Third Week In September

I used to call you Sir. When you asked me why, I told you, it was a sign of respect, a form of polite affection. I hope the absence of this title scalds your tongue, that you are branded with the acid in my stomach.

I ask you

If it was good. did my joints crack , did I dig my fingernails into your spine,

Was it missionary?

Did you fold the paper of my skin, did you turn me into a crane, did I crane my neck, and did you crane yours,

Was it slow? Somehow, I doubt it.

I ask you this because you ripped this memory out of my skull with two fingers, a cryptic act of I cannot remember.

Was I your target practice, did you reach your goal, how far did you need to stretch.

You said I convulse. I could have told you that. You did not need to prove me anxious. You slipped inside with dog-chewed fingers and I convinced myself I was rewriting this story.

You gnawed through your own expiration in rug-burned nerve endings. I tell you, that is a feeling. Do you know how to let emotion sink below your surface? When I thumbtacked rapist on the tail end of your resume, did you bleed? I find linear scabs on my arms and dental impressions in my neck. Does the thickness in your marrow make you weighted? You should have waited. Were you not taught to hold hand written invitations? Did you hold me? Was I capable of holding you back?

You tell me that I enjoyed it. That I wrapped my legs around you, an invitation. I do not remember how it happened. I do not remember you. I remember being outside.

I remember three weeks of not yet. I remember wanting the only rhythm in my body to be of heartbeat, to be of shadow. Now I walk through this life half-ingested. I wonder if I made a sound, I don’t know if I fucking made a sound. I am here in the aftermath, the bloodshed. You thought I would leave a bigger stain.

You are a tear-jerking distraction, my ribs are laced hollow. I cannot catch my breath. I can still smell your meat, the scent washes against my frontal lobe in liquid flame. I will not digest the spoonful of fear you fed me, there is no room for resentment in my body.  There is no room for you.

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Interested in sharing your small biz with Vagina’s international fan base? How about supporting the creative work of women around the world? Half-page ads in the Fall ‘14 are just $25! Email me at Hillary-Anne (at) TheVaginaZine.com for more information

Naître

You must have left your skin in my bed,

a layer of cells to replace the sheets.

Or did I imagine you here—

hands coaching, coaxing,

hoaxing, scorching?

No, that was your work,

and now I’ll slip into your suit

(my cocoon),

waiting to be reborn

looking like you—

so you might love yourself more.

— By Caitlin Johnson

As many of my friend-followers know (because I can’t stop talking about it (sorry)), I’m headed to Banff National Park in 10 days! A mere week after the submissions for the Fall ‘14 issue are due! That means this deadline is the tightest yet. Be sure to get me your submissions by September 10 or email me tonight with your extension request! High-res

As many of my friend-followers know (because I can’t stop talking about it (sorry)), I’m headed to Banff National Park in 10 days! A mere week after the submissions for the Fall ‘14 issue are due! That means this deadline is the tightest yet. Be sure to get me your submissions by September 10 or email me tonight with your extension request!

The Summer ‘14 issue has been restocked at BookPeople, Farewell Books, and BookWoman in Austin, Texas! Only a few copies remain in stores and online so get yours while you can High-res

The Summer ‘14 issue has been restocked at BookPeople, Farewell Books, and BookWoman in Austin, Texas! Only a few copies remain in stores and online so get yours while you can

Submissions for the Fall ‘14 issue are due no later than September 10! Visit TheVaginaZine.com/Work for more information how, what, and why to share  High-res

Submissions for the Fall ‘14 issue are due no later than September 10! Visit TheVaginaZine.com/Work for more information how, what, and why to share 

Thank you to the incredible Summer ‘14 sponsors! Interested in sharing your small biz with Vagina’s international fan base? How about supporting the creative work of women around the world? Half-page ads in the Fall ‘14 are just $25! Email me at Hillary-Anne (at) TheVaginaZine.com for more information High-res

Thank you to the incredible Summer ‘14 sponsors! Interested in sharing your small biz with Vagina’s international fan base? How about supporting the creative work of women around the world? Half-page ads in the Fall ‘14 are just $25! Email me at Hillary-Anne (at) TheVaginaZine.com for more information

Confessions of a Feminist Househead

Listen, children/

Let me tell you about this thaaaang/

Called House Music

Unknown Classic House Track

My love of house music often feels like a line in the sand between me and my fellow feminists.   A line which is drawn along lines of class and racial and sexual identity.  How can I, they ask me, love a genre of music that is notorious for being a “boys club” and for perpetuating narrow standards of beauty?  Because when I’m down with Riot Grrrl and Ani DiFranco and punk rock (to use some over-worn stereotypes of “feminist” music), my feminist bona fides are not questioned, but mention a love of house music and I get either blank stares or suspicious side-eyes. 

House is a brand of music that has been called, variously and non-pejoratively, (at times) “club music,” “dance music,” ”electronic music,” or “electronic dance music” or “EDM.”  Before it was co-opted by the current wave of dubstep-centric, corporate overloads like LiveNation and Goldenvoice, “EDM” was sometimes used in the 90s to distinguish house, trance, techno, etc. from other “electronic music” that could be described as more experimental and less melodic (and therefore certainly less danceable), like “noise music” or “future music” (which have roots that stretch back to the 19th Century).  Any true house music fan will tell you, though, EDM in general has been much-perverted (and not in a good way) into a soulless corporate money-making machine, with Las Vegas and “superstar DJs” at the center of its cold, dead heart.

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Submissions for the Fall ‘14 issue are due no later than September 10! Visit TheVaginaZine.com/Work for more information how, what, and why to share  High-res

Submissions for the Fall ‘14 issue are due no later than September 10! Visit TheVaginaZine.com/Work for more information how, what, and why to share