a blue review

January 23, 2015 - Leave a Response

Another review to amuse you as I get back into the swing of this blogging thing. Enjoy! I’ll be posting a handful more over the coming three or four weeks, and then we’ll see about some other stuff. :)


The Ultimate Guide to Sexual Fantasy: How to Have Incredible Sex with Role Play, Sex Games, Erotic Massage, BDSM Play and Much, Much More by Violet Blue

I wasn’t sure what to expect from a guide to sexual fantasy. I sort of figured it would be about how to navigate the psychological depths of fantasy – learn how to describe the details of your fantasies, discern your motivations and turn-ons within them, decide how you feel about them, and figure out which ones you want to bring to life vs which ones are best kept in the realm of your own personal fictional world. Maybe sections on writing (diaries, memoir, erotic fiction and fanfic, for instance) or making art about your fantasies, or choosing erotica or porn films that might best tap into them, or dealing with negative feelings such as shame or guilt that may be attached to some fantasies. Maybe stuff about how best to find people or communities of people who share your fantasies, or tips on discussing them with your lover(s). Maybe some woo-woo visualization exercises.

But Blue’s latest book is more of a survey course in sex play outside the one-on-one missionary think-of-England sort. It might be more appropriately titled A Primer on Sexual Adventure. Fantasy plays a role here, for sure, but the book is more about ways to explore your sexual desires – which may or may not be the same thing as your fantasies, a distinction the book does not draw. When she does write about discussing fantasies with your lover, she sets it up as a thing that might be challenging, but spends just a few paragraphs on basic ways to work through those challenges before jumping right to “Ready to play now?” It’s a bit jarring. Hurrying to the action seems like an odd choice in a book that in theory would be focusing on the psychological.

Okay, so let’s talk about the action. Unfortunately, because it tries to cover so much ground, this book ends up being kinda… watered down. Each section is mostly made up of lists of things one can try – essentially, of popular (read: other people’s) things to do. The lists themselves are for the most part pretty clichéd. The concept of the “naughty schoolgirl,” for instance, comes up at least three or four times in different sections. I can’t help but wonder whether, in focusing outwardly, on the most well-known, and therefore necessarily a bit wilted, ideas about sexy play, this guide might in fact serve to restrict and discourage readers from having and exploring their own. A sort of “here is how to have fun” approach instead of a “how would you most like to have fun?” one. At worst it could even be shaming – if one’s own fantasies are so outside the pale as to be unmentionable in a guide to fantasy, does that mean they’re really truly evil?

As well, the book’s section on BDSM is almost indistinguishable from the one on role play, with amendments for a bit of very un-scary pain and what almost sounds like mandatory power play – in the bedroom only of course, and with plenty of “funishment,” except she just says “punishment” because of course this is all fantasy, not reality (sigh). Given how much literature is out there about BDSM these days, I’m surprised to see it given such a slap-and-tickle treatment here, with no mention that for some people this goes way beyond bedroom play, and no acknowledgement that Leather culture even exists. The chapter reads as though it were written by someone imagining what BDSM is like rather than knowing it from the inside. Which is fine if BDSM isn’t really your thing, but then perhaps it would be wise to call for reinforcements when writing about it.

Given all this, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that the scenarios are also almost exclusively geared toward heterosexual monogamous couples, with the possibility of bisexual exploration noted every once in a while. And the element of surprise is suggested uncomfortably often. (Pro tip: sex-related surprises are only a good idea if you’re already pretty darned sure your lover will totally adore what you have planned, *and* has already consented to being surprised. Outside that framework, you’re taking some pretty big risks.) All in all The Ultimate Guide reads a lot closer to a Cosmo-style grab bag of straight sex tips than I’d have expected from either Violet Blue or Cleis. At the very least, it would have been nice for them to explain in the subtitle or the back-cover blurb who the book is intended for – cuz it’s very much not Cleis’s usual readership of porn-loving queers.

Speaking of which, for a book ostensibly about fantasy, it bizarrely skips any real discussion of people’s most common sources of fantasy material – regular old books, TV and films, and their pornographic cousins. I would have really liked to read a guide that would accompany people through that!

Anyway. If you’re straight, very new to sexual exploration outside the box, pretty sorted-out around whatever shame or other baggage you might have, and in search of a basic tour of what’s out there in sexyland, check out this guide as a starting point. If that’s not you, here’s what I’d advise instead: If any of the topics in the guide really appeal to you – threesomes, BDSM play, erotic massage, whatever – go find a book devoted entirely to that topic, possibly from Blue’s extensive resource guide at the back. You’ll doubtless come out with a more satisfying level of detail. Do check out other works by Violet Blue – I gave her Adventurous Couple’s Guide to Sex Toys a solid review last year, for instance. She really shines when she’s talking about how tech and sex intersect, and it’s high time we saw an extensive book about just that from her. Don’t take The Ultimate Guide to Sexual Fantasy as a prime example of the work she’s capable of. Sadly it’s just not.

good intentions for 2015! also, a book review: playing the whore by melissa gira grant

January 13, 2015 - One Response

Dear readers,

Thanks for your patience. I am so pleased to know you’re still interested in reading me after all these years, especially since I rarely post these days. I miss you, and I miss writing here. I plan to do more of it as my health improves in 2015. I also have some other big ideas, including a donation button and a few formatting revamps! Eventually.

For now, I’m going to be posting a series of book reviews. Instead of one big post like I did last year around this time, I’ll be posting them one at a time over the coming weeks in what I hope will be an entertaining trickle. I hope you enjoy them! I have every intention of writing posts that aren’t book reviews over the coming months – lest you be concerned. I already have a few topics in mind. Among others the film version of Those Damn Books will be coming out soon and doubtless I’ll have things to say about it. Sigh. Also I’m chewing on lots of ideas these days about relationship transitions, power and protocol, fetishism, and more. Perhaps some of them will find their way here.

For now, I give you the first in my short series of reviews. Read on, and stay tuned.


Playing the Whore: The Work of Sex Work by Melissa Gira Grant

Grant’s brief book takes a fresh look at sex work from an insider’s perspective. She does an admirable job articulating the politics of sex work without simply rehashing the same-old.

Especially strong is her chapter “The Police,” in which she explains in shockingly simple terms how feminist organizations collude with the state to produce a situation in which cops are able to perpetrate violence against sex workers freely and with impunity, proportionally far more so than the workers’ clients ever do.

In her chapter “The Prostitute,” she describes the social construction of the prostitute as a creature who is always seen as working (and therefore sexually available), and always needing to be controlled. In “The Work,” she decries a public that demands punishment for sex workers while also voraciously consuming their stories. She sees the prostitute’s storytelling about her own life as being itself a form of sex work, and one that Grant herself refuses to engage in within the pages of her book. Essentially, we’re not paying her for that kind of service. (Her framing of this is fucking brilliant.)

In “The Debate,” she notes that the internet, dating sites and social media are blurring the lines between the prostitute and the non-prostitute:

“Is this the real fear then: not that more people are becoming prostitutes but that the conventional ways we’d distinguish a prostitute from a nonprostitute woman are no longer as functional? Antiprostitution laws are primarily about exclusion and banishment; how, now, will we know who is to be banished and excluded?”

In “The Industry,” she takes on rescue-industry NGOs and feminist groups, arguing that these groups use sex workers to legitimize their own morality programs. In “The Other Women,” she critiques the black-and-white framing employed by anti-sex-work feminists:

“As controlled by customer demand as sex workers are supposed to be, anti-sex work reformers carry on far more about customers than sex workers do, insisting that they and their sexual demands are all-powerful. Sex workers are made helpless before them, their consent and critical thinking apparently eroded by their attire.”

She concludes with a clear call to decriminalization:

“There’s no reason to wait for all these attitudes to change, for whore stigma to somehow fall away, to make room for another way, whether that’s amending the law, ending sex workers’ status as outlaws by other means, or by something more and yet unimagined. To hope that all those others who are occupied by their obsession with us – by the prostitutes in their fantasies – to wait for them to change and accept sex work as work and sex workers as full agents in their own lives before we take the lead? They won’t. It’s through our demands, our imaginations, that we will.”

The book is somewhat disjointed – I wished for a clearer thesis. Grant often raises a topic or an example and doesn’t bring it to a satisfying conclusion. And yet, I wonder if that’s just me wishing for pat sum-ups where they simply don’t exist. Instead, Grant excels at insightful reframing, turning questions back against their askers and challenging the ways we understand what “prostitution” is and isn’t, who’s exploiting who, who’s perpetuating violence, who’s harming and who’s helping. Throughout, she never relies on the “party line” of progressive sex work politics, preferring instead to push even further, ask more complicated questions, never pretending to have a simple solution but always challenging the boring received ideas about sex work that circulate in our culture. This book is much-needed, frank, simple, and relentlessly intelligent.

poor persecuted pervert?

October 27, 2014 - 336 Responses

There’s a scandal breaking in Canada. It’s about BDSM. Or is it? I’m not so sure.

Short version: Jian Ghomeshi is a wicked popular CBC host, and the CBC just fired him without disclosing why. He’s retaliating with a $50 million lawsuit (unheard of in non-litigious Canada) and a demand for reinstatement. On Sunday, he made a Facebook post which discloses that he’s kinky and about to be defamed by an unnamed ex-girlfriend and several other past dates she’s recruited, who will insist that his behaviour was non-consensual. A couple hours later, I heard about a semi-recent xoJane article by Carla Ciccone detailing some very creepy behaviour on the part of an unnamed “Canadian C-list celebrity” whom many speculate is Ghomeshi. This article has apparently earned her a serious thrashing by trolls. Later Sunday evening, the Toronto Star posted an article detailing their interviews with four women who are remaining anonymous (for now?), three of whom have accused Ghomeshi of non-consensual sexual violence on dates, and one of whom, a former CBC colleague, has accused him of sexual harassment in the workplace. Read the linked pieces to get the information I’m currently working from here.

Here’s where I’m coming from: I know who Ghomeshi is, but I’ve never seen or listened to his shows so I have zero opinion on him as a celebrity of any letter grade, or on his work, or on his personality. I know nothing about his sex life, his kinks, or his dating habits. As for me, I’m an unashamed, publicly out pervert and a staunch feminist. I’m also someone who keeps a close eye on how BDSM/leather/kink is discussed both within our many community fora and in the wider public. And thus far, I’m noticing a number of things that aren’t quite adding up in this whole story.

It says something about the success of the BDSM/kink/leather community’s public education work of the last decade-plus that Ghomeshi would take the gamble that the “it was consensual kink” argument would outweigh the “you’re a filthy pervert” reaction in the court of public opinion. In a sense, this is a major triumph for us pervs. But in the Canadian context specifically, this strategy is not as risky as it might seem. We pride ourselves as being an open-minded society. The year 2005 brought us both same-sex marriage and a Supreme Court ruling that legalized swinging. These days, we’re seeing broad public support for sex workers’ rights even from political centrists, despite how the Conservative government seems determined to make a mess of them with Bill C-36. Harper notwithstanding, Canada’s pretty hip when it comes to alternative sexuality, and a young, popular and very media-savvy broadcaster knows this.

A danger inherent in this kind of media-message success is that the “don’t hate me for being kinky” defence will be used by people who perpetrate non-consensual violence, and that we, as a community, will stand by uncritically – or worse, cry out in support – as victims of violence are once again silenced. I don’t wish to be complicit in someone’s misappropriation of BDSM terminology and codes as a shield for rape and assault. So when this defence comes up, my immediate reaction is to listen very carefully, read everything I can find on a given instance, and hold back on my knee-jerk inclination to side with the “persecuted pervert.” Persecuted perverts do exist, absolutely. But we don’t know, until we hear the full story, whether that’s what’s really going on – or if we’re being thrown under the bus by someone who’s no friend to sadomasochism.

In this case, Ghomeshi made a pre-emptive strike, setting the terms of the debate: don’t demonize me for being kinky, even if you don’t like my proclivities. But so far, this doesn’t seem to be a scandal about kink at all. From Ciccone to the anonymous accusers, the women who are (or seem to be) complaining about him aren’t complaining about his kinks or calling him out for being a disgusting pervert. They’re complaining about far more mundane and familiar things: the ex-co-worker is noting unwanted ass-groping in the workplace. Ciccone mentions creepy non-consensual touching at a concert date that wasn’t supposed to even be a date, followed by stalker-y behaviour. And the anonymous women who wanted to get involved with him at first aren’t complaining about how gross his supposed perversions are. They’re making allegations of regular old non-consensual violence. And part of the reason they are saying they won’t come forward in person is because they’re afraid their pre-date conversations about kink will be used as evidence that they consented to what he did. In other words, these women may have said “sure, some kink sounds like fun” and are concerned that their own stated interest will be held up as evidence of consent to violence. If I am reading this right, these women were either themselves interested in kink to some extent, or at least weren’t put off by Ghomeshi’s interest, since they each still went on a date with him. This is a very different story than “Ew gross he wanted to use handcuffs what a total sicko!”

Ghomeshi’s timing is everything: he’s of course very media-savvy, because he is media. So he’s well aware that if he creates a lens through which people should perceive things, that colours the conversation in his favour from go. (The “high-stakes” PR firm may be helping here, too.) As well, he has a massive platform and a large existing fan base who of course don’t want to hear that their darling might have done something wrong. All the odds are in his favour thus far.

Ghomeshi says he’s into a “mild version of Fifty Shades of Grey.” The anonymous accusers say he hit them with a closed fist and an open hand, beat them about the face and head, and choked them to the point of almost passing out, among other things. I’m gonna break out my Pervert Glasses to read what’s being said here about kink.

Face-punching and choking to the point of unconsciousness are absolutely some people’s kinks. But even among seasoned BDSM players, these acts are widely understood to be things you must do only with the most carefully negotiated consent, with a goodly amount of education and practice, and with the knowledge that they are highly risky. Beginner BDSM this is not. As a BDSM educator, I have been teaching how to do safe body punching for over a decade, and I don’t go near the face except symbolically (fake or very light impact for psychological effect). It’s just too easy to do major damage. I’m sure someone out there could teach you how to do it safely, but it won’t be me. As for choking, it’s a topic of massive debate among pervs, with some veteran kinksters even insisting that there is simply no safe way to do it and therefore shouldn’t be done at all. I’m not saying everyone agrees on the absolute-no approach. But I am saying that Ghomeshi’s argument that what he does is a “mild version of Fifty Shades of Grey” does not match up with his apparent practice of engaging in very high-risk activities with women he’s just beginning to date. If what they’re saying is true, that discrepancy alone is enough to make me highly suspicious of his “I’m a poor innocent kinkster” argument. A mild version of Fifty Shades would be some dirty talk (probably with poor grammar) and necktie bondage.

Another element of Ghomeshi’s pre-emptive strike that doesn’t add up is the reason he says he’s being fired. It doesn’t make sense that the CBC would fire Ghomeshi for being kinky. Remember the openly bisexual Sook-Yin Lee, who masturbated and had non-simulated sex on camera in the 2006 film Shortbus? She’s been working with the CBC for well over a decade, and while they initially considered letting her go when the controversial film was making headlines, support for her was so strong that they kept her on. Fast-forward eight years: the CBC knows that their audiences support even the very public sexual explorations of CBC stars. The CBC is of course also aware of Canada’s relatively permissive climate when it comes to sexual freedom. So why would the CBC not only fire the immensely popular Jian Ghomeshi for his supposedly mildly kinky “private sex life,” but to go so far as to bar him access to the building after doing so – and all of this already knowing he would sue? The CBC is not exactly in good shape right now. They don’t need another money drain and they certainly have no reason to do anything that would turn public opinion against them, while the Harper government quietly undermines their very existence.

Ghomeshi could be totally innocent. Four women could be making shit up, anonymously, because… well, I don’t know, but that itself might be an interesting question. For fun? What exactly would the motivation be for this supposed smear campaign, that four women would take part in it despite having evidence that when a previous woman made much milder accusations that don’t even explicitly name Ghomeshi, she was completely trashed on the Internet? Hmmm. This, too, doesn’t add up. Only the most hell-bent revenge-thirsty ex would take this on, knowing the likely consequences. Four women? Really?

Like I said… Ghomeshi could be totally innocent. I’m sure his many fans would like him to be. For now, I’m going to keep reading, with my critical thinking turned up high. I suggest we all do the same.

2013 in (book) review

January 22, 2014 - 2 Responses

Greetings in these snowy, bitter cold early days of 2014!

This is the time when everyone is publishing 2013 year-end reviews of all manner of things. I’m adding mine to the mix, but it’s a little different than most. Welcome to my 2013 review of books. I don’t often review books here, mostly because in the past couple of years I’ve had terribly little time and energy to read the ones that publishers have sent to me. But I sure did mean to! And as I’ve been trying hard to catch up on the many elements of everyday life that fell by the wayside during the last few years of a) grad school and b) serious chronic pain, I pledged to myself that I’d read through the stack and bloody get it done with.

I’m going in more or less chronological order from when I received them. Predictably, this makes for a long post, but handily it’s divided into sections by titles, and each one stands alone, so you can skip or peruse at your leisure. I cringe to admit that the first on the list (and a mighty fine one it is) has been sitting in my review queue for ummmm about four years now. Ahh, better late than never? Perhaps the next time I do this, it really will be a year in review and not, like, half a decade. Sigh.

The titles, in order of appearance:

  • Dear Raven and Joshua: Questions and Answers about Master/Slave Relationships by Raven Kaldera and Joshua Tenpenny
  • 7 Keys to Lifelong Sexual Vitality: The Hippocrates Institute Guide to Sex, Health and Happiness by Brian R. Clement, PhD, NMD, LN and Anna Marie Clement, PhD, NMD, LN
  • The Ultimate Guide to Prostate Pleasure by Charlie Glickman, PhD and Aislinn Emerizian
  • The Smart Girl’s Guide to the G-Spot by Violet Blue
  • The Little Book of Kink: Sexy Secrets for Over-the-Edge Pleasure by Jessica O’Reilly, PhD
  • The Adventurous Couple’s Guide to Sex Toys by Violet Blue
  • The S&M Feminist by Clarisse Thorn

Read on for your (annual?ish?) dose of book critique! I have endeavoured to make it both incisive and entertaining.

Oh, also, if you want me to review your thing, whatever that thing may be, first take a look at my review policy. If it suits your fancy, send me a note and I’ll get right back to you. And: don’t say I didn’t warn you.


Dear Raven and Joshua: Questions and Answers about Master/Slave Relationships by Raven Kaldera and Joshua Tenpenny

Full-time, ongoing M/s relationships—as opposed to playtime-only arrangements—are a rare and fascinating thing about which precious little has been written. That small pool of writing is pretentious at best and purely fantastical at worst. Kaldera and Tenpenny’s book bursts forth from the rest, a clear superior, a true fountain of valuable insights and knowledge born of many years’ experience.

I know, that all sounds vaguely ejaculatory, and possibly with reason. This book kinda gives me a braingasm, I’m not gonna lie. In the years since it was sent to me, not only have I read it twice, but I’ve lent it out at least half a dozen times, discussed it with my book club as one of our monthly selections, and recommended it both in person and on my D/s, M/s and protocol reading list here.

The thing about this pair of writers is, while they aren’t academics, they are intellectuals in the truest sense of the word. This is to say they lead a deeply examined life, filled with careful, considered choices which they can, and do, articulate in a gloriously down-to-earth and yet intensely rigorous fashion for the rest of us to ponder. Even if you’re an M/s practitioner, you don’t have to agree with all their decisions; that’s not the point. The questions they so ably raise, and the process by which they explain the answers at which they’ve arrived, are sufficient to inspire plenty of thought and discussion so that we can all come to our own conclusions about what we do and don’t want to get up to. We should all think about the ethics of our relationships so thoroughly. It is such a bloody relief that someone’s done so, such that we can follow suit in our own ways.

Kaldera and Tenpenny are a pair of queer polyamorous pervy trans men who are devout Pagans living with disability and living on a farm. They bring their keen minds and wealth of life experience on the fringe to bear on basic questions of how to do deep power-based relationships ethically, responsibly, with care and love and planning, and while still having fun along the way. This is a long book, and stuffed full of enough intensely thought-provoking concepts to keep your mind busy for weeks, to say nothing of the conversations it’ll inspire in your power pairings. It’s so yummy I hope they’ll write a volume 2.

As well, it pleases me to no end that Team Kaldera and Tenpenny have got this self-publishing thing down to a real art. I don’t love self-publishing in general, as it’s often a way for people who badly need, but don’t actually want, good editing to put their unvarnished oeuvres out into the world. But in the same way as you may occasionally find a pair of $500 mint-condition vintage Fluevogs for five bucks in the bargain bin at a Value Village, occasionally the self-publishing world surprises me with a minor masterpiece. This is one such book. Topic aside, it’s solidly written, clearly edited, free of poor punctuation and sloppy grammar, and beautifully well organized. Makes my little editor heart sing, it does. And this is one example of how self-publishing can allow voices that might otherwise be marginalized completely out of existence to truly shine. This tome will never be picked up by HarperCollins, y’know? But for the thinking power-exchange pervert, it is a Very Good Thing that we can get our hands on this material and feel a little less alone in the world. We suffer from such a crushing dearth of models – this book may save a life or two simply by existing.

Okay, sure, there’s some less than perfect stuff here. Like, umm, I don’t love the cover art? Yep. I mean it’s okay. Just not amazing.

So, uh, go buy this book. For real.


7 Keys to Lifelong Sexual Vitality: The Hippocrates Institute Guide to Sex, Health and Happiness by Brian R. Clement, PhD, NMD, LN and Anna Marie Clement, PhD, NMD, LN

With 7 Keys, the authors aim to give readers the keys to lifelong sexual pleasure and health. Unfortunately, the book kinda just reads like a 200-page ad for their health institute.

I will say that 7 Keys’ last chapter is pretty great. It’s about aging and sex, and is a solid treatise on reclaiming our right to enjoy sex well past the standard ideas of the “acceptable” age for it. Right on! Let’s fuck into our twilight years.

The rest of the book, though, is… sigh. For starters, gimmicky. It’s mostly compilations of anecdotes and magazine-style sidebars about this and that health study, but what are readers meant to do with it all? We don’t know. The whole thing reads like an extended and somewhat more subdued- and academic-sounding issue of your average women’s glossy, with some vaguely Buddhist/Tantric/yogic spirituality thrown in for flavour.

It’s also flat-out heterosexist and cissexist. Not a single mention of trans people of any sort; a token anecdote about a gay couple and one about a lesbian couple. With these “look how open-minded we are” exceptions, the language throughout the book is entirely premised on the assumption of heterosexuality, and for the most part, marriage as well. It’s also bizarrely moralistic – it purports to be sex-positive, but instead it encourages copious sex within a fairly rigid framework of what I’d call “soft monogamy,” meaning love and long-term commitment, with possible exceptions for swinging. (It also uses outdated terms like “frigid” to talk about women who don’t orgasm.) In the 7 Keys world, nobody’s single, unmarried, queer, trans, disabled or, gawd forbid, a sex worker. Hey, maybe it’ll speak to you if you’re a high-income married straight person who needs a kick in the (sexual) pants. Handy, that, considering those are the folks who can likely afford to be “guests” at their institute!

In Key Two, “Imagine Your Sexuality,” they spend a chunk of time on sex addiction, for which you can apparently qualify if you answer “yes” to questions such as “Though you may love your spouse and feel sexually compatible with this person, do you still masturbate regularly or seek sexual gratification outside your relationship?” Oy. Just… oy. Please go read some Marty Klein on why sex addiction is a useless diagnosis instead of this claptrap.

The authors’ nutrition advice, mostly in Key Five, “Nourish Your Sexuality,” is bizarre. I don’t pretend to be an expert, but having worked with half a dozen naturopaths and health consultants in my lifetime, I can tell you that there is simply no miracle diet or superfood that works for everyone. And barring physical trauma or certain specific hormonal or medical conditions, robust sexual function is basically an outcropping of overall good health – clear circulation, good energy levels and so forth – and happy relationships, which, mysteriously, are barely addressed in the book at all.

When it comes to nutrition, the best natural health practitioners will find out about your specific constitution, current challenges and health history and tailor something to you. Here, the authors flat-out push a vegan raw food diet – which, while charmingly New Agey and surely of great benefit to some, will wreak havoc on other people’s digestive systems. (For instance, I’ve personally never felt better since I started cooking as much of my food as possible on the advice of two separate natural healthcare providers, whaddaya know!) They also list dozens of studies about foods that purportedly stimulate the sex drive – with the number of hours prior to having sex that you should eat them. I challenge anyone (who can’t afford a private chef) to come up with a realistic program that actually incorporates all their suggestions and that still allows you to have a regular work day and anything remotely resembling spontaneity in your sex life. Also, never mind any consideration of food politics (say, preferring local and seasonal produce), lifestyle, budget and so forth. Gah. Skip this and instead, eat some dark leafy greens, go take a nice circulation-boosting walk to the bookstore, and buy yourself Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food. You can stop at the drugstore on the way home, because I’ll also suggest that you ignore the anti-condom advice they seem to give in their section on how “semen absorption is good for mental health,” which opens with the stunner “If you’ve overcome your resistance to contact with another person’s sexual fluids…” Um, WHAT.

What bugged me most about this book is that in Key Four, “Protect Your Sexuality,” there is… wait for it… zero discussion of sexual boundaries. Like, none. No mention of STIs, pregnancy, safer sex, preferred or disliked sexual acts, emotional boundaries, recovery from past trauma or abuse… nada. Nothing about consent, negotiation, any kind of sex-related communication. Instead it’s all bits and pieces about sexual dysfunction, “why orgasms are good for you” (uhh… really? We need convincing?), whether the G-spot exists (they seem to think maybe it does, but refuse to say so categorically), and whether or not it’s all right to sleep in a separate bed from your partner. In the Hippocrates world, these are the big problems. Wow. Must be nice there.

Seriously? Along with your Pollan, pick up Jaclyn Friedman’s What You Really Really Want: The Smart Girl’s Shame-Free Guide to Sex and Safety. Don’t even bother looking at this one unless it’s for the cute cover art concept—a photograph of pleasantly non-gendered hot peppers romantically entwined. It’s about the hottest thing about the book.


The Smart Girl’s Guide to the G-Spot by Violet Blue

This is a friendly, no-bullshit book. It’s clear, well-written, well-edited, thorough yet concise. Solid. Violet Blue gamely skewers all the stupid, shaming, inaccurate information about the G-spot and replaces it with sex-positive advice on how to find it, what to do with it and why that’s all perfectly okay. She insists that the G-spot does not need to be endowed with spiritual meaning in order to be enjoyable – a welcome point, given how alienating some of the “goddess-spot” stuff out there can be. (If that’s your thing, great! But it’s not for everyone.) She also makes it very clear that the G-spot is not, as she writes, “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma,” which kinda made me think “turducken!” (in that both it and the G-spot pseudo-mystery are unnecessary, weird and overhyped). This brief book also contains a handful of porn vignettes by Alison Tyler, who is reliably top-notch in the erotica department. Bonus!

Violet Blue’s sexual politics are such that you don’t need to worry about the heterosexism here. Also she’s plenty kink-friendly, and there’s nary a mention of assumed monogamy to be seen. But there’s no mention of trans folks and how they might relate to their comparable anatomy. She includes a sidebar on “the male G-spot,” i.e. the prostate, which is handy. But no note of alternate terminology that trans women might use to discuss the analogous part of their anatomy, or how to stimulate it on a trans gal, whether or not she’s had genital surgery; and no notes about trans men, their possible preferred terms for the G-spot, and whether or not this part of their bodies might change with testosterone, for instance. This isn’t so much a comment on this particular book as much as it’s a comment on sex how-to manuals in general. It is high time that we started seeing trans people’s bodies and realities included in them as a matter of course, rather than having to extrapolate or be content with a “YMMV” note.

I’d like to have seen a few more details included that seemed odd in their absence. For instance, in the piece about creative solutions for the wet spots resulting from ejaculation, she doesn’t mention either the sheets designed specially for this purpose (soft rubber sandwiched between layers of silk and velvet) or the super-budget solutions of disposable puppy chucks (cheap!) or the laundry-saving single towel laid over a garbage bag. And in the anal play section, she doesn’t note that because of the thin wall separating the rectum from the vagina, if you take the right angle, anal penetration can stimulate the G-spot itself, just through the added layer of a second wall of tissue, rather than simply being a pleasant side dish. But these are small things – for a short text, the book covers a lot of ground with confidence, competence and clarity.

Unfortunately, the one exception to Blue’s otherwise super-clear writing is at precisely the wrong spot (ha!).

It starts out well. On page 4, she says that “About one to two inches inside and on the front (belly button side) of your vaginal canal is the route through which urine leaves your body – your urethra.” She explains that it’s surrounded by glandular tissue that swells during arousal, can respond very well to stimulation, and can result in ejaculation. So far so good. On page 7, she notes, “To get an idea where to find the spot, go to the toilet, pee, and see where it comes from. Ding! There’s the map to your buried treasure; this is the urethral opening, the outside indicator of your G-spot’s underground hideout.” Yep. Still with her. The diagram on page 19 shows the outside view of a vulva, complete with urethral opening, sorta around halfway between the clit and the vaginal opening. We’re still on track. Blue also does a great job of explaining what the G-spot feels like to the touch and where it’s located inside.

Thus far, we get that the urethra is a tube, through which your pee comes out, that runs between your belly and your vagina; it’s surrounded with glandular tissue called the urethral sponge (think of a garden hose wrapped in a thick blanket); that tissue swells with liquid when you’re turned on. The front end of that tube is the urethral opening. The tube itself is best accessed by inserting something in the vagina and angling upward toward the belly, so you’re stroking its spongy underside through the vaginal wall.

But on page 27-28, in the section entitled “What the G-Spot Looks Like,” things get all confusing. She suggests that people take a hand mirror and look to see visual proof that your G-spot exists. Which is a great idea in general, but when you’re trying to see something that’s 1-2 inches inside your vaginal canal and on the front wall of your body, that’s kinda… not possible. At least without using a periscope. A hand mirror simply won’t suffice. Instead, she proceeds to instruct folks to look for the urethral opening, which, according to what she wrote earlier, is actually the outside indicator of the G-spot – not the G-spot itself. Absolutely valid, and worth knowing about for its own (related) erotic potential, but confusing given the section subtitle.

She then mentions an “acorn shape,” but it isn’t described in detail or shown in either of the diagrams – on the drawing that shows the urethral opening, there is simply a little slit, no acorn to be seen. Having never taken the time to visually explore a urethral opening up close, and not currently having the flexibility to do so on myself, mirror or no mirror, I recruited a kind volunteer who gamely let me go acorn-hunting. Thanks to my lovely helper and some bright light, I can now confirm that the tissue surrounding the urethral opening does vaguely, kinda maybe, look like a little upside-down acorn seen from the side, if you squint at it. Two small ridges of tissue mirror the shape of the labia, meaning they meet above the urethral opening in an upside-down V. A third ridge of tissue lies horizontally beneath the urethral opening, and it’s a bit puffier than the side ridges, and could perhaps look a bit like an upside-down acorn cap. Maybe. A stretched-out, skinny one, if you’re pulling the skin up so you’re able to see the opening. And otherwise, probably mostly hard to see because labia and such.

At the conclusion of the section (why here, instead of upon first mention of this acorn?), she writes, “When unaroused, your G-spot area is going to look somewhat like an acorn with tiny folds of flesh around it – and you may even be able to see a little opening. Yay! That’s it!” But, well, that’s not it. That’s your urethral opening. As stated earlier, the outside indicator. Not the G-spot proper. Unless maybe you’re trying to include that external indicator in the broader system, which is totally valid, but in that case the project in question needs to be clearly explained.

All in all, these few pages add up to being remarkably confusing, which is a real shame considering the smart, no-nonsense quality of the rest. I suspect this may be an editing issue – some of it reads as though it were written in a different order and then shuffled, and it’s possible that misleading section subtitles were added rather than written that way originally. It’s just a real shame nobody caught the mess-up upon re-read. (Third edition, Cleis?…)

Some of this difficulty could also have been resolved with better close-up diagrams. But honestly, this is (another) general complaint about… well, pretty much all sex-related how-to books that have been published this century. WHERE ARE THE DIAGRAMS. Just where are they. I simply do not understand the concept of producing sex manuals that are all text. This book contains two illustrations; they’re both tiny, like half a page or less, and the perspective is removed, as if you were standing a foot or two away from the goods. I am all the more disappointed to see yet another insufficiently illustrated book come out on this specific topic, considering that the number-one complaint about the G-spot is that people can’t find it.

One last note applies not just to The Smart Girl’s Guide but to pretty much all the G-spot material out there. I’m always surprised when books on this topic don’t explain how recognizing a G-spot orgasm may require that you redefine the word “orgasm.” This book, better than most, explains that it’s a qualitatively different experience, but it still feels like not quite enough. A G-spot come feels very different from a clitoral one, not just more intense, squirty or repeatable. If you’re used to understanding “orgasm” as being the particular set of direct nerve-stimulation-based sensations that result from rubbing your clit, which then pull the body’s muscles along for the whole great shuddering ride, then a G-spot orgasm might register as a big exciting “something” – but not an “orgasm.” It takes a redefinition of the term to properly experience this other thing as also an orgasm – it simply doesn’t (always or necessarily) behave the same way. It’s more muscular, and it can be more breath-based, or at least, can be achieved via breath and muscle contractions in a way that will (likely) never bring you to a clitoral orgasm. Some people experience them as all of a piece, but I have met many people who have G-spot orgasms without understanding them as such, so this bit needs to be hammered out some.

All in all, The Smart Girl’s Guide to the G-Spot is a solid effort, but lacking in a few predictable areas. I want to see someone – possibly Violet Blue herself! – take this topic to the next level.


The Ultimate Guide to Prostate Pleasure by Charlie Glickman, PhD, and Aislinn Emirzian

Glickman and Emirzian have produced a very thorough, accessible and sex-positive manual on prostate play. It covers the basics, such as anatomy and hygiene and the eternal how-to-find-it question, capably and simple language. For serious bonus points, it also devotes an entire chapter to the question of masculinity – entitled “Real Men Don’t” – to help men get comfortable with including their prostate, and by necessity their ass, within their understanding of what it means to enjoy sexual pleasure as a man.

This is a thoroughly queer-positive book, with illustrations that include guy-guy couples as well as a section about strap-on play intended for guy-girl couples (meaning, guy-girl is not the assumed default). It’s kink-positive too, and the strap-on section acknowledges that a girl penetrating a guy can be about dominance but doesn’t have to be – thank goodness, because the automatic association of penetration with dominance makes me wanna retch. They also include a full two pages on trans women’s experiences of similar play, with notes about how hormones and differing emotional associations with this body part may affect a trans woman’s experience. Of course I’d have loved to see this section be a whole chapter, but it’s pretty great that it’s there, and the authors’ language use in it is super-respectful.

The book features an intriguing section in which the authors compare the P-spot (prostate) with the G-spot, as the tissues are considered homologous; and they explore how nerve networks function in the deep internal sub-structures of our genitals. It’s really interesting material, and again, I’d have loved a whole chapter on it. That said, I wish there was a way to get away from the gendered language that often comes up in this sort of discussion. For instance, while I’m not a super-big fan of having a part of my sexual anatomy named after a dude, even with the best of activist intentions (read Violet Blue’s G-spot book for that intriguing story), I really don’t love the idea of naming it the “female prostate” either. I mean, really, must we? Can’t we come up with something that doesn’t take the assigned-male body for its reference point, and that’s not binary-gendered? We managed to come up with “internal condom” instead of “female condom,” for instance, so surely this isn’t a Herculean task? Sigh.

I appreciate the gentle, encouraging tone the authors take when explaining how to relax the sphincters for penetration – “One sex educator we know compared this to learning to do a split in gymnastics: you wouldn’t expect to do it all in one day. Rather, you’d practice regularly and each time you’d be able to go a little lower to the ground. It’s the same with penetration.” They take a similarly kind approach to explaining how to find the prostate and what it might, or might not, feel like when you do, taking care to debunk the whole “magic button” idea. And they also discuss how you may need to rewire your interpretation of certain sensations in order to interpret them as pleasurable – “think of it as like acquiring a taste for liquor or for a new kind of food.” As well, kudos for the solid sections on fisting and perineum massage. Really, they cover it all.

Their description of the way a prostate will feel to fingers, and the structures that surround it, are great. I only wish – here we go again! – that the diagrams included in the book substantiated the eloquent descriptions. The authors go into great detail about the “bulb of the penis,” which you can probably imagine as being a bit like the bulb of a tulip, but the few and small illustrations don’t show this bulb, never mind showing what inner bits it’s made up of – we are left to guess. Same with the prostate itself. The pictures show a far-away map of where it’s located, and further pictures show techniques for playing with it (fingers moving in different directions against a disembodied blob of a prostate), but none show what this “plum buried in sand” might look like up close, nestled among all its neighbouring bits of flesh. Later, they describe how the corpora cavernosa (part of the tissue forming the penis) splits into a Y behind the perineum – but again, no visuals to help us understand where this happens or what it looks like internally. For readers with a visual mind, and even those of us who could just use a multi-dimensional explanation, these feel like major missing pieces.

Overall, I’m very impressed with this book. I look forward to seeing more work from Glickman and Emirzian – we could use more sex manuals written with this much care, detail and political thoughtfulness.


The Little Book of Kink: Sexy Secrets for Thrilling Over-the-Edge Pleasure by Jessica O’Reilly, PhD

If you’re straight, curious about BDSM, and enjoy looking at glossy, airbrushed soft-porn photos of almost-exclusively-white, slim, able-bodied and heavily made-up/waxed/plucked/styled straight folks, this is the book for you!


Okay, I’ll give you the good news first. The Little Book of Kink contains good basic safety advice and a solid myth-busting section about BDSM. I definitely appreciate that O’Reilly took the time to note, for instance, that being penetrated does not make you submissive and kink doesn’t come from being abused as a kid. I was also pleased to see that, in the suggested scenarios, she makes an effort to include a fairly balanced array of power pairings – some female-dominant, some male-dominant, no particular emphasis on either one. Yay feminism! As well, though it reads like an afterthought, I appreciate the good intentions behind the note acknowledging that the book is intended for “opposite-sex” couples, but that the wider kinky community “is composed of a diverse range of folks with a wide range of experiences related to gender, sexual orientation, and relationship arrangements.”

That said, I think the following quote sums up most of the book pretty well: “Remember that there is no right or wrong way to be kinky. Whether you’re turned on by spiked high heels and leather whips or dog collars and ball-gags, you’re perfectly normal – and perfectly kinky.” In other words, there are millions of ways to be kinky, but we’ll lay out the most product-oriented, easy-consumption kinds and let you choose from within them so you can feel super kinky but still be totally normal. TOTALLY normal. So don’t be worried or anything.

Mostly, this book gives straight couples ideas for how to “kink up” your basic sexual intercourse. This isn’t a book about getting an endorphin high from a good flogging or thoughtfully exploring power dynamics. At best it’s about fresh foreplay techniques and soft-core role-play. The bulk of the book is made up of lushly photographed suggested scenarios. To be fair, it’s not necessarily a bad idea to assemble a book of semi-scripted sex scenes to try out – for some folks, that might be just what they need to get their imaginations flowing. But to me, this reads like a parade of tired old “spice up your sex life” ideas à la Cosmo. And the suggested dialogue… oh dear. I just… no.

Call me biased (and queer), but I can’t help but think that an excessive focus on trying out exciting props and new positions is an indication of some sort of crushing underlying boredom. Don’t get me wrong – toys can be fun, and I’m all for sexual acrobatics if that’s your thing. I just find that when the “spice up your sex life” discussion centres on ways to add variety to three basic sex acts – penis-in-vagina, penis-in-mouth, and cunt-in-mouth – it points up a kind of flatness within the acts themselves. Like a cookbook called 101 Pasta Recipes. It’s still just all boiled durum semolina flour, y’know? And maybe it’s because I just read Margot Weiss’s Techniques of Pleasure, a scholarly critique focusing mostly on the heavily capitalist/commercial character of the San Francisco pansexual BDSM scene, but I couldn’t help but note how readers of The Little Book are supposed to find the idea of an array of new toys and props to be just sooo exciting. Oh my goodness cock rings! Oh my goodness blindfolds! Meh. There’s very little in here about the substance of SM and a whole lot about the externals of it.

O’Reilly notes that she’s learned about BDSM by talking to experts and visiting the occasional dungeon party. At least we know that she herself doesn’t purport to be such an expert, so good on her for honesty. Unfortunately, it shows. Maybe for this book’s intended audience that’s no big deal? But I couldn’t help but cringe repeatedly as I read through some of the sections. She mentions single-tail whips, for instance, without noting that they’re seen as a seriously specialized implement even among experienced perverts, mostly because if you don’t learn how to use one properly you can slice off your own ear in fairly short order, not to mention other people’s bits. And her BDSM checklist includes caning (generally understood as relatively advanced high-pain play) but omits floggers, which are kinda hard to do any serious damage with.

The book’s missteps along these lines vary from the hilarious to the seriously endangering. So, for instance, I laughed out loud when I read “The Saucy Snake.” It’s essentially a side-by-side rear-entry sex position, with an added twist: “Grip your teeth into her wound-up hair and give it a little tug. If she cries out, remind her that you are in charge: ‘You know you like it. Now behave, please.’” Points for domly politeness, but really, if the dude has a mouthful of ponytail, wouldn’t this little dialogue just make him gag on the hair if he hadn’t already? Or at least sound like he’s talking with his mouth full? “You gnow you lie id. Gnow behay pleesh.”

In “Life of the Party,” O’Reilly suggests using a remote-control vibrator at a friendly dinner party. I’m not a big vibrator girl myself, but I did just read Violet Blue’s sex toy guide (review below!), which states in no uncertain terms that remote-control vibes need to be kept for loud venues such as dance clubs, because they simply make too much noise to stay discreet. This, of course, might be less of an issue if you have really open-minded friends, but The Little Book seems designed for the average suburban couple, not the sorts of people who have half a dozen pervs over for a buzzy kind of dinner most weekends. So, not exactly dangerous, but if you’re part of the target audience here, quite likely pretty embarrassing.

Then we get to “All Tied Up,” in which the gentleman is made to kneel and have his hands bound behind his back. Ensues genital stimulation. So far so good. But then, “When you are both ready for more, walk away and demand that he chase you.” Um – chase you? Like, with his hands tied behind his back? “You can increase the kink factor and degree of challenge by binding his upper arms.” Such a delightful idea! You’d better be quite sure that your house has no slippy area rugs or kiddie toys lying around, mind you, because you are now engaging in what’s classically understood as high stupidity by the average bondage aficionado. (Helpful hint: if your bottom couldn’t catch themselves in the occasion of a fall, and you’re not right there to do it for them, don’t destabilize them. Just don’t. That kind of bruising isn’t the fun kind.)

O’Reilly’s penchant for neck-breaking (and occasionally penis-breaking) risk is also apparent with “The Submissive Slide,” where the gentleman holds a back arch over the end of the bed and supports his body weight on the top of his head (at least he is allowed the use of his arms for this one, poor guy) and the “Bend Me Over,” where the lady gets her turn at cervical spine damage (and possibly shoulder-wrenching) when she straddles him backward on the couch as he fucks and spanks her simultaneously, while holding her upper body in the air by the wrists. (I thought that last part was a nasty arrest technique. Or maybe something out of Ann Rice’s infamous anatomy-defying Beauty series.) At least here O’Reilly suggests that pillows be laid on the floor in case he loses his grip and she pitches face-first onto the carpet. How thoughtful!

Here’s an idea. Use this book for a party game. Try racing to see who can find the best bits of standard weird magazine-style advice (gems include “surprise your lover by rubbing [sandpaper] into the crook of his elbow” and “paper clips … can come in handy for scratching, poking, clamping and pricking”). Bonus points if you’re the first to find the sly Fifty Shades reference (“the apex of her thighs”). Or you could play bingo with the cheesy porn-star faces in the photos (lip-biting! finger-biting! oh, the sauciness!). Beyond that? Give this one a pass.


The Adventurous Couple’s Guide to Sex Toys by Violet Blue

Okay, I’ll admit that I kinda ho-hummed my way through the first few chapters of this little guide. It starts out reeeeally basic. Nicely done, mind you, in that if you’ve never heard of a sex toy before, it’ll take your hand and gently guide you through the process of understanding the dizzying array of stuff out there, acquiring the ones that you might enjoy, and playing with them safely. The advice is all solid, and it covers all the bases.

But then I got to four of the later chapters and all of a sudden I perked up considerably. Violet Blue gives one of the most interesting tours of unusual gear that I’ve ever read.

Chapter 6 is about teledildonics – high-tech sex toys and software allowing people to screw in cyberspace. It’s absolutely not my thing, but it makes for excellent reading. As well, she gives great tips on how to set up a sexy webcam show, what with all the lighting and angles and such. Useful!

Chapter 7 is all about sex machines. She gives a fantastic rundown of the many styles and options available, their pitfalls and selling points, and sex machine culture more generally. Again, not my thing, but a great window into a whole area of the sex toy industry with which I’m not super familiar. I totally want someone to make a documentary film based on this chapter! I feel like I saw one at some point, but I don’t recall it being as thorough as this.

Chapter 8 covers exotic sex toys, opening with the sentence, “If you’re the kind of person who thinks that life’s pleasures should be a decadent indulgence to be truly appreciated, you’re not alone.” Apparently I’m a sex toy snob, because while I’m really not the sort to accumulate dozens of cheap jelly toys, reading this section made me absolutely lust after several of the luxury models out there. How have I lived this long without a custom-carved rose quartz dildo in a locking gilded silver cage appropriate for bedside table display?! Sigh.

Chapter 9 deals with sex furniture, from the simple to the fantabulous. Blue gives a delightful tour of the possibilities. Man, human beings are so creative. I totally want to get the Tally Ho contraption for my pony play friends. (See what I mean? Such boggling variety!)

With all this in mind, I’m surprised that she didn’t include a chapter on sex dolls – speaking of documentaries, I saw The Mechanical Bride last year and found it utterly awesome, and these must surely count as sex toys. Seems like an odd omission for a book that’s otherwise so unafraid of the eclectic.

The Guide has a couple of down sides. For starters, it lacks both an introduction and a conclusion – a very strange editorial choice. In this missing introduction, Blue could have noted that who this guide is intended for. Blue’s language isn’t hugely gendered most of the time, so she’s implicitly leaving a lot of room for folks to pair up in whatever way they want, but it doesn’t say much about same-sex couples even when that might have been useful, so it left me feeling like the intended audience was straight. And the missing conclusion could have avoided the book ending on the odd note that it does – the last two sentences, about safer sex, read “If you choose to go at it uncovered, here’s what you’re at risk for. Make an informed decision!” This is followed by a weirdly-structured table-form list of STI risks that, to be honest, is pretty confusing, and it certainly makes for a strange way to end a book.

Like Blue’s other book reviewed here, the Guide to Sex Toys makes no mention of trans people. Well, that’s not true – she does mention the existence of trans men once, kinda randomly, in the strap-on section. But that’s many pages after she first notes that dildos can be used for “mock blow jobs,” a wording choice which doesn’t leave much room for a trans man’s relationship to getting his (silicone) dick sucked to be a real one. I’m not sure what to make of this absence, but it’s definitely unfortunate.

I’m surprised to note that Blue also gets a little confusing when she deals with BDSM. For instance, her basic advice for people wanting to learn bondage is to look online for a complete list of knots. A puzzling directive, considering the resource she suggests isn’t kink-specific, and beginners don’t really need to know more than one basic knot to do decent beginner-level bondage (advice that bondage expert Midori makes very clear in all her rope classes) – but they sure might need to know a few things about safe places on the body to tie, circulation, nerve damage risk and so forth. I’d suggest instead Midori’s classic The Seductive Art of Japanese Bondage, or one of the Two Knotty Boys’ nicely photographed basic guides. Blue also gives contradictory advice about clamps – first suggesting that they be left on no longer than five minutes, then later switching that to 15 to 20 with no explanation. She also notes that “wooden, plastic, and specialty metal clothespins fall into the ‘mean’ category” – but in my experience a standard wooden clothespin is widely understood as a pretty entry-level pervertible, and not an especially scary one. Now, most of what she says about kink is spot-on – but these odd little glitches really stood out to me.

One thing I definitely appreciate about this guide is that despite being essentially a tour of commercial sex products, it doesn’t reek of consumerism. I didn’t sense a strong push to spend spend spend, or the message that sex is only fun if you dress it up with as much gear as possible, or even that gear is a necessary part of sex. It reads more like she’s got a genuine fascination with the wide world of what’s available out there, and the human creativity behind it all. And Blue does a great job balancing the reality that some folks just don’t have a lot of money to spend on toys with her overarching message that sex toys should be of high quality so they don’t endanger their users. So while she trashes cheap Doc Johnson toys for their poor quality and chemical off-gasing, for instance, she does so while also providing advice on how to use them in the safest possible manner if you choose to do go there for budget reasons.

All in all, if you want an entertaining and informative tour of today’s sex toy world, this book is a solid pick.


The S&M Feminist by Clarisse Thorn

This is a quirky book. It’s mostly charming, sometimes infuriating, often thought-provoking, and overall well worth a read.

The charming stuff: The book is a collection of Clarisse Thorn’s best blog posts, written, from what I gather, in her mid- to late twenties as she emerged into her identity as a BDSM practitioner and sex-positive activist. As such, much of it is to varying degrees coltish and earnest, imbued with that sense of excitement and discovery that happens when you’re figuring out some big thoughts and identity pieces. Clarisse is a submissive/masochist-leaning switch with strong feminist leanings, a keenly curious mind, and a commitment to social justice and self-reflection. Kudos to her for taking her online work and publishing it in book form. It’s a young voice and frankly, we need more of those, especially the ones wrestling with big questions about sexual politics.

Every once in a while the youth element made my not-so-inner jaded scholar laugh out loud in delight – for instance, when she discusses how historically people who aren’t strictly gay or lesbian have been excluded from gay and lesbian communities: “I understand that there are historical reasons that kind of thing happened, and analyzing the phenomenon would take up a whole post. I’m pretty sure books have been written about it.” Yes… yes. Books indeed have! It’s actually kinda neat to read work from a self-identified feminist who appears to have only minimal exposure to any kind of feminist theory or formal feminist organizing. What Clarisse lacks in reference points she makes up for a kind of genuine political conviction that’s refreshingly free of dogma, bitterness, intellectual pretentiousness and more-radical-than-thou attitude. Clarisse is too curious about the world to waste her time trying to be cool and ironic. It’s wonderful.

She’s a lucid writer, too; the structure of each piece is solid and logical. A few gems also stand out for evocative language use, often the ones more focused on personal narrative. She’s got an image-rich piece about her experience of breaking up with two lovers in San Francisco, for instance, and a heartbreaking one about how her mother’s experience of rape has affected her own sexuality and political identity as a feminist.

I found myself wanting to see the book split into two. One book would be a young perv’s thinky memoir, with a great deal more narrative structure and detail so I could follow the threads of her various love affairs and experiences of sexual awakening. The other would be a collection of her theory pieces, arranged in some sort of progressive order building from elementary to more complex; she could write an introduction to chart the progress of her thinking rather than having prefaces to each individual essay. In both cases I think she could expand and deepen her writing. I can see the interest in mixing the two approaches together, but I was drawn in enough that I wanted more from each, and the book is already over 300 pages long. This wanting-more was especially true for me when it came to pieces like her triptych about her experience doing HIV mitigation work in Africa. It’s super interesting stuff, but I wanted to hear waaaay more about her understanding of anti-racism and international work, how her experience overseas informed her subsequent activist work in North America, and so forth. As it is, the pieces feel a bit plunked in alongside all the rest; the triptych itself makes intriguing connections to her other work, but her essays not directly about Africa don’t seem to reflect her experience there much.

The infuriating stuff: The S&M Feminist is self-published, and it needs an edit. From a copy editing perspective, on some pages the gratuitous misuse (and overuse!) of italics and bold type is enough to cause sharp pains to the eye. And the number of sentences starting with or including “there is” or “there are” made me want to cry a little bit. She could also stand to tone down the self-promotion a touch – it’s not overwhelming but it does detract from the quality of the work itself, which doesn’t need the self-sell in order to be worth reading. More importantly, from a substantive perspective, even without the split I might have liked, the book could stand to be shortened by a quarter and re-ordered somewhat. Some of the pieces are a questionable fit with the book topic overall, such as a piece about veganism (complete with recipes!) that, while interesting, makes only tenuous links to BDSM politics. Other pieces, while absolutely on-topic, are structured in a way that makes them stand out from the rest of the book, such as her excellent interview with long-time BDSM and HIV activist Richard Berkowitz. It’s fantastic, and made me want to run out and see the film that inspired it, but it’s the only interview in the book and so it’s an awkward inclusion.

In short, I’d have liked her to make the pieces flow a bit more seamlessly, instead of putting together a straight-up collection of blog posts in what seems like more or less their original form. She could then have incorporated new thoughts or amendments inspired by the online comments on some of her pieces, as well – as it stands she often refers to the existence of such comments, but readers are simply left with the option of going to read the online post if they want to know more about the discussion.

The thought-provoking stuff: Clarisse is at her best when she’s asking big questions without quite knowing the answers. Her musings on masculinity within feminist sexual politics open up some great lines of inquiry. Her exploration of pick-up artist culture, in the same vein, takes an unusual angle on the topic, attempting to discern the elements of PUA theory that might have redeeming features while still condemning the misogyny inherent in the approach as a whole. (She has a whole book on that topic too, which I may review in a future post.) She discusses some thorny questions about BDSM that I don’t see talked about much – some detailed thoughts about aftercare, the nature of sexual chemistry, “clean” versus “dirty” pain, the complications of distinguishing BDSM from abuse, and a number of other topics on which she provides a fresh, unique take. The S&M Feminist, for all its flaws, would make a great book for a discussion group because of all the rich territory it covers and the genuine curiosity Clarisse brings to her many subjects.

if trans women aren’t welcome, neither am I

September 20, 2013 - 64 Responses

The question of whether or not to include trans women in women’s sexuality-based events is old and tiresome, but it still comes up with some regularity. I recently responded to a discussion on this topic and I realized that it might be useful to post my thoughts here, as I don’t know that I’ve ever done so in full.

I see a few main underlying assumptions come up in these discussions, and I’d like to counter them. Some of these arguments are stated outright, while others seem implicit in the language people tend to use. Most counter-arguments I’ve seen focus on the stated arguments, but I’d like to incorporate the underlying ones too, which makes the discussion a bit broader.

Comments are welcome, as always. That said, I realize that comments on posts like this often veer into the territory of flame-war pretty quickly. As a result I’m going to keep a tight rein on the comments here, and I may shut down comments fairly early in the game if only because so much of what might come up has already been said and I don’t think it’s worth rehashing lots of it here. This post is a position statement, not an invitation to a grand debate.


Assumption 1. There exists such thing as a “safe space.”

I feel strongly that the idea of safe space is a really dangerous one, no matter who’s claiming it for what space. It seems like there’s an underlying assumption in some comments that safe space does indeed exist or that it’s something worth striving for. For me, as soon as the concept comes up, whether this precise term is used or it just seems to be implied, I immediately become super uncomfortable and feel very concerned about how people will behave in whatever space is being discussed. I’ve seen this idea used as a battering ram, essentially, in way too many contexts, usually as a way to police behaviour in a mean-spirited manner or to exclude people or create an “in-crowd” of people who “get it.” Doesn’t really matter whether it’s an activist space, a party, a conference, whatever. Almost universally, it’s about people buying into a fantasy of safety that simply does not match reality—and making a lot of people quite unsafe by using policing-style behaviour.

In reality, you are only “safe” from things that might make you uncomfortable or triggered if you stay at home where you have absolute control over everything that happens (and even then, not always). Each person’s idea of “safe” is different, and therefore a group space cannot possibly be “safe.” “Safe” isn’t real, and as such I believe it’s not worth investing energy in. It’s much better, in my opinion, to create spaces where there are a few clear rules for acceptable behaviour (which does *not* depend on identity or status of any kind, gender or otherwise), a stated expectation of kindness and goodwill, and one or several people who are in charge of smoothing things out if they go wrong.

Assumption 2. We all have the right to expect to be comfortable in sexual space.

Speaking as someone who’s spent well over a decade attending group sexual events large and small in dozens of cities all over the world, I can say that no matter what the gender rules are for a given space, it is best for me to go into them not expecting to feel comfortable, *ever*. I’ve felt horribly uncomfortable at “women-only” events, and super comfortable in totally gender-mixed spaces. And vice versa too. The factors in that comfort level include people’s attitudes in general, the vibe and layout of the space, the level of alcohol consumption, temperature, the level of privacy, the loudness or nature/content of a scene or sex happening nearby, the organizers’ style, whether or not there’s pressure to play or fuck, the music, how high or stoned people are, what kind of porn is screening, the racial or age or body size or gender mix of the crowd, the presence or absence of one or two specific people… all of these things come into play in terms of my own comfort level, and they are not things I can know or expect going in.

I think we need to stop expecting sexual spaces to be comfortable in the first place, and understand that a thing that makes one of us feel right at home might make someone else feel sick to their stomach. (An intense blood play scene in the middle of the room… the presence of lots of butches… the opportunity to get high… Can you guess which one of those make me feel comfortable and which I find hard to handle? There is at least one of each. Do you think I would accurately guess your response to the same criteria?)

Most crucially, we need to remember that the exclusion of trans women is not the primary standard of comfort for everyone, or even for most people, or even for most cisgender dykes. When we expect a given space to make us feel comfortable in the first place, and then we reduce this question of comfort to a question of whether or not trans women are there, we are functioning from a very skewed picture of what actually makes a space comfortable for anyone outside our own selves, and making a lot of really unfounded assumptions about what works for everyone else around us too.

Assumption 3. One person having a trigger is a legitimate reason to exclude someone else from an event.

Here’s a list of some of the triggers and squicks I’ve encountered among the people I’ve met in the last few years as a travelling sex educator and event organizer: seeing someone taking off their belt; being touched on the belly; seeing porn; hearing the terms “fat,” “ugly,” and “stupid”; seeing blood; hearing a deep voice; seeing a masculine-presenting person fucking a feminine-presenting person doggy-style; seeing testicles (though a penis would be fine); military uniforms; finding out someone is bisexual or not a “gold-star” lesbian or gay man; watching age play or being in the presence of “littles”…  I could go on. The thing about a trigger is that it’s deeply personal, by its very nature. Sometimes it’s about past trauma, sometimes not. I know that for me, if I saw someone do a food play scene, I’d have to either leave the room or vomit, and I couldn’t tell you why—that’s just how it is.

Regardless of what it is, it’s super important that we take responsibility for managing our own triggers and squicks rather than expecting spaces to be set up to accommodate us, and all the more so when our trigger is about someone else’s looks, presence or behaviour. Outside basic rules of good behaviour, or specific event attendance rules for specific purposes—for instance, this event is only for people in full-time M/s relationships, or this is an event where everyone is expected to dress head-to-toe in red—it’s really not fair to ask others to curtail their behaviour or hide pieces of themselves in order to be welcome. I would never think of asking someone not to do food play in front of me. My squick, my responsibility to manage.

Assumption 4. Trans women have penises, and I will see those penises if they’re at a sex party.

***Added 2013/09/23: I want to preface this bit by stating in no uncertain terms that the configuration of a person’s genitals is none of my/your/anyone’s business unless you are about to engage in some kind of sexual touching that would require that knowledge. It’s also not a legitimate factor in whether or not someone should be considered to “really be” the gender they say they are. The World Professional Association for Transgender Health takes a strong stand against requiring any kind of surgical modification for someone to “qualify” as their stated gender, and everyone from governments to party organizers should take a cue from them. As well, I want to make it clear that many (most?) trans women don’t refer to their pre- or non-op genitals as “penises.” Some say clit, some say girl-dick, some say strapless – there’s a long list. Women’s individual choices about what they call their bits take precedence over any externally imposed words. Mostly, though, as with the question of what someone’s genitals look like, what they’re called is also none of anyone’s business unless you’re getting sexual together. The following paragraphs cover some basic information about genitals that you can find in a range of trans-101 resources, as well as in the zine I link to in point 9. I’m putting it here purely to counter the misinformation that this particular assumption is based on – not to imply that it’s anyone’s actual business to know what’s going on with any individual trans women’s genitals. ***

I think that a lot of people who are triggered by the idea of penises are *very* unlikely to be upset by most of what they’d see at an event that includes trans women. For starters, a lot of trans women get bottom surgery—I’d say at least three-quarters of the ones I’ve met in dyke contexts, though that’s anecdotal of course. It is much more common for trans women to opt for, and prioritize, bottom surgery than for trans men to do so (which is surely at least in good part due to cost, but also due to expected results).

The women who don’t have bottom surgery yet, but who are planning to, rarely want to show off or use their genitals in public space the way some cisgender men might. For them, the whole point of surgery is that they don’t want to have a penis at all, let alone wave it around in public, even less so among people who may be uncomfortable with that.

Among the trans gals who haven’t had bottom surgery and don’t plan to, the vast majority don’t have genitals that look like what most people would understand or immediately recognize as being a penis—the use of hormones makes the genitals much smaller and softer, and it’s usually not easy to get an erection or ejaculate. If you’re basing your idea of trans women as “chicks with dicks” you may have been watching too much shemale porn—and understand, please, that even in that kind of porn the trans women in question often have to use Viagra to get it up at all, and still often can’t come or ejaculate, and are in many cases keeping their penises for the moment only because porn is a way to earn enough money for bottom surgery. So it’s a bad place to judge from, even though it’s the easiest and quickest place to go if you want to see images of trans women’s non-surgically-altered bits.

Last but not least, there is the rare trans woman who has a dick and who understands it as such and is both capable of and interested in using it in typically “male” ways. All I have to say about that is that if I had one—a dick, that is—so would I! I think a lot of women feel the same if the popularity of strap-ons is any indication, to say nothing of the well-known dyke fascination with gay male porn. I’ve never actually seen this happen at a sex party, in all my travels, and as such I might be a bit surprised if I did. But if I can handle watching countless cis-dykes pound away at each other with dicks they’ve purchased at a store, surely I can handle watching a dyke use one she happens to have grown. We “allow” trans men the freedom to use the parts they were born with to achieve pleasure—surely we can extend that same acceptance to the very rare trans woman who wants to do the same. It seems a very strange thing to start judging, especially when we’re a community of people who gets off on a rather stunning variety of sexual practices to begin with.

And for people who equate “penis” with “ability to rape or assault” and are therefore triggered by the possibility or the reality of seeing one… first, see point 3. Beyond that, maybe your parents were a lot more specific about this, but my mom always told me to watch out for men, not for penises, if I wanted to avoid rape. But this same logic meant that nobody really told me to watch out for women who assault and rape. I know it’s a shitty thing to have to face, and I know a lot of dykes don’t like to talk about it because it damages their sense of safety in community… but I have met plenty of women who have had experiences of sexual assault or domestic violence with other women (cisgender and otherwise). At play parties and sex parties and bars, at home alone with a partner, with someone they’ve dated for a little while, with someone they’ve married… it happens, and way more than we’d like to think. Pretending that assault and rape are only perpetrated by men, or only done by people with penises, allows women and people with vaginas to get away with it that much more easily.

Rape and assault are not about penises. They are about someone’s sense of entitlement to touch another person’s body without consent. We need to stop projecting our fears onto a body part (regardless of who’s sporting it) and start looking at how people actually behave. It will make us *feel* less safe to acknowledge this, but I think it will make us actually *be* safer if we can talk about it openly.

Assumption 5. Trans women are aggressive in a way that makes people uncomfortable.

To me this sounds a whole lot like “black people are all so angry!” or “women are so over-emotional and hysterical!” or even “gay men are so effeminate!” It’s a stereotype, pure and simple. It’s especially similar to those other examples because it’s a stereotype that focuses on the way someone expresses themselves. We expect these behaviours or expression styles because we fear them – oppressive white people are scared of angry black people, men who are taught not to feel or deal with emotions are scared of women expressing emotions, people who are taught that masculinity is precious and fragile and absolutely necessary to their survival are terrified to see how easily someone can “lose” their masculinity, and so forth. From there, if we see these things happen in real life once or twice, we believe them to be true of everyone in a given group all the time. Then it becomes really easy to *only* see those things, and to miss or simply ignore—or, in this case, *deprive ourselves of the opportunity to see*—people in that same category behaving in other ways too. Which they/we do, because we are human. We need to get past this, plain and simple.

Assumption 6. Trans women are all the same.

We need to make sure, when we’re talking about trans women just as with any other group, that we aren’t speaking as though they were all the same. Trans women are as different from one another as any other people are. Some are aggressive, some soft and sweet. Some big, some small; some butch, others femme, others genderqueer, and so forth. Some lesbians, some straight, some bi, some queer. Every imaginable racial and ethnic background. Every imaginable profession and economic status (though statistically more likely to be poor and underemployed, regardless of their education level, due to rampant systemic transphobia). Some pre-op, some post-op, some non-op (bottom surgery). Some on hormones, some not. Some who “pass” easily, some who don’t and won’t ever. Some who have breast implants, some who don’t. So anytime you start a sentence with “trans women are…”, think carefully about what you’re going to say next and whether it’s true all the time or not.

Assumption 7. The term “woman” or “women” is by definition about cisgendered women.

In my world, when we talk about women, that includes trans women, because trans women are women. If we’re trying to say something specific about women who were assigned female at birth and are still happy to be referred to that way today, we call them cis or cisgendered women. If we’re trying to say something specific about women who were assigned male at birth but later transitioned, we call them trans women, or possibly women with a history of transition. But “women” on its own doesn’t imply anything about how someone was born. There’s nothing offensive about any of these terms unless they’re applied to someone inaccurately or with intent to shame or hurt.

For me personally, I don’t love being called a cis woman, not because there’s anything wrong with the term or because I think it’s pejorative, but because I am actually not always comfortable living in a female body and I feel like I float in a middle space between several genders. “Woman” I’ll accept, though only barely, and I wish I had another option than either that or “man.” But when someone calls me “cis,” to me that makes me feel they are making some very mistaken assumptions about me, and *that*—not the term itself—can be offensive. (Same as being assumed straight, or femme, or able-bodied… nothing wrong with those terms, they’re just inaccurate when applied to me.) But even then, I can still recognize that most of the world, most of the time, sees me as a woman, and that I get certain privileges because of that. So being *perceived* as a cis woman still gives me advantages, even if I don’t apply the term to myself. As such it’s still a useful term.

Assumption 8. Trans women aren’t really women, because they weren’t socialized as women.

This one falls apart on several levels.

First, it assumes that all women were socialized the same way. This makes no room for the vastly diverse types of socializing we each go through. A past butch partner of mine, for instance, refers to her childhood as being a “boyhood”—she played sports, spent time with her dad learning about woodworking and was never forced to look or dress girly. I, on the other hand, was very much socialized to be a girl, with all the expectations and prohibitions that come along with that. This is a pretty stark difference in childhood gender-socialization experiences despite how we were both raised in white, Ontario-based, heterosexually-parented, middle-class families with religious mothers and multiple siblings. As soon as we start adding on other differences—race, economic status, geographic location, age, number and configuration of parents, sexual orientations within the family, religion, schooling and so forth—we multiply the ways in which our gender socialization might change.

Second, it assumes that the way we are socialized “sticks” the same way on everyone. I would argue, for instance, that probably none of us who are queer were socialized as children to be queer. Most of us who are gender-independent weren’t taught to be that way by our parents. And I’ve only rarely met people who are what I’d call second-generation poly—as in, they had openly non-monogamous parents and are themselves non-monogamous. Possibly even more rarely than that have I encountered people whose parents were openly kinky such that they were socialized from childhood to be perverts. (And certainly, I was never taught, as a girl, to be a dominant or a top!) I could say similar things about feminism—I don’t think, for instance, that I’m any less “real” or “legit” a feminist because my mother and father most certainly aren’t feminists. And I can assure you that I was never socialized to work primarily at night, or have a freelance career, or to do a PhD—I’m the only one in my entire family doing any of those things, and they are huge pieces of how I understand myself as an agent in the world and of how I live my everyday life. And so on, and so forth. So it’s very odd to see people who’ve made life decisions that for the most part radically depart from what they were taught to do as children try to argue that on this singular point—the question of gender—socialization trumps choice, trumps our innate sense of who we are and trumps all the efforts we make to do about that. It just doesn’t work that way. Of all people, we should know.

Third, the socialization argument dismisses and disrespects the enormous challenges that trans women have to go through to understand themselves as women, and to assert themselves as such in the face of huge social forces that tell them they are not and cannot be what they are. There are plenty of trans women who never felt like men in the first place, for whom existing in an assigned-male body was a horrific experience of dysphoria and disconnection, for whom being raised and socialized as male was deeply damaging to the point of leading them to depression and suicidality, or for whom the presence of a penis and the lack of a vagina (for those who haven’t had bottom surgery) is an ongoing source of trauma, not a free pass into male privilege. If we can understand our own struggles to self-define, to make sense of our desires and identities and bodies, surely we have it in us to understand others’ when they are arguably even more complex and more strongly discouraged by the world around them.

Last but not least, this argument also assumes that trans women are not treated as women by the world at large. It is true that some trans women are not read as women by the world around them. In those cases, they are often shunned, assaulted and disrespected—as “failed” women, as “failed” men, or as freaks in general. In this sense, trans women who don’t “pass” are punished in much the same way as cis women are punished when they fail to do “woman” right. For being too fat, or too hairy, or not passive enough, or too smart, or too capable, or not straight enough, or too slutty, or too frigid, or not curvy enough, or whatever else.

Trans women know exactly what it’s like to be told they’re not doing it right, and cis women know exactly how much that hurts because it’s done to many of us too. Trans women who do “pass,” on the other hand, are subjected to the same kinds of bullshit that many cis women are just for being women, even when we are doing “woman” right—essentially, lots of misplaced entitlement. People, especially but not exclusively men, feel entitled to comment on or touch or fuck our bodies, to expect our sexual interest, to measure their masculinity by how different it is from our femininity, to get paid more than we do, to be aggressive and active to our receptivity and passivity, to be physically strong to our weakness, and so forth. And beyond all this… trans women who sometimes “pass” and sometimes don’t get the unenviable privilege of being on the receiving end of *both* these kinds of bullshit, both of which are clearly linked to being a woman, if from different angles.

So I call bullshit on this socialization question. It just doesn’t hold water.


Assumption 9. The “cotton ceiling” is a way for trans women to bully cis women into having sex with them.

The idea of the “cotton ceiling” is intended to draw attention to how even in spaces that are politically and socially welcoming of trans women, transphobia often retains its influence on how we understand who is sexually desirable and who isn’t. It’s no different from other politicized criteria for desirability—people who are, for instance, fat or disabled are also often welcomed into queer women’s space but not seen as desirable compared to those hot slim, muscular, able-bodied sorts. This isn’t our fault—our entire culture tells us what’s sexy and what’s not, 24 hours a day, and that definition is terribly narrow. But it is really easy to forget how much influence advertising propaganda and social pressure can exert on what gets us wet and hard, and to let the mainstream’s terms dictate our desires.

It is possible to read the idea of the cotton ceiling as being about pressuring people to change who and what they desire. And that pressure can feel unwelcome. With that in mind, I would challenge those who feel it that way to look very carefully at the message that’s being delivered. Is it actually about you being told you need to go out and fuck people you’re not attracted to? Or is it about someone asking you to think about how much of your attractions are based on an underlying assumption of cissexism? Or perhaps, might it be about challenging women-centred sexual spaces to talk openly about trans women’s bodies and how to safely and enjoyably have sex with trans women—a topic about which it is ridiculously difficult to find solid information? (Try Mira Bellwether’s awesome zine, Fucking Trans Women, if you are in search!) Or perhaps it could be about challenging the producers of dyke sexual representation to include trans women as objects of desire—in porn, in art, in erotica—which is only barely beginning to happen?

This is a difficult line to walk in terms of messaging—there is a subtlety to the argument that can easily be misunderstood. And to be fair, some people delivering the message about the cotton ceiling may not be doing it in a skilful way. But I think mostly the misunderstanding here comes from people who are very attached to a body- or genitals-based understanding of gender and very threatened by anything that comes along and challenges that.

Fundamentally, it doesn’t do anyone any favours for a person to fuck someone for political reasons without genuine attraction. I really hope nobody goes out and fucks anyone just to prove a political point or make a statement about how wonderful and open-minded they are. I certainly wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of such false desire, and I would feel pretty disappointed in myself if I noticed I’d started to collect a list of sexual partners who conveniently belonged to stigmatized minority groups so that I could brag about it.

Fundamentally, it also doesn’t do anyone any favours for a person to pressure anyone else to have sex, for political reasons or otherwise. So if a trans woman cruises you with a line like, “Hey, you should have sex with me to prove you’re not transphobic,” you have every right to say, “Uh, no thanks.” Failing that highly unlikely situation, though, I think a lot of cis and otherwise non-trans gals need to ratchet down the defensive reaction and take the opportunity to really examine how much of our desire rests on cissexism, and how much of the sexual culture we create and consume excludes trans women, even if we’re not doing it on purpose. That thought process may never change our physical attractions, and it doesn’t have to. But on the other hand, it might, and we shouldn’t be afraid of that. For a bunch of politicized people who are committed to resisting the patriarchy, fighting racism and advocating for accepting our bodies at any size, and then going ahead and representing those various bodies in all their delicious glory, this one really shouldn’t be a big stretch. And at the bare minimum, whether it changes our sexual practice or not, it could possibly help us to change a culture of exclusion such that the people next to us at that sex party—cis, trans and otherwise—can more easily access the kind of sex they’d like to be having.


Assumption 10. Trans men are a lot like women.

This one comes up as a counterpart to the “socialization” argument, specifically when people argue for the inclusion of trans men in women’s spaces as a counterpart to arguing against the inclusion of trans women in those same spaces. This is especially unhelpful to trans men.

A significant percentage of trans men are, well, men. They look like men, smell like men, identify and move through the world as men. If they’re told they’re allowed to attend a women’s event because they’re not really men, that’s pretty insulting.

Of course, *some* trans men are gender-fluid, or strongly attached to their history as dykes or as women, or see their transition as an extension of their former or current butch-ness and still prefer to date queer women, or what have you. So as such, some of them feel at home in queer women’s spaces, and it would be very sad and hurtful to exclude them. I totally get this. But let’s be clear that we are not talking about all trans men here. It’s a very specific range of trans men, and there’s a whole other range of trans men out there for whom such inclusion would be unwelcome at best and outright damaging at worst.

There are lots of trans men who never felt like women in the first place, for whom existing in a female-assigned body was a horrific experience of dysphoria and disconnection, for whom being raised and socialized as female was deeply damaging to the point of leading them to depression and suicidality, or for whom the lack of a penis (for those who don’t get bottom surgery) is an ongoing source of trauma, not a free pass into women’s space. Please let’s not disrespect these guys by assuming they’re “one of us” because they have vaginas. That’s what the rest of the world has been doing to them forever and sometimes it quite literally kills them.


This post is mostly about analyzing a set of arguments, sometimes in ways I’ve seen done by others, some less so. But in addition to the argumentation piece, I’m writing this to publicly say, in no uncertain terms, that as a woman who’s not trans, I fully support events that include trans women and tend to feel personally way more comfortable when trans women are welcome than when they’re not. For me, events that include trans women create a baseline of respect for people’s chosen gender identities—my own included—where I can breathe at least somewhat easier, instead of worrying about people making misguided assumptions and applying them to me and others. It’s a statement that clearly says “who you are is important, not who the world tells you to be.” This isn’t just symbolic. It makes a real difference in the vibe of a space, in my experience, and makes a lot more room for me too.


P.S. Adding this a day after first posting: I want to acknowledge an additional assumption that underpins everything I’ve tried to challenge here. This is the assumption that there is an “us” made up entirely of cis and otherwise non-trans women who are in charge of all women’s sexuality-based events and who get to make the decisions about including “them,” the trans women who’d like to attend. In fact my experience has been quite different from that. Trans women have been around for decades – “they” aren’t a sort of perpetually new part of “our” community, but rather a part of the fabric of it, of its history and its present and absolutely of its future. Several generations of trans women, and their contributions, long predate my own organizing efforts, for instance – so it’s a testament to the persistence of transphobia that somehow I, when I started organizing events in my early twenties, still understood that it was my job to “let” the trans women in (or bar them access). To me this feels like the height of disrespect – that some parts of the dyke world are still stuck on whether or not to include people who’ve been around since, y’know, the middle of last century. Many of the trans women in my community are older, wiser and more experienced than I am. I am fortunate to have many smart, powerful trans women as my elders – as scholars, as SM players, as dykes, as organizers, as role models, as writers and artists and activists. I’m grateful for their presence, their persistence in the face of discrimination, and for *their* willingness to let *me* in, to whatever extent they have.


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