This should be fun. We’re talking NSFW fun, okay?

Yes, The Doe is taking a deep dive into the subject that keeps the internet spinning: sex. Nothing is off limits, much of it is taboo. Don’t say we didn’t warn you. 

The Doe took a deep dive into the subject that keeps the internet spinning: sex. Nothing is off limits, much of it is taboo. Don't say we didn't warn you.

Sex Narratives Unbuttoned - The Doe

I once had a therapist tell me that sex is a point of contention in a lot of relationships. One person wants more sex, one person wants less. It causes friction. 

I came out as asexual when I was 22 years old. I was married at the time, and while it wasn’t the only reason we split up, it was a major contributing factor. After I came out, my spouse told me that they weren’t sure if they could be in love with me if we weren’t having sex. “This isn’t what I signed up for when we got married,” they told me. I tried really hard to be accommodating of their needs and, desperate to keep our relationship going, I would sleep with them even though I didn’t want to. This was traumatic for me.

It’s really important to make three things clear. 

The first is that asexuality is a legitimate thing, just like any other sexual orientation. There just isn’t as much attention given to it, and it’s my firm belief that there are a lot more of us out there than many think. Because people are somewhat inherently self-focused, it’s difficult for a sexual person to understand the concept of someone not wanting to have sex. We also live in a hyper-sexualized society; this isn’t new information, and I don’t think I really need to spend an exorbitant amount of time explaining what I mean. But popular media portrays the lack of interest in sex as childish and temporary. 

The second is that asexuality is a spectrum. There are some asexual people who simply experience sexual attraction rarely. There are some who can only experience sexual attraction if they have a deep emotional connection with the other person. Your place on the spectrum does not invalidate your asexuality. 

The third is that no matter what your sexual orientation is, expecting anyone to have sex when they don’t want to is messed up. Period. 

People tend to equate being asexual to having zero interest in romantic relationships. And while there are some strictly platonic beings, a lot of asexual people still want to be in romantic relationships like anyone else. For sexual people, sex is generally an intense source of intimacy. So much so that other sources don’t appear as significant in comparison. But those other sources of intimacy are what I live for. Making dinner together, taking walks, holding hands, kissing—these are the things that make me feel romantically connected with someone. 

This isn’t to say that sexual people don’t experience intimacy from these things. It’s just that asexual people only have these forms of expression. When my ex-partner told me they didn’t know if they could be in love with me if we weren’t having sex, it cut deep. It felt like all of those little things that made me feel close to them meant nothing. And while that’s probably somewhat of an embellishment created by hurt feelings, one thing was clear: Sex mattered a lot more.

After my marriage ended, I started seeing a girl with whom I’d attended high school. I had made a post on Instagram when I came out and, one day, when we were hanging out at a bar, she wanted to be sure. “Are you really?” she asked, with an overly concerned look on her face, waiting for me to answer. I explained what my asexuality looked like, and though I could tell that she didn’t totally get it, she told me it didn’t bother her. I truly believed that but we ran into a lot of the same issues that I did when I was married. When I said no, her disappointment was palpable. When I said no, she would try to change my mind. 

Part of the issue was that I was still timid about my own sexuality. I operated as if I wasn’t asexual most of the time, and I was faced with the expectations that are put on a sexual person. I don’t think she could completely wrap her head around the idea that I hated sex, though she said she was OK with it.

I think that this cognitive dissonance is a big part of why it’s so hard to date sexual people as a non-sexual person. It’s 2021, and a majority of people acknowledge and respect different sexualities. But since there’s such a fundamental difference between asexuality and other sexual orientations, it tends to be acknowledged consciously but invalidated on a subconscious level. 

I’ve only been out for a few years, but I’ve always known that something about me was a little different. And ever since sex was on the table as a possibility—out or not—I’ve been expected to have sex when I don’t want to time and time again. As I navigate the dating world, I realize more and more that I have to be more willing to advocate for myself in those situations. But I think that if other people tried to understand asexuality better, it would be a little easier.

LGBTQ Voices

I'm Asexual: This Is Why It’s So Difficult to Date

The rule is that he always arrives on time. As was our custom, he entered in silence, bathed carefully and then took up his place before me on his knees. Naked. He leaned forward and I put the collar around his neck then sat back in silence. I waited.  

He had composed and memorized a prayer earlier in the week in anticipation of this moment. At my bidding, he began his recitation. He adores the humiliating turn-on of being exposed at the feet of his commanding mistress, his goddess, his queen. His eyes were cast down but his cock was standing at attention. I could sense his nervousness as he opened his eyes and tried to look into mine. He recited the first lines of his long devotional ode:

My adored mistress! 
Magnificent and strong
You rule over your boy
You wield the rod
You reign supreme as the great matriarch…

I’ve had hundreds of lovers over the years, but never one like this. I am currently enjoying the most exciting sensual sex of my life. Because of our mutually satisfying kinks, I have been able over the years to train up this adorable man and turn him into the perfect lover that fulfills my every desire. He’s not a husband. Not a life partner. He doesn’t live with me or share my bank account. He’s not someone who walks side-by-side with me through all the trials and tribulations of life. I’ve had that already. Twice. No, this is my “boy” and, now that I am over 70, I’m having the kind of sex that I have always longed for: sensual and hot, without shame or false pretense—limitless, ecstatic, full of love and bliss.

I’m often asked to explain the difference between a femdom and a professional dominatrix. A dominatrix is a sex worker who takes money from her client in return for satisfying his sexual desire for surrender. Clients usually have a long list of demands when they arrive. They give a lot of thought to what they hope to experience during their session. The dominatrix fulfills his wishes. 

Some of these women are really good at their job—they can make the client believe that they really want to play with him. A good dominatrix not only pays close attention to the client’s wishes but also dresses the part. Many men get off on high-heeled boots, matching bustier and such. For her service in fulfilling his secret fantasies, she is paid a handsome fee. 

By contrast, a femdom is in it purely for pleasure. She dominates her submissive in the way that she chooses because it turns her on to do so. Her own desire is the source of the erotic play. She uses her subtle power of seduction on the submissive to bring him/her around to her desires. Their play is based on mutual desire, negotiated limits and carefully communicated consent that takes place before any play begins. 

I am a femdom. I happily admit that I derive extraordinary pleasure from seducing and playing with a submissive man—especially my submissive man. After thousands of years of patriarchy, this is a timely, satisfying and luxuriously decadent erotic role reversal. It’s one that fits me to a T.

I’m also a sex educator, and I’ve spent 20 years teaching women how to have powerful and fulfilling orgasms.

The hands-on techniques that I shared in workshops and private coaching sessions were aimed at showing women a grounded self-empowerment rooted in individual sexual pleasure. I had recognized early in my own life that my physical pleasure and emotional wellbeing could not be farmed out to a partner. As women, we need to each discover and master our individual sexual operating procedures. Finally, at home in our own pleasure palace, we have the option of welcoming a partner to join us in our sexual play.

At the beginning of my professional career, I was very specifically focused on healing the feminine. I was not yet fully aware that my attention to pleasure was in reality a roadmap to empowerment. I discovered that female pleasure was the ultimate healing force that eventually restored gender balance. I was intrigued by the reality that pleasure could transform our lives, even more quickly and effectively than suffering. I had learned this from my personal journey through life in the body of a woman. 

I love women, but I have always adored the masculine in all its manifold expressions. I had always hoped that men would eventually catch up with the many women who, over the past 50 years, had been moving so courageously toward freedom. Whether through therapy or literature or workshops, women have done so much work. This is one of the many gifts of feminism—the changing perspective motivated women to finally get their sexual shit together. I wanted to see men get on board as well: become better lovers, better friends, better allies in women’s evolution into full personhood. But I never felt a personal calling to teach them how. 

In my view, women should discover how to satisfy their deepest needs and desires on their own, and then share that information with their partners. Women should teach their men what they need. In reality, truly great partner sex can only begin when a woman has made friends with her pussy. When profound pussy pleasure is integrated into everyday life, women begin to trust the creative fantasy life that hides deep within the psyche. 

Over time, my work expanded far beyond the basic life-enhancing ecstasy of the orgasm. I began teaching women how to bypass hetero-normative expectations in their sexual expression. I began teaching women how to initiate and creatively hold power in sexual play. I introduced participants to the pleasure of stepping up in a sexual scenario and taking command. Partner sex suddenly got an upgrade and female choreographed adventure became a real thing for real people.

My participants needed to practice taking control. I could demonstrate how to create a ritual, how to collar a man, how to play with humiliation and control, what to do with his butt when you get him securely tied down—but they needed to actually practice these skills. It was important for them to learn how to hold that newly acquired inner power while in the presence of strong men. To facilitate this, I pulled together an amazing men’s team. These were straight guys who loved the idea of being an anonymous objectified toy-boy, available for women’s delight. 

Word spread quickly within our small sex-positive community, and men began sending me their applications. Handling this overflowing supply of available men gave me a tremendous thrill. I was acting out my own decidedly feminine version of a Hollywood casting director. And for the men who applied for membership in the “team,” the work presented an amazing sexual adventure in a safe and discreet environment. 

The work was voluntary. They had to love and honor all women, want to serve them and be devoted to their growth and full evolution as erotic individuals. They were required to submit a photo and a short written resume of their personal sexual experience. If I found the candidate attractive and their communication seemed sexy (without being macho), I’d take things to the next level and propose an in-person interview. I kept the whole process very businesslike. I was so suited to play this controlling, top-bitch role.

And this is how I eventually met my boy. There were many men who applied for the few slots that we had available, but he was definitely best in show. In the first photo that he sent, I was impressed with his physical beauty. And in the text that he wrote, he was very honest. He described his background and his professional activity and then shared that he was happily married, loved his wife but that he wanted to expand his skills and become a better lover.

I made a date to meet with him, and after our first encounter, I was smitten. I decided that I would definitely not share him with anybody else. He would not join the team because I wanted to have him all for myself. He is 20 years my junior and he confessed in our first meeting that since a very young age, he had fantasized about being dominated by an older woman. I can still remember that when I heard these words, I blushed and my face grew hot. This was a match made in heaven. I’ve been joyfully dominating him now for more than a decade.

The pandemic brought an end to my public appearances, workshops and rituals. The men’s team has slowly drifted apart and my professional life has quieted down considerably. But I never let go of my boy. Loving him, spanking him, fucking him and further evolving our domme/sub game has kept me joyful, creative and full of juice. Our relationship over the years has been an invitation for each of us to learn and grow further into our individual strengths. As he discovered more nuanced aspects of his masculinity, I have expanded my understanding of my authentically empowered femininity. This inner power is the root of a profound and irresistible eroticism.

In a recent conversation with several of my women friends (all in their 30s and 40s), I realized that I was no longer personally interested in the 50-50 struggles of today’s feminism. Many couples today try to establish peace in their home life through evenly balancing responsibilities: childcare, household, office hours, financials and so forth. Unfortunately, eroticism is not reflected in this equation. While home life may be running smoothly, sex seems to get tossed out the window in favor of popcorn and Netflix. Good sex doesn’t require harmony. It needs longing. It needs tension. Somebody has to take the lead. Somebody has to do the seducing. Somebody has to start the game. 

Today’s younger women are honor-bound to remain in the struggle for equality in the boardroom and in the bedroom. I no longer hold a vision of a 50-50 relationship for myself, nor do I feel connected in any way to that struggle. I spent most of my adult life trying to find an appropriate balance in my marriages. Now, it feels boring and I don’t see it working effectively (or erotically) for anybody. In my own life, I have learned that taking the lead and seducing a worthy man to the beauty of surrender is tremendously exciting and fulfilling for all involved. 

As women learn to hold power, men are invited to learn the beauty of surrender. We can integrate the long-forgotten parts of the self, and it’s blissful. My calling is to model the grandeur of my unique female strength. This is what compassionate feminine power looks like. It is divinity personified. I reign as queen of my domain and I fully embrace my role as high priestess of pleasure. No longer a struggling feminist, my evolution is complete and I fully embody the matriarch. All hail the mighty queen who lives in me. 

NSFW

Femdom Power: How I Shed My Feminism for Matriarchy

Every person’s entry into sex work is different, but it’s safe to say that most of us don’t experience the Hollywood version. You know, the one where the girl wakes up after a one-night stand to find a wad of cash on the bedside table. The naiveté of the solicited woman makes her more appealing to a mainstream audience—someone who stumbles into sex work is more respected than those that choose it. 

This is not one of those stories. This is my story. There are so many differing tales of sex work, varying in class, race, sex and determined by privilege. I cannot and will not attest to any other worker’s experience. I can only offer the conclusions I have come to from my own.

It all started with a guy I was seeing. We lived in different cities with busy lives and our relationship consisted mostly of texts, calls and voice notes. He would beg to be on his knees to supplicate to me. Although this was my first experience dominating a man, I quickly learned the vocabulary. It felt like a second language, another tongue lying dormant within me. I demanded he prove his worth; I refused to allow him up for air; I called him names; I commanded his tongue to clean the heel of my boot. I could imagine him on the floor for hours, his knees red and sore, his head buried between my thighs. 

His birthday was no different. He wanted to lick my shoes clean from the floor of the bathroom stall. He spent hours begging me, sending me money, paying for lingerie to be delivered. All while his birthday party raged on without him. I woke up, refreshed and empowered. My bank account had been topped up, my orgasm had arrived at my own hands and my inbox had one new message thanking me for last night and confirming the order from the sex shop was on its way. This was my first experience of financial submission. I was determined to make sure it wasn’t my last.

Financial submission is when a submissive enjoys having their finances controlled by their dominant (mistress, domme, master, dom). It is not a regular sex worker and client transaction. A financial dominatrix will drain their sub's bank account, will demand they pay for their dinners, coffees, even holidays that the sub is not privy to attend. Some financial subs also want to be cuckolded, begging to buy the lingerie for their dominants to fuck other people in. 

I found this tug to a world completely engrossed in materialistic values both seductive and conflicting. In my heart of hearts, I am a socialist. But when the journey I took with this partner quickly came to an end—and as our relationship stagnated—my journey into kink and dominance had just begun. Ultimately, being introduced to the world of kink gave me the voice to demand—for myself, for my desires and for my worth—both pleasure and payment.

It took a while for me to gain the confidence to enter the online sex world. I knew some people who had created a page on OnlyFans but, for the most part, I was on my own. I went in with the intention of getting more of what I had already discovered a taste for. I wanted simps, subs, begs and betas who would fawn over me, adoring me with their words and emptying their wallets for me. As with all roles, I felt a huge amount of imposter syndrome. By calling myself a domme, I felt as if I cowered behind the word, with no dungeon, very little experience and a wardrobe that amounted to only a few gifts from my first-ever sub. 

I quickly learned that sex work today is mostly a self-promotion game—you spend more time upvoting, retweeting and censoring photos for advertisement than you do flirting or sexting with subscribers. It is entirely about self-creation. It is your persona, your content and you set the rules. 

My favorite parts are the little things, the eager-to-compliment subscribers and the just-because tips. I have always been a bit of an exhibitionist and eager to show off my nudes to friends and crushes alike, so I get a rush just from being viewed. I found that after years of being sexualized and harassed without my consent, monetizing my body gave me the freedom to be sexualized on my own terms. My persona is in my content but not every facet of me. I could therefore detach easily from the sexual footprint I left online.

I soon had my eyes opened wide to a world of online sex work, which is vastly diverse. The cellulite, the amount of body hair (or lack thereof), the differently-abled, the surgical scars, the skin tones. All the fat, trans and queer bodies that have been prejudiced for their difference can profit the very same. One person’s insecurity is another person’s preference. As much as with any online community, there are still bullies and trolls. But with every nasty comment, there is a group chat of sex workers ready to block, downvote and fight back. Armies of SWers of every shape and color stand at the ready to uplift and take down, to promote and praise each other. You may embark on this endeavor alone but there is always someone in your corner. 

Men will always sexualize me no matter whether I choose it or not, but sex work has given me a newfound ownership over my body. I cannot stop men from objectifying me but I can choose to profit off it. In a patriarchal capitalist society, this is the best I can strive for. Instead of unsolicited dick pics, men now pay for my humiliation or appraisal of their genitals. Instead of knowing an ex still has my nudes filed away, as a content creator, I now have the ability to seek legal action against anyone who attempts to distribute images of my naked body. 

Every dollar I earn is a reparation for the patriarchy, the harassment endured or the privileges my gender denied me. Every order I give and every “Yes, mistress” I hear is a win over every wolf whistle thrown at me on the street. Every man who begs to be on their knees for me makes up for every patronizing tone I have ever heard. These “simps” are my reparations for a lifetime of oppression—and as long as they have a face, I have a seat at the table.

Online Sex Work Has Given Me My Power Back

I discovered my kink early on, when I was around seven or eight. I was at a sleepover with friends or relatives, I can’t remember which. We were going to bed, and someone decided to play a cassette of a Batman audio story, because we were seven or eight and we loved Batman. The villain of the story was Catwoman, and her evil plot was to infect Bruce Wayne with mind-controlling catnip and force him to help her steal some jewels—not knowing that he’s really Batman! I only heard the story that one time, four decades ago, but I can still remember how he escaped by cutting his hand and using the pain to focus. I also remember that Catwoman told him, “You’ll stay in this cage and like it!” By that point he was mind-controlled, so his thoughts went from, “Pain…pain…pain,” to, “Nice cage.” 

At that point in my life, I didn’t know what catnip was, much less intercourse. But I knew that, whatever it involved, Bruce Wayne wasn’t the only one who had magic catnip feelings. I had seen enough Adam West Batman TV to know that Catwoman (either Newmar or Kitt) was sexy, which was appealing. But the real thing that was catnip wasn’t the sexiness, really. Nor was the idea of being Bruce especially appealing. I didn’t want to be in his shoes. I wanted to watch him changed.

And so, with a certain furtive confusion, I spent the next decade-plus trying to find other narratives that provided me with that particular painful pleasure. As an adolescent, I read a ton of science fiction and fantasy, some of which, it turned out, was written by people who had a thing for mind control: Piers Anthony, John Varley and particularly Jack L. Chalker, a frankly bad writer who banged out tales of body-swapping and sex slavery with a cheerful and revealing facility. I think I first masturbated to orgasm after reading a passage in a book from his Soul Rider books, set on a planet of reality-altering magicians who put their powers to improbable uses. One of his favorites was giving women penises in their mouths, so when they kissed other women they were essentially getting oral sex. Like futa porn, but mouths.

(That wasn’t necessarily the part I found most appealing, though thinking about it now, I’m retroactively impressed. I’ve read a lot of erotic mind-control fiction at this point in my life, but Chalker’s forced-feminization-with-throat-penises still stands out as one of the more bizarre fetishes I’ve seen anyone willingly commit to paper.)

Eventually, I got older, and so did the internet, and eventually, I discovered the Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive, a kind of hypnotically strobing holy Mecca of kink. It wasn’t just me and Jack L. Chalker, it turned out, who had these kinds of interests. Here was Downing Street, with his tales of tight skirts, drunken orgies and ecstatic bimbofication. And there was Tabico, with her vampiric insect parasite sex apocalypses. In a kind of trance, I clicked through tales of trancing gendered subjects via swaying watches, magic computer programs, reality-altering genies and plain old narrative convenience. 

For a while, I even tried to supplement my income by writing some dirty stories of my own. The one about the research facility invaded by giant sex worms from outside space and time was probably the best, not least because I imagine Lovecraft himself would recoil in unnameable horror—not so much from the sexual content as from the idea that anyone would write fiction with women in it. In any case, pretending to be an erotic fiction writer was a good deal of fun, in various senses, but either my niche was too niche or I just didn’t have the right marketing formula. In any case, the cash did not flow like bodily fluids and I moved on to less sex worm-y pursuits.

All of which may lead you to ask: What the hell is wrong with me? Is there some half-buried trauma in my childhood? Some ugly secret that has led me down this path to the sex worms and the throat penises and the unpleasant mind-rape fantasies? Do I hate women? Am I a violent person? What, in short, is my problem?

I don’t think I’m particularly violent. Misogyny is endemic in our culture and I’m sure it’s in my head like it’s in anyone’s. But I don’t know that Tabico’s stories of lesbian sex with disgusting insect larvae are more harmful than your average stalker-glorifying rom-com. The line between reality and fantasy is clearer when you’re talking about sex slugs, at least. You could watch a bunch of rom-coms and start to think that after a woman rejects you, you need to keep sending her flowers and serenading her and being in her space until she finally gives in. But, barring some intra-dimensional invasion, even the creepiest would-be stalker, of whatever gender, is unlikely to infect anyone with parasitic brain worms. 

As far as the connection between my childhood experiences and my kink goes, no one has perfect insight into themselves, and I haven’t ever undergone extensive therapy. But as far as I can tell, there isn’t any buried incident or secret that explains why I find sex slugs appealing. Erotic mind control fascinated me before I knew that it was erotic. I doubt everyone who listened to the Catwoman book on tape went on to be obsessed with Jack L. Chalker and David Cronenberg’s Shivers. The catnip didn’t make me who I am. It spoke to something in me that was already there.

My guess is that people’s sexual identities and preferences are shaped partly by their experiences, partly by biology and partly by who-knows-what. One person likes apples and someone else prefers pears—there isn’t any doctor or psychiatrist who can tell you why. Human beings are mysterious, and there doesn’t have to be any one explanation for why they are who they are. Jillian Keenan, in her book Sex With Shakespeare, talks about how she has basically always had her spanking fetish. Like many kids, she was occasionally spanked as a child, but that isn’t what gave her a fetish. Instead, her kink meant that when she was spanked, she experienced it as a sexual violation. Trauma didn’t create her kink, though her kink shaped her experience of trauma. 

Keenan’s fetish is a lot more intense and a lot more central to her identity than mine is. She doesn’t really get pleasure from sexual penetration at all; virtually her entire sexual identity is located elsewhere. My kink isn’t nearly so thoroughgoing. I don’t need there to be an erotic mind control element to have pleasant sexual experiences with other people. Most of the sex I’ve had has been pretty vanilla. Beyond some very light BDSM here and there, I haven’t really experimented much with erotic role-playing in the bedroom.  My wife knows about my kink and has indulged me on occasion, but usually, it just doesn’t feel necessary. I want to read erotic mind control stories. I don’t actually have much desire to mind control anyone, even in play. 

Sex-positive boilerplate insists that you need to own your desires publicly, and explore them freely with your partners (the more the better). That’s a message that has helped a lot of people get over shame and stigma, and I’m not knocking it. But luckily (considering the sex worms) for me, my fantasies mostly feel most comfortable as fantasies. My lifelong relationship with my kink has been mostly in my head—my mind telling itself what it likes, in a cage of words that is me.

How I Discovered My Mind Control Fetish

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Money

Lord help us: They say it's not polite to talk about religion or politics, but—hey—we've already talked politics, haven't we? Prayer's up.

Religion

I don’t remember my first kiss. I remember my second kiss, the kiss I told everyone for seven years was my first kiss because I was so ashamed of my real first kiss being with a girl. Years of lying and internalized homophobia completely erased any memory of my first kiss. I can’t help but wonder what else I’ve lost because of the homophobic environment in which I was raised. 

As a lesbian living in Oklahoma, I grew up around constant homophobia. Of course, nobody—myself included—realized I was gay while I was living there. I spent 21 years thinking I was a heterosexual woman when I didn’t even like speaking to men. I know there are layers to this. Obviously, I was in denial about my sexuality—that much is a given. I still get caught up in that even though I would regularly make out with my best friend; I still thought I wasn’t gay. 

If I were gay, wouldn’t I just know? “This was just about experimenting,” I thought. Everyone does it at some point! That level of cognitive dissonance makes me wonder if perhaps part of my own denial was rooted in a subconscious desire to keep myself safe. 

It wasn’t unusual for families to kick their kids out in my hometown if they were gay. I was lucky enough to make friends in high school who showed me that everyone isn’t like that. To be clear, my family didn’t ever kick me out or threaten to do so, but they made it crystal clear that the “gay lifestyle” was not one that they accepted or thought my sister or I would be a part of. 

I remember the first time I met gay people in real life (that I knew of, anyway); my dad introduced me to a lesbian couple with whom he’d been working for over a decade. He later told me that he didn’t mind them, specifically because they “didn’t rub their sexuality in [his] face.” From an elementary age, it was beaten into my head that gay people should live their lives silently and in hiding. I’d watch TV with my family only to hear negative comments during the rare times there was any kind of queer representation. “Ugh, I don’t know why that is necessary,” or, “I just wasn’t raised to think that is OK,” or, from a grandparent I thought was more progressive, “Ew, so they let fags on TV now?” The word “gay” was rarely ever used, as if it were dirty and we’d catch it if we spent too much time even hearing queer terms.

I was two years into my college and over a thousand miles away from my hometown before I realized I might possibly be into women. Even when I came to this realization, it was only because I was surrounded by queer friends and realized that everything they said about being queer felt like they were taking thoughts I didn’t even realize were inherently queer directly out of my head. It took a pandemic and months of isolation and self-reflection (plus a not-so-subtle comment from a lesbian friend that every man I had ever found attractive looked like a woman) to realize I wasn’t into men at all—to realize I was a lesbian. 

Since then, I have become vocal about LGBTQ+ rights, as well as my own lesbian identity on social media, much to the apparent chagrin of my family. When I came out publicly, everyone on my dad’s side of the family stopped talking to me. I spent two years almost entirely outcast from my family. I wasn’t invited to holidays, family events or even my cousin’s wedding.

My family now says they’re not homophobic. In fact, they “never have been” and they’re sorry I’ve ever “felt that way.” The kid in me who never felt accepted by her parents wants to believe them, if not just so I can have the relationship I have always craved. I want to be able to ignore our past. I want to be able to have a relationship separate from opinions on sexuality, but how can I do that when so much of my identity is related to being a lesbian? 

I often look back and think about how my life would have been different if I knew I was gay growing up. Would I have had a girlfriend before college? Would I have avoided my abusive relationship for almost a year? I watch movies and TV shows about queer teens that have come out in recent years and think to myself, “This could have been me, if only I had known.” The perspective has shifted a bit—all the signs were right in front of me.

As a freshman in high school, I regularly kissed a female friend and had suspiciously close female friendships that typically ended in explosive friendship breakups. I had absolutely zero interest in men—even when I was dating them. Of course, ignorance probably played a role in my denial, but I think, for the most part, I was so scared of what could happen to me if I were gay that I couldn’t even let myself consider it. 

I want to push down my feelings toward my family. I’m torn between wanting to form a relationship with my parents for my younger self and cutting myself off from my family to protect my queer identity and my future self. Sometimes, I can succeed in repressing my feelings of resentment toward my mother, but forgiving her for 18 years of conditioning me to hate a fundamental part of who I am feels like a betrayal. It’s not just a betrayal to my younger self but a betrayal to all of the young LGBTQ+ kids in hostile home environments who may not have the opportunity or ability to fight back. 

Coming to terms with and understanding my sexuality was a process that came with a great deal of grief, self-loathing and abandonment from family and friends alike. I had to grieve the idea of myself created in the image of what people wanted me to be. I had to grieve the aspirations I had for the future, which I wasn’t attached to until I realized they no longer fit in the picture. I’m still realizing daily that things I have dreamed of for years were never my dreams to begin with. The more I discover about myself, the more I realize I hardly knew myself at all. I was a shell of who I could be, who I’m desperately trying to be now, masquerading as anything everyone else wanted me to be.

Now I’m faced with a family who says they love me for who I am, a family who wants to see me, spend time with me and have a relationship with me. I’m out, I’m loud and I am proud of who I am, but when I spend time with my family, I feel small, defenseless, exposed and uncertain. I’m constantly reminded that while they may say that they accept me for who I am, they wish I was someone else. Someone who agrees with them, who marries a nice man and settles down to pop out a few kids—definitely not a vocal lesbian with tattoos, piercings and an inclination to start arguments with just about anyone when necessary. 

Can they even love me if they have to compartmentalize my personality to do so? Can they love me if they would choose to have a different baby almost 24 years ago if it meant that baby would be straight? I want to believe that they can, but the 14-year-old queer kid who thought she was a disgusting mistake for kissing her best friend is having a much harder time accepting that. 

My gut says I should leave my family behind and rely on found family and myself. Unfortunately, my heart still has a hard time letting them go, and I find myself wanting to see the best in them and hoping that one day they will change. Why is it that after 24 years of proving to me who they are as people, I still find myself not believing them?

Ancestry

I Don’t Know If I Should Forgive My Homophobic Family

Growing up in a religious household meant I made promises as a young girl that I didn’t understand, and promising that I would stay a virgin until I was married was the biggest one. I was expected to make better decisions than my parents did.

My mother was once a single mom, and she knows firsthand the consequences of being with the wrong person. So, because of her horror stories, I vowed to be a virgin until I was married. Then, I met my boyfriend.

He made me feel safe and loved in a way I had never experienced. I had never been in a long-term relationship with someone I felt truly connected to. A love like that could only come from God, right? So we had sex. I was ready to take that step with him because we had talked about the future of our relationship.

At that point, I hadn’t told my parents much about my boyfriend. They didn’t even know he was my partner, let alone that we were sexually active. I was used to keeping secrets from my family to maintain the peace. They wanted to know every aspect of my life, but I chose not to share much of anything because they could be very pushy. I couldn’t be open with people who tried to force conversations out of me.

In July of 2021, I felt off. I had just taken a Plan B pill, and I knew those messed with my hormones and could affect my PMS. This wasn’t my first rodeo, but it was a bit more intense this time. My nipples were sore; I was extremely tired; and I had body aches. Like every other time we’d experienced the side effects of Plan B, my boyfriend reassured me that I wasn’t pregnant. Even though I was only a day late, I knew that I should take a pregnancy test.

We went to his apartment after we bought the test because I didn’t feel safe doing so in my parents’ house. It seemed like it took no time at all for that little stick to tell me I was pregnant.

All the stress and worry rushed on me at once. I fell to the floor and started screaming. My boyfriend ran to me and tried to calm me down. “It’s going to be OK.”

At that moment, I knew I had to make a decision. My boyfriend was supportive of whatever choice I would make, but I knew he would prefer for me to get an abortion. And that’s what I wanted too.

I knew if I told my parents that I was not only having premarital sex but I was also pregnant, the news wouldn’t be received with an open mind. My parents are both leaders in the church, and I saw how people treated the pastor’s daughter when she was having a child out of wedlock. There was so much guilt and shame put on her pregnancy that I wasn’t prepared to take on. However, if I were to get an abortion, I wouldn’t be able to tell my parents that either out of fear of rejection. In Christianity, abortion is a sin, and telling my parents would lead to that same guilt and shame.

I had a choice to make, and I chose abortion. I never thought I would even be in a situation where that would be a choice. Because of my upbringing, I was pro-life. I was young and didn’t have any experience. I’d never had to make a grown-woman decision in my life.

That decision hurt my heart. All I’ve ever wanted was to have a baby and a family. Being a mom is such a high honor. I saw all the pain I went through as a child, and I wanted to be able to give a person more love than I experienced. And choosing to abort my baby just seemed like the exact opposite of what I would want to do to my child.

But I didn’t want to feel unsafe in my own home. For a lot of my life, I have felt like the rebel of the family. While I do consider myself a Christian, I am more liberal and free-spirited than my parents. I didn’t always feel accepted and seen by my family. And giving them a grandchild before I gave them a son-in-law felt as if I was giving them a reason to treat me differently.

I got an abortion even though I believe in God. In the week I had to wait for that abortion, I cried every day. I had to remember who God was to me, not who I was taught God was. God already forgave me. God loved me and was going to be by my side, despite what I felt about myself.

On August 13, 2021, I got an abortion and kept it a secret because my religious family wouldn’t accept me if they knew. I think secrecy is the only way I can keep my autonomy. It is the only way to keep the peace between my mother and me. I even scheduled the appointment when they would all be out of town. I couldn’t face them. I was in so much pain during and after, and I told my mom that I just got my period earlier. My boyfriend and I have a code name for the abortion: “the appointment.”

Since my “appointment,” I have gained confidence in my religious beliefs and my adulthood. I am my own person, and I decide my life choices. I don’t know if I will ever tell my parents. Their judgmental nature keeps me from being honest about a lot of things. My parents’ opinions do not send me to hell or get me into heaven. I am an adult, and I am allowed to make life-changing decisions without consulting another adult.

And now I am pro-choice, and I understand the importance of my own body’s autonomy.

Women

From Pro-Life to Pro-Choice: My Abortion Story

My preoccupation with daily self-love arose during my early 30s. I was newly single after 11 years in a relationship.

I was enduring the particularly evil type of heartbreak that afflicts people who still love their partners—ex-partners—but have to leave them because the person in question struggles with addiction. Addiction is a truly hateful disease, and after 11 years of loving a good man who continued to actively use, I took the self-immolating step of leaving him.

I was looking for any way possible to transform my body from a site of pain (heartbreak causes aggressive inflammatory responses in the human body; it is called heartache for a reason) and revulsion (nothing makes you hate yourself more than someone saying, “I want to use drugs more than I want you,”) into a place of pleasure.

To be honest, I would have settled for mild discomfort.

Masturbating was difficult because my heartache only compounded the relentless social messaging of shame surrounding my female body: disgust with the way I look and smell, how my hair looks, the size or shape of each part of me.

Being vocal about self-pleasure is the only thing more shameful than being a woman. Living in a society that is obsessed with women in porn, but silent on women’s pleasure, is extremely damaging.

Despite all of these things, I hoped that the practice of staunch, resolute wanking might help to undo some of that damage.

I approached this quest keenly aware of the oft-cited orgasm gap, where only 65 percent of heterosexual women report climaxing every time they have sex compared to 95 percent of heterosexual men. (Shout out to the queer women of the world—doing the lord’s work with and for each other with much better odds!) I took strength from the data, which showed solo self-love has a much higher success rate for women. I was also desperate, so I was going to do it anyway.

During my one-month wankathon, I let Michelle Obama be one of my self-love guiding lights. I recalled her wise reminder at regular intervals: “We need to do a better job of putting ourselves higher on our own to-do list.” I put myself right at the very top of my own to-do list and got to work.

Day 1: The first day was difficult. I felt silly and embarrassed. I thought the experiment was stupid, and I thought I was stupid for trying to feel good at all when my grief was killing me. I channeled this energy and had a kind of angry, stupid wank. The fact that it was successful and I really did feel better afterward helped me realize that successful masturbation doesn’t require a very sexy frame of mind or a turn-on. It can be used as a deliberate strategy to change your state, like exercise or music or drugs.

Day 4: In my search for any kind of guidance on how to survive the heartbreak I was caving under, I started reading about witchcraft and ancient folkloric rituals. Notorious witch and pleasure maven Doreen Valiente spoke to me through this passage in her book, The Charge of the Goddess: “Let my worship be within the heart that rejoices, for behold, all acts of love and pleasure are my rituals. Therefore, let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honor and humility, mirth and reverence within you.”

I liked that. I found it comforting and powerful. On day four, I recited this charge aloud whilst I ran my self-love gauntlet; I made myself laugh a bit because I felt like I was casting a spell, but the laughter was kind and playful, not mocking and ashamed. And then, I had an orgasm, so…

Day 7: Not going to lie, I started getting a bit sick of it by the end of the first week. My period was due, and while the period-horn is real, pre-period un-horn is also a thing. I wanted everything to fuck off, including myself. I did it anyway because masturbation is known to reduce pain and welcome sleep, and I was deeply interested in being asleep.

Day 14: This was a really fun one. I took it to the bathroom and got a leg up on the sink; through the huge wall mirror, I could have a good look at what was happening there. I felt that familiar wave of disgust at seeing myself, but then, I remembered a lesson from my years of studying sociology: Your first thought reflects the culture that you were raised in, and your second thought reflects the kind of person you are.

I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and gave myself a little friendly smile, and then, I carried on with my duties. It was mega. I felt triumphant afterward for not letting that poisonous little voice, which is not natural or inherent to me, win the day. It felt like a wank against the patriarchy, which is totally my kind of thing.

Day 20: Day 20 was the first day that I missed, and it continued on for a few days. It was the day I got news that a family member had died suddenly. I was devastated, distraught with grief and shock. My body was doing its best to protect me from the overwhelming enormity of those feelings by going completely numb. I learned that desperate grief can make me disassociate and that disassociation is incompatible with pleasure. I didn’t even cry a lot that day; I just stared a lot and got through the day as best as I could.

Day 24: I took up the mantle again on day 24, and coming back to my body felt like a kind of homecoming. I found so much comfort and relief in my own touch and the remembrance of feeling good. I was still sad, but I wasn’t only sad; that felt like an important milestone. 

Day 27: My sister sent me a vibrator in the post because she is a legend. We were living in different countries at the time, so the package had to go through customs, and she had to declare the contents on the box, which was obviously hilarious. The little bullet vibrator was encased in the rainbow flag of our people (the queers), which also made me glad. Honestly, I don’t love most vibrators; I find them to be too much. But this was a welcome variation since I had not been using toys for 26 days. With this new toy, it was all over very quickly, so I did it twice. You know, diligence and whatnot.  

Day 30: The final day of my onanistic undertaking was completed with a theatrical flourish. I set up a full spa night, complete with both a face and foot mask. I lit a candle and made the evening last for as long as I could bear. It was a really nice change to what was sometimes a more perfunctory execution of a task. Day 30 felt romantic, something I don’t think had ever felt about myself before. It was a fulfilling, relaxing end to a month geared toward self-love.

It’s really cool and handy (sorry) that masturbation and orgasm are so good for our health. The benefits are pretty astonishing for something available for free and at a moment's notice.

At the end of the month of masturbation, I did feel less desolate and pulverized than I did at the beginning. Some of that was thanks to the passing of time, but I am certain that some of it was also down to my commitment to spending time with myself in that very specific way.

There is something powerful about deciding to prioritize pleasure in our own lives. Something about a ritual of touching, noticing, and feeling your body makes self-abandonment in other areas of your life more difficult. 

Masturbation is not a cure-all—but if it is safe and appropriate for you to do, I highly recommend a lovely little wank to lift the spirits.

What I Discovered About My Femininity When I Masturbated Almost Every Day for a Month

If it were up to me, society would spend less time trying to answer that question. But conservative pundits have recently turned the phrase into an inside joke on liberalism’s oversensitivity and radicalization. And although I am a woman first and foremost, I am also one who happens to be trans, so it’s my womanhood, in particular, that’s being called into question in public forums and private spaces when some troll smirkingly poses this question. 

Thankfully, other writers have already eloquently dismantled the transphobic arguments behind this trend, identifying why these pundits' simplistic answer to that question—“an adult female”—is not quite the common sense checkmate that they think it is. (TL;DR: Our knowledge of gender and language continues to evolve, and things are allowed to be complicated.) Therefore, I won’t take the time to dismantle what’s already a heap of junk. 

I’m here to argue that if we must spend time defining womanhood (so we can more effectively gatekeep it or whatever), then we should move away from the notion that such a construct is tied to physical or personal qualities. Because I’ve met dominant women and nurturing men—gals with shaved heads and raging libidos, and passive fellas with hair down to their calves. There are exceptions to all gendered qualities. But the only thing that every woman I know—trans and cis alike—has in common is being on the receiving end of misogyny.

An episode from season two of Netflix’s Sex Education poignantly illustrates this idea by throwing a gaggle of schoolgirls into detention and asking them to determine what binds them together as women. They bond over memories of sexual harassment and ultimately, soberingly, conclude that experiencing “nonconsensual penises” is the one thing they all have in common. 

As a trans woman who mostly passes, I understand this. I retain a certain privilege, in that I encounter less explicit transphobia from strangers in public, yet I simultaneously experience more of that specific flavor of misogyny that’s typically reserved for cis women. First comes objectification and sexualization. And then, when you fail to perform to their sexpectations, comes vitriol. 

But here’s where it gets confusing for me and other trans people. Because I (mostly) like being objectified and sexualized. 

Maybe it’s because Hollywood has only very recently begun to portray trans women as anything other than two-dimensional sex workers or the butt of jokes. Maybe it’s because I never thought of trans women as people who could be admired, romanced or lusted after. In fact, when I came out to one family member, she expressed worry that I may never find a husband. “I just don’t know any guys who would date a woman who…you know.” Yes, I did know. This was one of the many anxieties that I’d had to negotiate before deciding to transition. (Side note: Lots of guys date trans women—and even more fuck us.) 

So when a stranger on the street wolf whistles at me, I can’t decide between flipping him the bird or flirtatiously winking back. In a world that still devalues us, the fact is that trans women like me actually consider responding kindly to such dehumanizing objectification, because who else will ever want us? 

Most women will tell you that the safest thing to do is simply look down and walk fast, and so that’s what I’ve learned to do. It’s not the sexualization that vexes me—it’s the power dynamic, the “I can do anything I want to you because I’m a man and you’re a woman”-ness of the whole situation. Part of me celebrates when I’m treated like any other woman while another part bemoans the normalcy of such misogyny (*cough* society is a patriarchy *cough cough*).

Some trans people in online spaces have meme-ified this experience—“confusing euphoria,” they call it. It’s the same sensation that overwhelmed me last week when a stranger catcalled me. It’s the feeling that hits me nearly daily when a dude interrupts me to mansplain. And it’s that emotional cocktail that got my goat after a recent “Tinderaction.”

I was texting with a Tinder Guy whom I hadn’t yet met. Big smile, big arms and big sarcasm to boot. Color me beguiled. Then, he asked if I was smooth. I furrowed my brow and typed, “Like my body? Yeah, I shave if that’s what you mean.” 

“Good,” he replied. “Cuz I’m only into women.” I restrained my anger and calmly informed him that many of my girlfriends had ditched their razors years ago, yet they remained (to my knowledge) women.

He sent a vomiting emoji. I canceled our plans. 

In the misogynistic tirade that followed, he employed such classics as, “That’s childish,” “You’re so emotional,” and—my favorite—“I guess I know more than you.” (Don’t kids just say the darndest things?)

I knew not to take any of these things to heart, yet two full days passed before my ire finally dissipated. This incident reminded me of fighting with my big brothers as a kid, and the way that any time my face betrayed emotion, my argument seemingly lost validity in their eyes. If I teared up or raised my voice, they discounted my words with stony expressions. To show emotion was to forfeit, and they had won. Every woman I know has dealt with this—a fact that complicated my frustration in the two days that followed, muddling it with discomfiting nuance. A man calling me hysterical was…kinda validating.

The fact that my big brothers and other men have played out this age-old dynamic with me since before I even came out as trans is particularly telling. The patriarchy tries to undermine women before they can come into their own. But I hesitated to even write about this. I believe the reason it’s not discussed more openly is that we trans women fear that some men will interpret this experience as added impetus to perpetuate misogynistic behavior. That’s really why I restrain myself from returning a catcall with a flirtatious wink: to protect my cis-ters.

Hence the “confusing” in confusing euphoria. But I’m exhausted from hiding the more unseemly phenomena of trans womanhood and now believe that remaining silent only enables patriarchy. I should be able to say nuanced things without them being misinterpreted. As I said, things are allowed to be complicated.

So when pundits point out my personal qualities as disqualifying me as a woman, I’ll simply shake my head and know that if anything makes someone a woman, it’s having to deal with this shit their whole life.

Gaslit, Transitioning and a Girl's Loss: The Surprising Gender Euphoria of Misogyny

It’s my home country, a place where I was born and where I was destined to be, where I want to be. I want to stay here.

I stand by my own words. Even after Russia invaded my home, I chose to stay and prepare for the worst while suffering from depression, anxiety and constant fear of cruise missiles hitting my apartment.

I see my country changing really fast, adopting new laws and initiatives and, despite the war, prospering.

Society is changing too. Most Ukrainians are now volunteering, helping the army as best as they can and getting their voices heard in the future of Ukraine. Our society is so united now that Ukrainians gathered $20 million to buy three Bayraktar TB2 drones in a matter of days. This really goes to show how unified Ukraine is now.

Ukrainians are ready to take part in leading the path to democracy. The Ukrainian government actually listens to the people’s demands and petitions. Even more, citizens of Ukraine are finally experiencing the true value of democracy: Making an impactful change that will affect Ukraine in the future.

Ukrainians are ready to tackle controversial topics as well. Gun laws became a priority in modern political discussions, especially after the Russian invasion. The strongest argument was that if most Ukrainians owned a gun, the invasions wouldn’t happen at all or be stopped with defensive and active patriots.

We the people are changing. And with us changing, the world around us changes too.

But some Ukrainians are staying the same. This is what scares me the most.

When I was 16, my friend asked me to film his fight with a guy under the overpass where no one could see us. Though I hesitated, I agreed. In a blink of an eye, we were surrounded by a larger group of dangerous men, demanding a monthly payment to stay safe from their punishment.

They left us, but my friend dealt with it his own way. This was the moment I discovered that he was a youth gang member, and so was that guy who threatened us. If I wanted to stay safe and never be harassed by the other gang, I should join him, he told me.

I was cornered. I couldn’t walk around my district without the constant fear of being harassed and beaten up. Plus, I was stressed out with this situation. I didn’t want to pay or get my family involved in this, so I agreed.

Right from this moment, I was involved in gang wars.

Youth gang wars aren’t the same in Ukraine as in other countries. No drug dealing, for example, although I have heard rumors of leaders of said groups being drug dealers. Gang wars are about the territory and the influence over it.

It’s a terrible thing for a young man from a poor family to have to resolve to forcefully join the group to stay safe. I still felt disoriented and in danger even after joining the group, but they somewhat gave me a sense of belonging. It’s a primal instinct for a man to be in a group of like-minded people, but it’s a group full of toxic masculinity, false ideals and aggression.

A driving factor for joining was the fact that I’m also a bisexual. I had times when I could go out with boys and have a great time but also receive strange looks, or people would quietly discuss my strange behavior. I wanted to be able to defend myself, but being alone wasn’t going to cut it. I needed a group that I could trust myself to. And I chose the wrong people for it. I had to lie, pretend I was not who I really was and play the role of the “bad guy.” I didn’t like it, but I thought this was the only way to be secure.

Living in a homophobic family was one of the factors too. When I confessed to my mum, she felt shocked and strictly told me to not share this with anybody else, especially my father and grandpa, who do not tolerate same-sex relationships. It was the feeling of constant danger surrounding me. I didn’t feel safe anywhere. Even my family could be against me if all of them discovered the truth. Again, it’s the rebel attitude that made an impact in my teenage years. My family was against me for showing my identity? Buzz off then; I will commit to the group of absolutely disgraceful people who aren’t my friends but I want to feel like having friends.

Do I think it’s society’s and family’s fault that a guy like me joined a group of bad people to stay relatively safe? I’m not so sure, but these are factors that played a huge role in my teenage years.

I stayed with the group until the ninth grade. I don’t know how many times I went back home all bruised up, tired and sometimes drunk. I saw people fighting for fun, having a false sense of territory that doesn’t even belong to them and running from adult responsibility.

But the last straw was when I had to see a particular video a group leader sent us. He used to share videos of “highlights” of our members to the group chat. In this video, some of the members of this group were harassing a group of boys and girls chilling in the park. They were dressed in LGBT apparel, like colorful wristbands and rainbow shirts. They were being yelled at, called slurs and even beaten up because of how they dressed.

The same fate would happen to me if people knew I’m bisexual.

I waited until the end of spring, convinced my mum to enroll me in college and took out all of the documents from my school. I said bye to the environment I was used to and stepped out to new challenges awaiting me.

I managed to wipe out all of the social media, buy a new phone number from my saved up money and start life anew.

The guilt had never left me, so I started volunteering for those in need. Donating money and blood were the things I did regularly while keeping up with my college curriculum. I did this out of my heart. I wanted to change and become the better person that I was before.

Then, the war happened. I moved with my parents to our grandparents' home in a rural area out of fear of a cruise missile hitting our flat. I contacted my friend who happened to be a co-founder of a volunteering organization, and she needed people to handle media inquiries, such as writing posts, making announcements and helping people navigate the services that volunteers provided.

Our country, our society and the people in it united under the most important tasks: help each other, support the army and make Russians leave our land. We started doing this as soon as the war started knocking on our doors. Two or three months prior to the invasion, I saw Ukrainians establishing training military camps where civilians learned valuable skills like how to shoot, reload and apply first-aid help.

In the beginning of February, no one talked about the LGBT community, women’s issues, ecological problems and other social and economic struggles that Ukraine was facing. On the 24th of February, people were caught off guard and organized themselves really quickly. Everybody made a truce and started preparing for the worst. No matter who you were, you were needed. Left wing, right wing, straight or LGBTQ+, man or woman—the whole thing didn’t matter. Everybody was included in the fight for freedom.

Don’t get me wrong, Ukrainians are still united more than ever. It’s a nice thing to see.

But some far-right groups in Ukraine, managing Telegram groups, are still pushing the agenda that the LGBT community is still a problem in Ukraine. They can’t forget times when Pride parades were a thing to oppose and they would harass the people participating in them and call participants names. They would associate the movement with Russians, theorizing that they were leading these parades to disrupt our society and weaken it.

Ukraine has a great opportunity to join the EU family and make every civilian live like in a European community with all of the values democracy brings us. Same-sex marriages are a great way to start. European countries showed us the value of freedom for every person to speak up and do what they want to, meaning that same-sex marriages apply to these core principles of a free society.

Yet the Ukrainian government is planning to issue a law under which people can buy short firearms, like pistols.

I feel hesitant. It’s a great law if it’s done properly. I think that every person has a right to defend themselves in the face of danger, let it be a rapist, burglar or a Russian soldier. But I know the people who will buy these guns the moment the law is accepted. I talked with them. I dealt with them. I drank with them. And they’re terrible people. And you can’t let terrible people own a firearm.

It comes to the point where I need a gun to defend myself from the same bad people I had dealt with. In fact, most LGBTQ+ members will have to own a firearm to defend themselves as well. I don’t want this to happen.

Society chose to let the government consider this law.

Within Diia—a government-owned app where you can store your documents—the interior minister, Denys Monastyrsky, introduced an in-app questionnaire to Ukrainian citizens. He wanted Ukrainians to voice their opinions and choose how they want to see the firearm law. 1.7 million Ukrainians voted, and 59 percent chose to have a Second Amendment type for the law. But only for pistols now. After the voting, Monastyrsky claimed that Ukrainians are ready to own firearms for self-defense. But he missed Ukrainians who voted otherwise. In the modern world of democracy, you can’t appeal only to one part of the voters. You also should appeal to the other half of the voters who wanted a different outcome.

I’m only hoping that the Ukrainian government is responsible enough to write the law as best as they can to prevent multiple cases of gun violence and murders. But it still means I will have to buy a gun to protect my loved ones from those who were my teammates a long time ago.

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