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Now that I am solidly into my second semester here, I’ve naturally been reflecting on my time in America thus far and have decided that now would be a good time to share some of the things that, six months into living here, I find (for lack of a better word) weird.
When you come out, you get a lot of things. You get an ID card from the Human Rights Campaign. You get a welcome basket with a gift card for a free body piercing. And you get a fuckton of expectations about your gender expression.
Another full week is almost over. But there’s something a bit strange about that statement. By now, many of us have likely forgotten this, but there was a national holiday just a few days ago. President’s Day went by with nearly no acknowledgement by anyone on campus, let alone a day off from classes. Fortunately, I found myself perfectly willing to forgo my homework and figure out why this holiday is considered less important than so many others by our University.
Despite living in “Seattle” all my life, in truth, there has always been a body of water separating me from authenticity. My hometown of Mercer Island, a suburb a few miles east of the Emerald City, is notorious for its culture of affluence — my preferred euphemism for snobbery.
Last September, I woke up early on a Thursday morning and took an Uber to the Planned Parenthood clinic in central Baltimore.
It was a particularly brisk day — the kind of fall day that teeters right at the edge of winter — when I crossed 31st Street last semester and made my way to the Counseling Center for my very first appointment. I wasn’t necessarily going to counseling for mental health issues, I was going to confront a fear that I’ve always had: therapy.
Before I ever experienced romantic love, I spent years wondering how it might feel. From early 2000’s Taylor Swift ballads to my grandparents’ slow dance at their 50th wedding anniversary: The world around me was teeming with romance. Beyond that, when I turned 13, the interrogations began. At family reunions, elderly men I barely knew would pinch my cheeks and inquire, “So, any dates? A beautiful girl like you, I’m surprised you’re not already married.” Please keep in mind, I was 13 years old.
The Emmy-winning HBO fantasy drama Game of Thrones (GoT) is famous for a lot of things, like its elaborate sets and costumes, its eagerness to kill off main characters, and of course its innumerable graphic sex scenes. Many have criticized the show for being overly pornographic or displaying excessive sexual violence. The reality, as any diehard fan knows, is that GoT is so much more than just incest and nudity. At its core it’s a show about courage, perseverance, family, love and loyalty — themes that are largely universal. The show is so popular partly because, although it takes place in a medieval fantasy world, viewers today can personally relate to many of the things the characters deal with on the show — one of which, obviously, is sex.
In honor of Valentine’s Day, I have decided to finally write about my namesake Catwoman, aka Selina Kyle, and her famously tumultuous relationship with Batman, aka Bruce Wayne, as portrayed on Fox’s Gotham.
I’m a 22-year-old college senior, and I have never kissed anyone. It’s not for lack of attraction or for any kind of religious reasons. It just never happened.
Procrastinating my search for employment yet still desiring a source of income, I filled out a Google Forms survey the other day to determine my eligibility to participate in a paid research study. The questionnaire asked whether I had ever fainted before.
I’m still a virgin,” someone told me. “We haven’t had penis-in-vagina sex yet.”
For me, the process of coming to terms with my sexuality was long and unpleasant. I was isolated during eighth and ninth grade, so when I finally came out as a high school sophomore it felt like I had figured it all out. That was it. No more identity struggle.
I have been dating my girlfriend, Sydney, since Valentine’s Day in the eighth grade. Yesterday marks our seven-year anniversary. (There were two relatively short breakups mixed in there, but we don’t have to talk about those.) You’d think that asking a girl out on Valentine’s Day is corny, and you would probably be right, but eighth-grade me thought it was quite clever and that it would be an easy way to remember any anniversaries.
The friend zone. The proverbial Sunken Place in which people hate to be caught. For some, it could be the worst possible thing that could ever happen.
This Wednesday, as couples celebrate their love and single folks unify in shared independence, another humble holiday transpires below the surface — the beginning of Lent.
There was this girl once who had been sexually assaulted by someone she knew. This girl hid from it for a very long time. She pushed it down, down, down so that it did not exist and the memory was just a dream. She forgot though, that reality has a way of making itself apparent to her.