Why I will never go back to Planned Parenthood

 This happened to me several years ago, but for some reason, (maybe it was the rude lady on the train yesterday who demanded to know why I had scars on my face and then told me I was rude when I said it was an innapropriate question) I want to post the story again.
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Undressed and wrapped in paper, I wait 20 minutes on the frigid exam table, examining my pale skin and striped socks under the fluorescent lights while I wait for the doctor to arrive. The assistant who took my vitals was cute. Japanese with a blue tongue piercing, she commented on my eyes. I couldn’t tell if we flirting. Needless to say, she was enjoying her job. Done taking my vitals, she pointed to the folded paper on the exam table. “Put the blue one on top, opening in the front and put the other over your lap.” And then she was gone.
I’m glad to have made it this far. It’s two hours past my scheduled appointment time. In the waiting room, I witnessed three women approach the receptionist window only to be denied a Pap smear for financial reasons. One had a $500 deductible on her health insurance that had not yet been met. Another woman had gotten a small raise at her job and no longer qualified for San Francisco’s Family Pact card, a city-sponsored card for free family planning and STI prevention services, but could not afford the astronomical PAP smear fee. The third time all I heard was rejection and looked up in time to see a cardiganed pair of shoulders slumping out the door. I’m tired of sitting in this hard plastic chair under institutional lights. The room is crowded, and everyone looks irritable.
Now I’m waiting again, although this time by myself, where it is colder and I am more naked. Finally, the doctor enters.
“Sorry about the wait. We’re really understaffed today. Two people called in sick.”
I placate her guilt, wanting to get on with the exam. “Everybody’s getting sick.” I say. “I have an immune system of steel. I work with kids.”
“You know what I love the most about kids?” She asks in a cheery voice. “Their curiosity.” She points to her own forehead and says, “What happened?”
“Oh, you need medical validation.” My tone is mildly condescending, and I hope she’ll get the hint that this line of questioning is inappropriate. I’m here for my breasts and vagina. Nothing else. I do not want to volunteer information about cosmetic differences in my appearance, and I know she is not asking for medical reasons . I wrote on my intake form that I was hospitalized for a brain injury in 1978. That’s all she needs to know. She’s looking at me in my paper gown, expecting an answer. “I had an accident. I was dragged by a horse.”
“Oh, how horrible!” The doctor has a sharp intake of breath, the way people do when they’re shocked be something truly awful, like the holocaust are starving Ethiopian babies. She begins my breast exam, her icy hands palpating my armpits and mammaries. “My mother is in remission from breast cancer with reconstructed breasts and my father died of glioma in 2007,” I report. Still, she has the gall to go on about how awful my head injury most have been, asking me for details and exclaiming at how lucky I am.
As she prods my breasts, I think to myself, “That my mom now has fake tits and my father is dead is not horrible, but that I survived a head injury and have done the physical, emotional and mental work to become passable as an able-bodied member of society is? What is wrong with this woman?”
Now I’m on my back, feet in the stirrups, ass hanging off the table, cervix exposed. Unaware that this might be a slightly awkward position for me, the doctor goes on. “You know, head injuries can really be quite serious. Oh, when young people get them it’s just awful. Imagine not being able to swallow solid food or use your legs?”
At this point, I feel it is time for me to stand up for myself, whether my vagina is in her face or not. “A big part of disability is how the people around us react. Really, we adapt quite well. It’s society that has the disability.”
“Oh, but some of these disabilities are just awful. I mean, you, you’re lucky!” She finishes her exam. I sit up. “You know, someday, when they have better technology and you have more money, you could get that fixed with lasers.” She points to my forehead.
My womanliness, in all her fabulous, well-groomed glory has been exposed and scrutinized by this quack, yet the uniqueness of my face is still more interesting. I smile, “Actually, they have that technology already and I wouldn’t change my face if you paid me. I like my scars.”
She gives me a “Good for you” that one usually reserves for a 3 year old. Do I look like I need a hug? Especially from someone who has just stuck a variety of cotton swabs up my vaginal canal?
Honestly, I was just trying to take care of myself by getting a check up today, but instead I ended up having to explain and defend not only myself but the entire spectrum of physically-disabled people to an ignorant doctor whose only concern should be that I don’t get cervical cancer or any other type of boob/vagina illness. And then, after I’m done defending myself, she has to end it with a “You go, girl!” As if I need her vote of confidence. I’m offended in triplicate (as a human, feminist, and disabled person) that she would suggest that I fix my face without knowing anything about my personality, politics, or body image.
I will answer questions from children, family, and friends regarding my scars and where I fit on the disability spectrum. I don’t mind at all. I like to open up dialogue and create a safe space for inquiry. But when I go to a Planned Parenthood to see a doctor whom I will probably never encounter again, I am not there to be an educator. I am there to get my pussy checked out so I can go get laid like a responsible adult. And that is all!
For the record, I love my face and my forehead. The circular scar in the center is a third eye, a glimpse into my past, why I am the strong and compassionate being that I am today. I resent it when anyone (especially a healthcare professional) tells me there is something wrong with my appearance. Can they not see the beauty of this scar, this map of my past, on my face? Are they blind, or are they just so insecure about their own appearance that they can’t appreciate the uniqueness of mine?
Whatever the reason, Planned Parenthood, I’m glad you exist, but I am never going back to you again. I would write a complaint about this particular doctor, but I don’t want her to lose her job. Of course maybe she should. She doesn’t seem to understand the Hippocratic oath very well.

Misfits: The Hip and the Real

Beyoncé's new video, Superpower, is beautiful. A gang of 'misfits' grows in numbers as Beyoncé struts in heels and a short skirt, looking absolutely beautiful and sings with the power and strength of 17 divas. Even thought she had shoes made especially for her that were not only ugly as sin, but also constructed from a variety of exotic animals, I still like some of her music. She is really talented. Like a siren on the rocks, her voice lures me. And damn, the girl can dance! This video is entertaining.

Nice, don't you think? Sexy and a little disarming? The slow movements, the lighting, the way not much happened in the ways of dramatic action, all this was very gripping. And when she helps the masked man rise at the end, the name Trayvon Martin flashed through my mind. Anyone else get this?
But I have an issue with this video and also the description of the video that you can find here.
The writers at ddotomen.com say that Beyoncé is joined by a cavalry of "misfits." Misfits? Really? Everyone I say in this video was relatively thin, attractive, and dressed stylishly in expensive-looking clothing one could wear to a popular nightclub. They all look like models. Did the writers at ddotomen.com mean that the beautiful people who joined Beyoncé in the video were not white? Since when does being not white make you a misfit?
Being a misfit means that you don't fit in, that there is no group readily available for you to celebrate yourself in. None of the models in this video were visibly disabled, gender ambiguous, had facial scars, overweight, or had even a pimple showing through their beautifully made-up, perfect looking skin. So how are they misfits? Better yet, what would they look like if they WERE all misfits! How much more powerful a video would that be?
Imagine it! Beautiful, sleek Beyoncé being joined in solidarity by a woman on crutches, a few people with facial scars or other "disfigurement", a gender ambiguous person, someone who is a little overweight, a few people in wheelchairs, you know, people who are actually MISFITS! And what if, in this video, the misfit people were walking side by side with the stereotypical beautiful-model types? And what if there were MORE of the misfit people than there were the others? Still the same video, still Trayvon Martin, just actual misfits.
The video that I described, it would have stuck with me. The one I saw, though I enjoyed it, has already floated from me mind like a cotton candy cloud.

Beyoncé mobs through the scene with a calvary of misfits who are ready to ride for the cause in this visual aid to “Superpower”.

Read more at: http://www.ddotomen.com/2013/12/13/video-beyonce-superpower-ft-frank-ocean/ | DDotOmen

Beyoncé mobs through the scene with a calvary of misfits who are ready to ride for the cause in this visual aid to “Superpower”. Frank

Read more at: http://www.ddotomen.com/2013/12/13/video-beyonce-superpower-ft-frank-ocean/ | DDotOmen

Beyoncé mobs through the scene with a calvary of misfits who are ready to ride for the cause in this visual aid to “Superpower”.

Read more at: http://www.ddotomen.com/2013/12/13/video-beyonce-superpower-ft-frank-ocean/ | DDotOmen

Tantra: Gag me with patchouli

Look, I never, ever claimed to be a tolerant human being. Never. I bitch about things that irk me. I f you don't want to read judgmental things, don't read this blog.

And now, without further ado:

There is this conference happening in Berlin right now, ISTA Conference of Sexuality and Consciousness. Two of the people presenting at this conference are staying at my place. Seeing as I am interested in sexuality, I asked them about the conference. They immediately started talking about Tantra, energy, Chakras. I said something about healing whores and sacred prostitutes. I was immediately corrected. "Well," the heterosexual, gigilo-in-disguise as a messiah says, "I don't really think about it like that."
Oh, really? I want to retaliate but don't. Why not? Is it because you don't think of whores as real business people, freelancers, and independent contractors. Why are you somehow better? Many whores have knowledge of tantra, consciousness, listening to a person's body and helping them discover their buried desires. It's like the burlesque dancers who think strippers are dirty, but what they do is somehow more respectable. I don't see the difference, except that "burlesque" is somehow respectable enough for middle-class white men to enjoy with their wives, and erotic dancers are marginalized. It has nothing to do with skill, and if you don't believe me, try poledancing.  I know several strippers who can poledance, but not many burlesque dancers who do.
This ISTA conference makes my skin crawl on several levels, the broadest being that most of the presenters are white, although it seems a central theme to the workshop is Tantra and Yoga, which are spiritual forms from India.  I do think that white people have a right to teach this stuff, but the person who curated this conference did not have diversity on their mind when they were booking presenters.  And then there's the amount of workshops about orgasms led by men.  Excuse me, Mr. White Hetersexual cis-male, but you think you know more about the workings of a pussy than someone who has one? Gross. I read some of the workshop information. Not one mention of fisting. 
So, I'm conflicted about this. On the one hand, I am glad folks are paying attention to sexuality.  On the other hand, it all seems so very normative, patriarchal and just plain BORING! 
I mean, goddess worship is just another form of chauvinism. If you put a woman on a pedestal from which she cannot descend, you rob her of her humanness. You take away her ability to make mistakes, to learn and grow.
Tantra, goddess worship, orgasm coaches? No thanks. It's all a bit to clean and polished a product for me.  You can take your "Erotic Energy Practice" and shove up your man-pussy. I'll take my down-to-earth, gritty, DIY sex workers, thank you very much.

Kink and Consent: Checklists

"But isn't negotiating everything beforehand unsexy? Doesn't it ruin the mood?" K. asks me as we walk down Skalitzerstraße toward the Berlin Porn Film Festival  headquarters.  "Not at all," I say, and I think about last night in the bar, sitting on the couch between my husband and our friend, discussing the possibilities of all of us in bed together, and how just because we were all there, it did not mean that we all had the same limits and boundaries.  It was quite a fun conversation, lots of hand holding, hair stroking, a few kisses.  The conversation created a feeling of safety between us, and while we didn't all end up in bed together that night, our negotiations created a platform for further discussion.  I won't share the details of these specific negotiations here.  That would be lascivious and unnecessary.  What I will do is give some sample negotiating points, both for bdsm and vanilla lifestyles.  There are several sample checklists online, but I don't like the checklist idea.  Working from notes is okay, but I want to have a connection with the person I am playing with, even if it is just a one time thing.  I would rather have a relaxed conversation about wants, desires and definitely nots.  You'll find your own way.  These are just some ideas to get you started.

BDSM

• Will you top or bottom?
• Is sex involved, and if so what kind?  (It is important to be VERY specific)
• How many people will be involved?
• Can I touch you with my hands?
• Where do you not want to be touched?
• I do/do not want you to touch me with your hands.
• You may touch me with your hands everywhere except ______________.
• Can I touch you with my mouth?
• Where may I not touch you with my mouth?
• I do/do not want you to touch me with your mouth.
• You may touch me with your mouth everywhere except ______________.
• Do you have a safeword?
• May I use toys on you? 
• What type? (Whips, floggers, dildoes, vibrators, nipple clamps, etc.)  

THREESOMES AND GROUP SESSIONS (VANILLA)

• Will condoms/protective barriers be used? (You should always use a condom/latex or polyurethane gloves, etc., unless you are already fluid-bonded with a person.  In an orgy situation, sometimes making sure everyone is wearing a condom on their cock or dildo no matter whom is fluid bonded to whom is a good idea.  And remember to change your condom or gloves when you change partners. Also, remember that oil-based lubricants and latex don't mix.  Silicone lube is latex safe, but cannot be used with silicone toys.  If you are going to play with silicone toys, water-based lube is the way to go.)
• Is anyone allergic to latex?
• Who may touch you, where, and with what? (perhaps there is someone involved that you would like to cuddle and kiss, but you don't want them to touch your genitals. Perhaps you are only open to anal sex with one person in the group.  Perhaps you are okay with giving oral sex to others but don't want to receive it... and so on.)
• What is definitely not okay with you?

Remember, there is no right or wrong way to do this. Your limits are your limits, and they may change from day to day.  One day you may be open to something, a few days later, maybe not. There is nothing wrong with this and no one should argue with you about it.
It can be intimidating, this idea of negotiating, defining specifically what you want (and need) to have a good time.  It takes practice.  But in the end, it is very, very worth it.

Misconceptions about negotiating kink

Full disclosure:
I am a kinky motherfucker.  I am a hardcore feminist who is attracted to cis-men, who likes to get tied up, spanked, bossed around, and whipped.  I don't find these things contradictory.  In my mind, feminism is about me having a choice, me giving my consent.  If I consent to one act, e.g. being tied up, that doesn't necessarily mean I consent to other acts, e.g. someone touching my genitals.  In the vanilla community, there seems to be a lot of gray area.  Consent gets muddy.  There is the cut-and-dry case like, "If he buys me dinner, then he'll assume he can do things to me." (Side note: the only time that I was expected to "pay my date" was when a woman took me out to an expensive meal. The men I've dated generally came with less expectation of sex, at least in the beginning.) But also instances where kissing and manual-genital stimulation might be okay, but oral-genital stimulation is not.  Generally, people on a date or even in an established, long-term relationship don't negotiate before sensual/sexual activity begins.  This makes for awkward moments and sometimes arguments and misunderstandings when one person thinks that a specific thing is okay because it usually is, and the other person doesn't want to to said thing but feels self conscious about expressing this in the moment.  If more people in the hetero-normative, vanilla mainstream were into checking in prior to starting their erotic activities, maybe these awkward moments and unnecessary misunderstandings could be eradicated.
Of course, the fact that negotiations beyond "no means no" aren't part of general sex education explains why there are such gross misunderstandings about BDSM, kink, and group sex.  I recently propositioned a friend of mine with an invitation to a play party, and he freaked out!  Before I had a chance to explain what I was inviting him to, he informed me that I was inviting him to be naked, whipped and fucked by strangers.  After a few days, this situation calmed down and we were able to have a nice talk about negotiations and consent.
See, the thing is, you can say yes to a play party or an orgy and then not do anything you don't want to do.  You can go to a play party and just hug all night long.  Or be kissed, or tickled, or not touched at all. You can agree to be in a threesome or an orgy with friends and keep your pants on, or take them of and still only cuddle and/or kiss.  The proposed activity does not dictate what you consent to.  You do.  It's good to be able to say no and be heard.  It's even better to understand what you are saying no to, because if you have accurate information instead of common misconceptions, you might just say yes.

The word "No"

A few weeks ago, I had a fight with one of my straight, male friends. I had asked him if he would like to participate in an activity. He said no, but it was obvious he didn't understand me. I clarified, which he took as me asking again, and threw A FIT because I didn't respect his "No."
The week before, we had been hanging out and he asked me to tell me about my experiences with women. He wanted details. I'm not really into talking about my intimate experiences with women with straight men, for obvious reasons. When I would not describe to my encounters, he described to me what he imagined it would have been like. I changed the subject. The third time, half an hour later, he asked me AGAIN.  Me saying "no," hadn't worked, me changing the subject hadn't worked, so the third time I made up a song that embarrassed him.  He stopped asking. But I had to say no three times. And I think that if I had not embarrassed him he would have just kept hounding me
I wasn't intimidated.  I didn't feel threatened, just annoyed. 
And really baffled that he took his "no," so seriously and didn't seem to hear mine  at all.
My friend is not an asshole, but he is a straight cis-male.  I am a queer cis-woman who is sometimes attracted to cis-men. Let's examine the word "no" with this in mind.

Women are used to having to say no a whole bunch of times.  If we freak out after a "no" is not accepted the first time, then we are "overreacting and hysterical."  We want boys to like us, so very early on we learn to just calmly repeat ourselves, use different tactics and so on.  The way our patriarchal society is set up, men are used to being heard, not being questioned or challenged, and getting what they want.  This is why men generally believe it is okay to ask a woman for something she does not want to give them multiple times, whether it is information or physical closeness.

Straight cis-men are used to people always listening to them and never questioning. This privilege comes with being a cis-male.  It is not a man's fault that he has this privilege, but a fault of the  patriarchal system we are socialized in.  Maybe this is why, when are asked something more then one time, they act as if the violation akin to rape. As a woman who has experience being on the receiving end of both the persistent requests and rape, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that they are definitely not the same thing.

That my "no" was not respected does not justify my behavior, asking again after I received a "no," the first time.  I do think it worth examining though, that I feel it is my responsibility to stay cool and collected as I repeat my "no." And most of the cis-men I know get near hysterical when the must repeat their "no" even once.

Done hiding

For a long time I hid.  Out of shame.  Out of fear.  Out of "What if I can't find a job?"
I used to work with kids, being terrified that some parent would discover my artwork or performance and deem it unacceptable because I deal with gender and sexuality.  This fear kept me partially employed, mostly underpaid, and artistically constipated in the US.  Now I live in Europe.  I don't want to work with children anymore.  I have ceased to be good at it.  Plus, I got a little lax with my website.  (More like turned into a self-respecting artist who is proud of her work.)  The job that I had got "concerns from parents," and let me go.  I wasn't so upset.  I miss the cash, but I hated the job.
So now, I just have to go for it.  I moved to a country where I wasn't a citizen, where I didn't speak the language to have more freedom as an artist. So this is how it will be, I guess.  No more fear.  I am hosting a queer, radical and sometimes explicit cabaret, I am making art and performance about gender and sexuality.  I have not "chosen" a life on the margins of society.  I have finally accepted who I am, and am now trying to make a buck, with honesty, not pretending to be somebody else.  Not hiding.

Let me be clear.  This isn't about me wanting to post pictures of drunken nights on Facebook (not that there's anything wrong with that.  This is about me finally believing that my art, my thoughts, my radical and weird self is worth something.
I am tired of the double standard that goes on.  How when men express their sexuality, our society sees this as "normal," but when a woman does the same thing she should "be careful." 
"Why do you have to focus on gender and sexuality all the time?" My straight friends ask me, baffled by my seeming obsession.  Let me explain.  Let me be clear.  We see examples of the hetero-normative life everywhere: movies, television, popular theater, art and advertisements.  What about those of us whose hopes and dreams do not fit into the "marriage, children, own a house" dream?
What about those of us who do not think that, should we have a child, that child should be raised in a two-parent situation but rather by a community?  What about those of us who ride between the gender lines, who are not fulfilled by choosing one or the other?  Who is going to represent those who live outside of the hetero-normative if not ourselves.
I am done hiding. One more angry feminist?  Yes please.