Q:Male Privilege is getting to go to a card shop to play Magic: the Gathering without worrying about people asking "where's your boyfriend?" Without worrying about guys hitting on you. Without worrying about whether or not people will look at you strangely or give you trouble for being the only girl present. Male privilege means you just get to play a card game in peace, without any extra baggage.
Why can’t there be a male hooter’s equivalent where male servers are shirtless and highly sexualized for their bodies and looks
Male Strip clubs. You’re thinking of male strip clubs.
No. Not a male strip club. A strip club is a strip club. I want a place called Cahones where waiters wear Speedos and are forced to stuff if they don’t fill out their uniform well enough. I want them to giggle for my tips. I want it to be so normalised and engrained in our culture that women bring their daughters there for lunch (because whaaaaaat the wings are good! Geeze sensitive much?) where they’ll give playful little nudges like, “Wouldn’t mind if you dad had those. Heh heh heh.” that their daughters don’t even understand but will absorb and start to assume is just the normal way grown up women talk about grown up men. I want to playfully ask my waiter if I can have extra nuts on my salad and for him to swat my arm with an Oh, you because he knows if he doesn’t his manager will yell at him. I want other men to pretend to like going there so I think they’re cool. I want to go to Cahones during my lunch break at work and when I come back and tell the other women in the office where I went they chuckle slightly and the men around us suddenly feel self conscious and they don’t know why.
>teenage actress’s private nudes get leaked
>teenage actress is reviled as a slut and a whore and a bad role model
>james franco asks a seventeen-year-old girl if he can meet her in a private hotel room
>james franco gets to go on saturday night live and joke about what a silly doofus he is for soliciting sex from a girl literally half his age
DO NOT DARE OVERLOOK THIS POST
Now think of how many of those female characters and protagonists are oversexed, created for the male gaze, or put in an inactive damsel role for the plot of the game. Representation matters. A Study last year proved that exposure to tv shows increased the self esteem of young white boys and markedly decreased the confidence and self esteem of girls across the board (and we haven’t even started on the representation of characters of color and the effect it has on children’s self perception).
Video games are a different media, and even more concerning if representation metrics are changing how our kids think of themselves. Especially knowing that 67% of American Households have video game consoles and 91% of Children play video games regularly, how do you think the portrayal (and lack of portrayals) of women and girls in these games is affecting little girls – or influencing how little boys view their importance and/or influence over them?
— Comics. Movies. Lit. Pop Culture. The Smash Survey is an upcoming podcast project that will critically explore the representation of race, gender, and queer identity in media and pop culture in a fun and engaging format.
[A comic featuring Daisy Duck featuring four panels.
First panel: Daisy slamming a door with her foot. Speech bubble says, “All men are beasts!”
Second panel: She stands in front of an open fridge, food spilled everywhere. Speech bubble says, “All they do is eat, yell, mess up the house and inflict bodily harm!”
Third Panel: She stands by the TV, looking back at it angrily. A man on the TV is drinking soda out of a bottle and saying, “He-Men drink fizzle-pop! Why don’t you?” Daisy, disgusted, replies, “Ugh! It’s sure a man’s world!”
Fourth Panel: The tv now has a woman on it, holding a bottle of perfume. She says, “I use siren call perfume because men fall for it!” Very angry, Daisy replies, “Even the girls’ commercials have a male slant!”]
"A Sticky Situation" (1960) by Carl Barks
I like how advertising is literally still exactly as sexist as they’re joking about in this comic from 54 years ago.
[IMAGE: A series of gifs.
First Gif: John Barrowman holding a black card and asking the question “On a clothing label, which instruction is indicated by a solid black triangle with a cross through it?”
Second Gif: A bald white man with a sleezy expression replies “This is where we want the women back on the team, don’t we?”
Third Gif: John Barrowman with a mocking expression saying, “Or maybe you could help with the cleaning of the clothes every so often.”
Fourth Gif: John Barrowman smiling at the camera.]
i love that barrowman’s response also distances him from the contestant
"hahahaha women do laundry right john? you with me, john?"
"don’t lump me in with you, you fucking martian”
This is what I’m talking about when I keep saying that men have to deny the endorsement. This guy wanted Barrowman’s tacit support or agreement for his sexism, as part of bonding through humour. John went nope.
I hope I live long enough to attain even a tenth of Barrowman’s “you fucking martian” face.
Q:What's your opinion on men asking women for nude photos via cell phone?
If two consenting adults want to trade nude photos, that’s none of my business.
If a man is trying to coerce nude photos out of an unwilling participant, then I put on my stomping shoes.
[IMAGE: Black text that reads “18 Things Females Seem to Not Understand (Because, Female Privilege).” There is a red headed white woman in a grew tank-top scratching her head and looking confused against a grey background. Below her, it reads “1. Female privilege is being able to walk down the street at night without people crossing the street because they’re automatically afraid of you.”]
hang on, wait a second
Ah, yes, the well-known privilege of being terrified someone will harass or assault you - and you’ll subsequently be blamed for it because you wore a skirt that day or were coming home from a bar. Ladies, sometimes we just don’t realize how good we have it!
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.