A Letter to Carol and Anne

Rape Crisis Cape Town Blog

Dear Carol and Anne

I am one of the burlesque dancers you seem so intent on dehumanizing and invalidating.

I am also a rape survivor.

When I originally read Carol’s letter, I was hurt, she was after all, effectively telling me that my efforts to support my fellow survivors were invalid simply because our feminisms don’t align. She was telling me that her feminism is better and more valid than mine. But I made an effort to understand where Carol was coming from, her feminism, and how what she was feeling might have some validity based on her background and beliefs.  Despite her very weak attempts to “research” burlesque and her complete refusal to actually engage with a single one of the dancers she was condemning, I tried not to judge. I even considered thanking her for her part in creating Rape Crisis, an organisation that I wholly support…

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I Don’t Fit Inside a BDSM Cookie Cutter because I’m not a Damn Cookie

I’m not a girly-girl, and I’m even less of a lady. The only reason you’re seeing me with my knees together is that I’m not wearing any underwear. I’m too feminine to be gender queer and, to top it off, I’m a really crap sub. I’ll make you coffee. I’ll even make sure I have your favourite blend, but by the time I hand it to you, most of it will be spilled down the front of my dress. How sexy do I look now?

I’m girly enough to own stilettos, but not girly enough to be able to walk in them. I own those sexy-ass thigh-high stockings, too, but when I tried them on, I covered them in snags. If you want to see Red in her sexy gear, you’re going to have to lower your standards a tiny bit.

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I’ll do anything you want me to. Really, I will. I swear… if I can remember it. I’ll follow every one of your instructions about how I should be ready for play, except for the 75% I forgot, so expect to hear me calling for reminders from upstairs.

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The Creation of the Kink Universe (According to Genesis)

In the beginning, when god created the kink universe, sex was desolate and dull as fuck. The raging hormones that engulfed the male and female libidos were dissatisfied with missionary sex in the dark, and the spirit of vanilla covered everything. Then the kink god commanded, “Let there be butt plugs”– and butt plugs appeared.  God was pleased with what he saw, and so was Adam, for it brought him comfy anal. Then he separated vanilla from kink, and he named vanilla ‘crap’ and kink ‘superior.’ The evening kink party passed and morning came—that was the first day.

Then the kink god commanded, “Let there be dominants to satisfy all subs and serve them orgasms and bring them coffee”—and it was done. So the kink god made the first dominant, and he immediately brought SpanishRed some Nutella hot chocolate, as god had ordained.

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Then the kink god commanded, “Let the dominants and submissives come together in a really well stocked dungeon, so that subs may be eternally satisfied”—and it was done. He named the dominants “servants” and the subs he named “The Queen Bees of the Kink Universe.” And god was pleased with what he saw.

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The 10 Commandments of the Lord of Porn

Trigger warning: If thou art a Christian, thou shalt be offended by the lord of porn’s commandments, so rather read your homiletics textbook instead. Thou shalt find it more interesting than this post.

I am the lord of porn, which have brought thee out of the land of vanilla, into the house of bondage.

-1) Before sex, thou shalt writhe around in teensy circles wriggling thine ass, touching thine hips and moaning like in When Harry Met Sally.

-2) Thou shalt play elevator music during sex, for I, the lord of porn, am a melodic god, visiting crappy music upon them that love me.

-3) If you cannot squirt thou shalt pee, for, verily, saith the lord of porn, all who loveth kinky sex are colour blind and wouldn’t know yellow if it walked up to them and spanked them.

-4) Remember anal sex day and keep your enemas thorough, for in six days, the lord of porn made PIV sex and fisting, and made bejewelled butt plugs on the seventh day; wherefore the lord of porn blessed the seventh day, and called it “it’s about fucking time she let me have at that ass.”

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-5) Thou shalt not take the name of the lord of porn in vain, for without him, what are we supposed to masturbate to? FHM Magazine? Fuck that shit.

-6) Honour thy fake father and mother by fucking them, even if they’re the same age as you; for all shalt believe in thine youthfulness if you wear a checked miniskirt and bobby socks.

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This Much Stasis. This Much Life.

(TW rape, anorexia, suicide)

I live in the wrong body: one with hips, with breasts, with all the curves of a grown woman, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be entirely comfortable with that. When I was in the throes of anorexia, I was less female and more nothingness. My body was boyish—childlike. It told the world not to look at me, and that made me feel safe.

I wanted to be effaced. Invisible. I wanted my femaleness gone because rape had infected it. I didn’t know how to get rid of the trauma without getting rid of my sexuality.

Watching yourself evaporate week upon week is soothing when you’re living with a death wish rooted in self-hatred. You almost believe that you can make yourself disappear, and figuratively, you do vanish. I became so malnourished that I was as good as gone. I spent most of my days unconscious, and that is how an anorexic kills herself—slowly. Ludicrously, insanely slowly.

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Suicide-by-starvation is torturous, but it wasn’t always death I was chasing. Sometimes, I was looking for a way to tap out of the world temporarily in the hope that I would dig up some strength along the way to magically get past my rape. I was hanging onto the edge of the world by my fingertips, not alive enough to climb over the verge where real life was, but not hopeless enough to let go, so I hung on.

And on.


on and will this ever



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Fetlife is Not a Dating Site

Fetlife is not a dating site. It says so right here in the TOU. Right overrrr… uh… give me a minute. I’ll find it soon. Uh… Apparently, Fetlife is a dating site if you want it to be—as long as you treat it as a social network i.e. pretend to be here for purely anthropological reasons. If you do get laid thanks to Fetlife, it must be completely by accident. It says so right here in the TOU… uh…

No, seriously, Fetlife is not a dating site. We’re here to socialise platonically while talking about sex and showing everyone our naked bodies. It’s true. John Baku said so right in his journal… uh…

Fuck it. Fetlife is the perfect way to meet men online. Unlike traditional dating sites, you get to see them interacting with people they have no interest in fucking. With a few observational skills, you have a better chance of filtering out assholes and marginally improved odds of tracking down kinky dudes than you do on OkCupid. </understatement> Again, purely for ethnological reasons, of course.

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Why can’t we use Fetlife as a dating site? When did hunting for D-types or even (gasp) for women become a bad thing? Isn’t oiling the cogs of romance and sex a good deed? Romance makes you happy. It makes me happy. It makes everyone happy.


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More of What I Believe but Cannot Prove

  • Jelly Bellies have zero fat, therefore they’re vegetables.
  • $20 blow-dries will evaporate within one nanosecond of your leaving the hairstylist, but only if you’re going on a date later. If you’re just going to the supermarket, they last all. Fucking. Day.
  • Every belt is destined for my ass.
  • When you watch a horror movie, monsters immediately go hide under your bed—even if your bed isn’t on legs, so keep your feet on the mattress. Monsters don’t go under beds when you’re watching rom coms, though, so no problem there.
  • Euthanasia is a perfectly valid solution to having no decent coffee in the house.
  • Of course you can be an atheist and believe in hell. Where else are pop-up windows, auto-play videos, and assholes going to go? Exactly.

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  • Cellulite doesn’t exist. It just doesn’t. Even if you can see it in the mirror, it’s not there.
  • Computer cords are very long snakes that coil themselves into knots while you’re sleeping. And eat stray socks.
  • When you’re cooking your signature dish, you automatically become 12, 967 times sexier than you usually are.

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