Rethinking Call-Outs, part two

This is the scariest bit. I have to address, in part, those doing the call-outs. I have to in some ways speak directly to black people, to people of color, to already-disenfranchised people. I have to speak even with every terror that what I say will yet again be twisted, taken out of context, or…

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My Beautiful Obsession, Chapter Eight, part three

She pulls the Ducati to a stop in front of me with a flourish, and I can’t help jumping back, startled, at the spray of gravel. She’s smiling, actually grinning in delight, as she pulls off the helmet. Her burnished, decadent hair falls, tousled, around her shoulders. Oh, how I want to run my fingers…

My Beautiful Obsession, Chapter Eight, part one

Chapter Eight Downstairs, in a brightly-lit underground garage, Lark leads me past a row of gleaming automobiles, a half-dozen of them. It’s like a luxury showroom, and even I recognize several of the most exclusive automobiles known to man, all pristine silvers and blacks: a Porsche Panamera Executive, a Lamborghini Veneno, a convertible Jaguar XJR,…

Re-Thinking the Culture of Call Outs

My darlings, I’m going to say it: I think I’m done with call-out culture. I know. I’m an activist, a feminist, a member of multiple social organizations, a regular demonstrator/marcher, and an outspoken advocate for LGBTQ+ rights, #BLM, disability awareness re: depression, anxiety, and suicidal impulses, not to mention against pretty much everything the current…

My Beautiful Obsession, Chapter Seven, part three

  I’m still carrying the sneakers, a sleek, fancy pair of high-end Adidas, when I exit the lavatory, and I bend to put them on while leaning against the doorframe. “There,” I announce, almost defiantly. “I’m ready.” “You’re hair’s damp,” she says reprovingly. “I hope you don’t get sick.” “I didn’t think going out with…