conversation, and being left on delivered or opened can ruin your day and hurt you just as much as when someone ignores you in real life. And it sounds so trivial, but the emotional damage that occurs with every unanswered text or just ‘K’ is not felt lightly.

Another splat!, but this time, in digital form.

Face-to-face interaction is becoming increasingly uncommon in the early stages of a relationship as technology and social apps evolve, and this is something that technology has ruined for us. Dating apps like Tinder and Bumble have taken away some of the more formal aspects of conversation that typically take place when first meeting someone, and the longer my friends and I continue to use these apps, the crazier the stories become.

Cutting out awkward first-encounter conversations can sometimes be fun and can make it easier to get to know a person, but not everyone gets so lucky.

While many people start conversations with innocent questions or cutesy pickup lines, others will open with crude and degrading comments, or sometimes even inappropriate photos, that push the recipients to discomfort.

So many of my friends have shown me messages like that, and it never fails to shock me how technology has torn down people’s boundaries on common courtesies.

them for who they are, not just what their face or personality looks like online. Real face-to-face interaction is so important in shaping our lives and experiences, and I think we gain so much from just talking to someone about their beliefs and interests.

Having a crush is just a normal element of the human experience, and learning to handle the emotional baggage that comes with crushes can be challenging. It is definitely an acquired skill. In retrospect, I think that I have learned to be more realistic when it comes to crushes, but it has been a long time in the making with lots of unnecessary, and most times avoidable, heartbreak. Not everyone you have your eyes set on is going to feel the same way about you, and that’s okay! But that can be a hard fact to accept when you’re caught up in the cyclone of infatuation. And technology plays into this, too. With social media apps like Instagram, Facebook, and Snapchat, we can find pictures and information online about someone quickly and develop opinions about them, even if you have never actually talked to them in person. They could be a totally different person in real life!

This can cause someone to fall deeper into that hole of hopeless or unrealistic excitement. Holding yourself back from doing the new normal routine of stalking crushes online will save your

mental health and prevent you from constructing almighty, and ultimately untrue, images of that person in your head.

Every crush I have had has taught me something about myself, and over time I have come to be better about my impossible expectations, although it can be hard. Every splat! you feel in your life will teach you lessons about yourself and others. I think this is really important because you learn and gain insight from your experiences in life, and these experiences ultimately build you into the person you are and will become. So own your splats! They have made you who you are today.

This is definitely another digital type of splat!

It’s easy to fall into the convenience of dating apps and cyber relationships, but we shouldn’t let them stop us from really getting to know people.

I challenge you, with any crushes you may have, to meet in person and genuinely interact with them to know

25

BUYING SEX TOYS

By Anonymous I don’t think my parents would ever be willing to say the term “sex toy” in front of me. Their version of sex ed was waiting for me to ask them questions and slipping a copy of The Care and Keeping of You on my desk in the fifth grade, which never mentioned the possibility of masturbation, let alone methods for increasing your pleasure.

There is no way my gym teacher mentioned them when he nervously told us to open our textbooks to read what “sex” was. I had to learn it all by myself, with the feigned confidence of a first semester freshman.

I first learned about sex toys from reading. I remember sneaking looks at Cosmopolitan magazine in CVS, nodding with feigned understanding at words like “dildo” and “lube.” I was not yet brave enough to research sex toys beyond these glimpses that made me feel ashamed, but my desire to be a well rounded, knowledgable person drove me to invite my best friend to come with me to our local sex toy store. It was the summer after 12th grade when I decided to take matters into my own hands and buy a vibrator, with the expectation that I would magically gain the confidence and maturity to freely talk about sex. My friend and I decided it was time we embraced our sexual nature, and in a very brave stand against the lack of sexual education we had received, we went to Condom World.

The store was below ground level, only increasing the secrecy and shame I felt around the purchase.

I was too scared to ask a cashier for help, and

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avoided looking directly at all the butt plugs and edible underwear I passed. When I finally found the vibrators, I was overwhelmed with choices.

Did I want one that would stimulate my clitoris while also working as a dildo? Did I want it to look like a penis? Did I want to prioritize price, or the potential pleasure that more upscale vibrators advertised?

After selecting a neon pink dildo vibrator (the cheapest toy available) I became curious — what made a vibrator, or a sex toy, pleasurable for different people? That shopping excursion taught me how versatile vibrators are.

I started googling the differences between them, learning that some simply “buzzed,” while more hightech ones featured different rhythms and levels for deeper stimulation. Some focused on internal pleasure, others external. Some focused on the clitoris, some others were geared toward the G-spot, and some toward anal stimulation. I started to wonder if people I knew used vibrators or other sex toys, how they chose them, and what their experiences buying them were like.

Ths lack of knowledge I had before buying my first vibrator was repeated in my friends’ sex toy anecdotes. Mac1 believed a sex toy was “anything you use with or without a partner to stimulate yourself sexually,” and bought their first one the summer after freshman year in college. They described backing their car into the parking spot, so no one driving by would recognize their

bumper stickers, and being incredibly anxious to talk to the cashier who ended up being nothing but welcoming and kind. Another friend, Cara, didn’t feel stigma around using toys in sex, but felt less comfortable using one with a partner outside of a committed relationship.

people I interviewed was the connection that many of them drew between using sex toys and one’s identity, specifically when it came to gender and sexuality. Sylvia described how, when her partner was questioning their gender identity, using sex toys helped them figure out what they felt comfortable with in the bedroom. Other Sylvia also described feeling a lot less shame interviewees mentioned a link between the queer/ around her first sex toy. She explained that she LGBTQ+ community and sex toys. They described didn’t know where she learned about it, but a phenomenon they believe exists primarily with she has always had a very positive outlook on cisgender heterosexual men: the belief that the masturbation, and has felt comfortable talking penis offers all the pleasure needed in sex, and about it with friends candidly. She had asked her that using a sex toy implies a lack of skill. On the older sister to buy a vibrator for her, because she contrary, using a sex toy doesn’t mean that one is was in the 10th grade at the time and too young to bad at sex, rather it is something new to bring into be allowed in the store. While she acknowledges sex. the stigma around masturbation, especially if it includes a sex toy, she doesn’t feel affected by it. Buying my first toy was terrifying. I was nervous, She doesn’t feel ashamed talking about it with uneducated, and horny. I am still all of these people who she knows have experience with things, but now I’m more comfortable with toys, but she doesn’t talk about it with everyone, them. My desire to minimize my fear of them especially not her parents. and comparing similarities with friends made me realize how normal it was to be afraid and have a Though everyone I interviewed mentioned shame, desire to buy a toy. Hearing other people’s stories they also mentioned pleasure. Mac stated that they helped me decide that my own pleasure is very had never had an orgasm until they used their first important to me, especially because it is not often vibrator. For Sylvia, using her vibrator brought so prioritized in mainstream sex ed and porn. Feeling much pleasure she decided to give her two close comfortable talking about and using sex toys has friends vibrators for Christmas so they could have been very freeing for me, because it makes them similar experiences. I know for myself that using less scary. Now, I am confident that I can walk into my vibrator for the first time was mind blowing. Condom World and make direct eye contact with Even though I am writing anonymously, I will leave the butt plugs and edible underwear. it at that. It was a uniquely pleasurable experience, but my brain is highly trained in secrecy around discussing the topic without knowing the listener.

Some people I interviewed got their sex toys through relationships, not through buying them on their own. Cara mentioned having never bought one; rather, she has leftover toys from a previous relationship. Her ex-boyfriend was into BDSM, and after the relationship ended she kept the toys.

Losing sex toys in a relationship came up when I interviewed Sylvia, who described keeping her vibrator at her ex-girlfriend’s house, and leaving the vibrator there after ending the relationship.

Later that same year she bought a vibrator to replace the one she lost. She named it Frankie.

A surprising link I found in the stories from

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me

Tell yo he tried to stick it in me when he was soft; neither of us knew otherwise. You know those boxy cars?

“Lots of leg room” is a car industry code phrase *wink wink* Afterwards he told me he had once jacked off to a law firm logo. It was on a dirt country road in the back of his pickup truck. He didn’t know how to put the condom on. He went to the drugstore to buy condoms. We skipped school so we could be home without our parents. After watching National Treasure. Two virgins, one monster dick, zero foreplay. Kicked him out after just the tip. This past semester, with my first girlfriend, turns out I’m not a pillow princess! In his basement after the homecoming game. Afterwards, I slapped his arm and said I was “swiping my V-card.”In a room lit only by Pursuit of Happyness. Oh the fate of that poor Chipotle napkin. He let me put his socks on so my feet wouldn’t be cold on the way to the bathroom. I broke her glasses by accident. At camp at night, we turned our flashlights off so no one would see us. On the couch watching Narcos. Where Pablo Escobar ended and my teenage love began, I’ll never know. Bathroom floor after one Nati Light. Feeling awkward after, I asked him, “Do you think sharks can understand music?” as if that’d make it less awkward. I drank an entire bottle of cranberry juice afterwards. His bed sheets were Star Wars themed.

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first times in twenty words or less.

First time with a woman, I threw up during it. First time in a car our friends walked by and saw we were watching Twilight. In my car. I swallowed and he laughed in my face. In a frat house during a party. My friend kept knocking to make sure I knew my friends were leaving. the bottom bunk of my bed, super cramped and no space to move, but luckily he was small ;) She bit down when I came. Conclusion: ruptured urethra A penthouse in Montreal. It was my first boyfriend and we went to a church right after. Absolutely no regrets. He called me gorgeous even though I was dressed as Mike Wazowski. At a 20 degree angle, in the back of a Jetta, we cleaned up with an earthquake safety kit. I went down on him for free weed. I swallowed. Went to tinder dude’s frat and got wasted, banged while Bobs Burgers was playing, found blood on my shoes the next day. First night of college, a drunk girl and a stranger. “I’m not ready for sex!” He doesn’t listen to me. Did it on a random one night stand so it would have as little meaning as possible. I had food poisoning that morning, but I wasn’t about to let it wreck our plans that night. Already intimate in soul and mind, I felt closer to him. Patience and mutual understanding/control was key. The lines blurred between wine, blood, and candle wax. It hurt. It rained the next morning. I thought it was his finger. Totally stereotypical and sweet teen movie afterprom sex in high school—still together six years later!

Hookup with my ex. My only thought: “Why didn’t I let you fuck me when you actually loved me?”

Anticlimactic...in many ways...but very exposing. He was sweet, patient, caring and took care of a lot of things that I didn’t have to ask for. He was my first love. He pulled back and asked me, “You know that feeling where you really have to poop?” On a playground slide in highschool—an evening date. He kissed me, and I wanted to disappear! Was it guilt? Girl is super mean to me and I think she’s beautiful of course so we hu. First time mutual bleeding. She was POURING tequila into me. I liked her but we were nervous so it felt like the right thing. i left the frat bathroom surrounded by applauding frat brothers. With a woman I liked for a while. What can I say??? Plowed until the next harvest. Still together.

ours.

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Cover

Art by Regina Egan

Keep the conversation going! whatthefmagazine.com

Bathroom Confessional

Art by Maggie McConnell

Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor: BDSM

WhatTheFMagazine WhatTheFMag WhatTheFMag

Art by Emma Goodman

Tales of a Third Wheel Art by Ariana Shaw

From Lisztomania to Beatlemania Art by Emma Goodman

My “Boyfriend”

Art by Regina Egan

CrushIN’ IT

Art by Hayleigh Proskin

I’m not exotic, I’m Exhausted Art by Ariana Shaw

An Observation: Americans Hate sitting Next to Each other Art by Brooks Eisenbise

Naturally human & Disconnected thoughts on love Art by Jessica Burkle

bad nights with “good” boys Art by Lucy Potter

GIRL CRUSHEs

Art by Regina Egan

Splat!

Art by Maggie McConnell

[LEFT]

by Hayleigh Proskin

by:

Art by Aditi Kannan

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