It happened just the other day, Sunday. That blisteringly hot Sunday, the 8th of May, when we had our first glimpse of summer after our long, long winter. Wasn’t it wonderful?
See, I was at work, actually. It wasn’t too bad. I walked to work in the sun, had lunch in the sun, and walked home in the sun. I saw the sun. I even had the next day off, and I grabbed that with both hands. But it’s the Sunday I’m here to talk about.
I was in full uniform: my polo shirt, my long black trousers, my (Christmas) socks, and my sensible black shoes. I was a bit on the warm side, definitely. But, you know, propriety in the work place and all that.
Then it walks this guy and his family. He’s dressed for the weather. Or not dressed. In he walked to my place of work wearing shorts, sandals, and nothing else. Absolutely nada.
Now, I have no problem with showing skin. Show it, or don’t, that is absolutely fine with me. Your body, your rules. I may not particularly want to see a fifty-something hairy man’s chest, but I’m going to leave him to it and give him kudos for being bold enough in his own skin to do that. Wish I was.
But yes, that’s the thing. I would absolutely love to go topless in the heat. Every time I see a topless man enjoying the sun in a public place, my brain shouts “SAME, BRO”
Except, of course, I can’t. Because apparently my topless self would be public indecency. My breasts, really not much bigger than this man’s pair on Sunday, are indecent. Wearing them bare would cause outrage, covering the offending appendages just enough to keep cool is sexual.
I just want to cool down. And to have equal rights to my own body, whatever.
Also, maybe if I have to cover my breasts, maybe that guy should have covered that topless pin-up-girl tattoo? Because that just doesn’t seem fair.
This year, I’m redecorating my room. It’s a lengthy process, one which involves a lot of decluttering, and realising exactly how much ‘stuff’ I have. I’m a bit of a hoarder. I have three massive bags of my crafting supplies, and many smaller bags filled with old projects, clothes, toys, scarves, that have no real place in my room or on my person, but I can’t bring myself to throw away because I made them.
The majority of those items have been made in the last five years. However, there’s one old project that’s now very old, is undeniably clutter, and I still can’t throw it away.
I made this box on a Brownie weekend away. I was probably about nine or ten at the time. The boxes came pre-made, we just decorated them. I chose the heart shaped one, because I liked it. I chose pink because what other colour would you make a heart? I chose the sequins because they were large and filled the shape easily. I chose the picture… because the woman was pretty.
The Brownie leaders had cut out photos from magazines, and there were a lot of celebrities to choose from, plenty of bands from the time, boy bands and girl bands. I don’t remember the options, I just remember thinking she looked nice, and so she got to be the centre of the heart.
You might notice her face is no longer there. Shortly after I finished making it, other Brownies pointed out that it was weird that I’d chosen a girl to be the centre of a heart. I argued I just thought it would look nice. It did! I got very defensive. It stuck with me. I didn’t scratch out the photo of her face on that weekend; I found it again a few years later and felt ashamed, felt stupid. It was weird I chose a woman. I drew over her face and hid it.
So why do I still keep the box? Really, it sort of sums up why I started working on Sex:Positive with Brook. This box is a very real and tangible reminder that once I was so ashamed of my sexuality, something that came so naturally and instinctive to me before I had any idea what lesbianism was, that I destroyed something I had once taken pride in. There’s a big problem with that.
Today the box holds my favourite childhood toy, a little troll doll called 'Peach’. I don’t think I’ll be throwing it away.
This is an important issue that needs to be talked about. I’ve heard so many horror stories about people’s experiences trying to get the help they NEEDandDESERVEto live full,happy lives.
I’m tired of hearing from my friends that they are being ridiculed,shamed, reduced to labels, mistreated, infantilized, dehumanized,tossed aside,negated, silenced, objectified, belittled,and ignored by the people who are supposed to care for and support them.
I’m tired of a medical system that is more concerned with dishing out labels than alleviating suffering and empowering its patients.
But mostly I’m pissed off that my loved ones are SILENCEDandIGNORED. I’m fucking pissed that people tell them its in their head, shame them, and act like its not important. It’s fucking important, okay?Don’t be the person who takes people’s voices away; give them more opportunities to use it!
It’s fucking ridiculous and we can’t pretend like this isn’t an issue any longer. We can’t shy away from addressing this because we are uncomfortable facing our own ableism.
“Vanessa Cuccia used to be a web order fulfillment clerk for a well-known sex toy shop, but she wasn’t satisfied with what was on the market. While these products provided physical pleasure, they didn’t address all the emotions people have around #sexuality, like #shame, #trauma, and #love.
Then, while studying with a #spiritual teacher, Cuccia developed an interest in crystals. Their spiritual properties seemed to be what sex toys were lacking…” #SEXTOYS #HEALING #SELFHEALING #SEFHELP #ICANHELP #NOSHAME #THANKYOU #MAKEPEOPLEHAPPY
If you’re my bro and we are chilling, either talking about sex or looking at ish on each others phones and your dick gets hard nigga pull that shit out and beat til you skeet my dude. I have no issue with that, shit, might join you. #BroCode
