Consent is not the new “game”.

So, now what? Just when you thought consent was the only thing you had to worry about, there’s more?  Trauma need not exist with the presence of a no or the absence of a yes. Seems like an infinite abyss to feel worried about, I know. Don’t worry, it’s not that hard considering you have a working moral compass. (Sorry sociopaths)

So why is all of this overwhelming us in the first place? Fear. Fear drives many humans as an effective—yet sometimes unethical—motivator. As a response, we’ve chosen the path of least resistance: avoidance.

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Lola JeanComment
We, The Novelty.

We are the entertainment. We are the spice, the flavor. We drive your desires and creativity. We are the supposed unattainable. 

We are the porn stars. The squirters. The dicks you compare to baby arms. We are the exotic. You dream of us, yet you never carry us further than your dreams. You want us, but for how long? Our value exists for a fixed period of time, where uniqueness and newness is retained and inevitably expires.

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Lola JeanComment
Most Men (But Not Me)

Indeed, men are learning. They're not learning how to read situations better and be better men but they're learning how to skillfully navigate the conversations to avoid conflict. To avoid trouble. They know what's right and wrong--not to avoid hurting someone, but to avoid their own demise. Better them than me.

We focus on consent because it is measurable. It is prosecutable. Emotional treatment is not.

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Lola JeanComment
It Takes a Village

Kavanaugh isn't the monster, he is the face of many monsters. He is a product of a system. He is a product of socialization. The socialization that reached its tipping point and fueled the movement prompting this entire conversation. #metoo is a the fully loaded gun that rightfully leaves men shaking in their wingtips. Remember, though: the purpose is not to scare, but to remind those in the past, present, and especially the future that this is the new normal. There are no more excuses, only endless opportunities to prove yourself.

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I could keep them like tallies. Unable to decipher the difference between conquests and lovers scorned. 

Etched in the wall through scratches and burns. Some through passion, some betrayal. Some of nothing at all.

I could keep them like tallies, if only I could keep them.

I could plan their demise. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Occupying space in my mind without paying a cent. Evading your rent like you evade my messages. 

Use, wash, rinse and repeat. My sex is on a spin cycle that rotates but never cleans. Do you want me when I’m dirty or only when I’m wet?

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Masturbation Muse

I am a masturbation muse. The face of fapping. The Edie Sedgwick of erections.

I inspire a different kind of brushstroke. Their artworks are stiff tissues that lay at the bottom of wastebaskets.

They create poetry in my name. Words inscribed in a digital bubble—temporary, just like us. 

They tell me they touch themselves for me. 

I’m supposed to be honored. I’m supposed to be turned on. Tell me what else I’m supposed to be.

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You Call Me Crazy

This is the second time you cross my boundary. A line clearly drawn in the sand is now cement. Despite this, it is you who pulls the victim card. I need to calm down. I need to relax. But this constant fight, this constant shield and defense is just that: a defense. What good can come if I defend my personal boundaries, my thoughts, my feelings, while also defending against your actions, your words. Careful not to step to close, tread too light, or I may drown. If I let it slide what is next to slide? Your dick into my DMs? Your tongue into my mouth? Your hand into my skirt? I’m no longer playing victim. I am on the offensive.

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The Powerless Pleasure

You always remember your first. The Cum Dumpster—or “Cummy", as I affectionally refer to him—is my first pay pig. But he is much, much more than a vessel for fluids or a wallet of cash. While I am well versed in the art of humiliation, the financial aspect is a road not taken. Cummy and I have a special relationship. We never intend it to turn out the way it did. In fact, it’s tumultuous from the start.

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I'm Not Touching Your Penis

This is the move I’ve seen a thousand times. He’s knocking, but not entering. Flirting with the boundary, but not violating it. His penis is dangerously close to my vaginal opening. I am now uncomfortable.

“You are not putting that inside of me.” I stop kissing and look him in the eyes. He climbs down from on top of me and lays beside me, stroking my body. Both of our shirts are still on. He continues to tell me how sexy I am, how much he wants to fuck me. I continue to tell him “I know.”

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