For my own reference, more or less

There was a discussion going at Heart's.

As of Heart's last post:

So, yes, I have comments in my moderation queue.

My problems are several and among them are these:

* If I approve some of the comments, I will be approving mean-spirited, undeserved, unproductive attacks on fine women;

* If I edit the comments, deleting the mean-spirited, undeserved, unproductive attacks and snarks, then the commenters appear to have been reasonable, polite and respectful when they were not. But only I know this because I’m the only one who saw the comments before they were edited;

* If I do not approve the comments, the suggestion is that I cannot or will not respond to the issues the comments raise.

* If I do approve the comments, many who read here, survivors of the sex trade, in particular, but others of us who are survivors as well, will be triggered in ways which are very hard to deal with. The comments I’ve already approved have been severely triggering to some of my regular commenters.

I will be approving comments soon, but I wanted to preface my approvals with the above. I don’t like approving ugliness, self-congratulatory bullshit, disingenous grandstanding, and comments mostly intended to inflict distress, or comments which — intentionally or unintentionally — trigger good women. In the end, I think the interests of women will be better served if I do approve the comments in their entirety than if I don’t.

I might change my mind about that at any moment after approving and responding to the comments in my moderation queue. I will be watching the responses carefully. If you want your comment to be approved, don’t attack anyone, don’t be dismissive, don’t be a jerk, participate honestly and decently in the discussion.

Heart

My last post, still held in moderation, is this:

Maggie:

However, that stigma is NOT created by radical feminists but by johns, pimps, prostitute-haters and woman-haters.

Now you’re misrepresenting me. I never said the stigma was created by radical feminists. I just don’t think you do anywhere near as much to get rid of it as you like to think.

You DO present, quite frequently, the idea that women in your particular kind of radical feminism are shunned by mainstream society, and that “pro-pornography” types are lauded. If by that you meant people other than sex workers themselves, fair enough… but it hasn’t been clear to me at all from your usage.

And these are my words and my views. I don’t speak for Ren, and I wouldn’t bloody dare try to!

Anuna:

I see a lot of S/M themes in the mainstream media, too. Maledom, femsub, Dominance/submission with receptive sexuality as a feminine and submissve act and strength as masculine sexual dominance.

It makes me feel like my sexuality is as minimised, invisabilised and erased just as much as anyone stating that that is all BDSM is, regardless of why they’re saying it. I personally find it horrifying on a visceral level to hear women who call themselves feminists saying that the very way my brain, skin and libido is wired is a patriarchal ploy to crush women.

Heart:

Again, I’m replying to things that were directed at Ren. I do hope that’s taken in the conversational sense it’s meant.

I’m not leading some crusade that women with huge families should call themselves “family workers” instead of mothers with huge families.

I’m more than sure that if, say, a childfree group gained a certain amount of popularity in the feminist movement and began to insist that the more appropriate word for women with large families was “brood mare” instead of “mothers with large families”, you’d be quite vocal in asserting that that terminology does not cover you, and rightly so.

The push to be recognised as “sex workers” isn’t something sex workers have just come up with out of nowhere. It occurs within the constant fight for our basic human and industrial rights and against discrimination that comes from EVERYWHERE. A big part of that is reacting to other people naming us in ways we find offensive.

I realise I’m not saying anything you don’t know. I just feel it needs to be stated, that the reasons language is important to us are once again being overlooked in favour of dialogue about choice.

Scars

Ren recently made a post about scars. For those who didn't know, she recently had a fire twirling accident that has left her with some beauties. The post mostly deals with how fond she's grown of them, how she doesn't see them as a defect but as a feature.

All I can say is wow, woman, you went through that process a hell of a lot quicker than I did!

I'm covered in scars. They're mostly from self-harm, which is one of those sensitive topics. As counter-intuitive as it sounds, there was quite some time when I got sick where self-harm and cutting literally kept me alive. Coping mechanisms are strange things like that.

I was covered in pink lines and slashes for quite some time, then they slowly began to fade to white. Even so, I was convinced for years that they were far more visible than they are, that everyone who looked at my skin saw my scars. It took me a long time to accept that my scars ARE my skin.

I remember a time when I first started seeing R, about three years ago. We were lying in bed, in one of those lazy and exhausted tangle-of-limbs configurations that people tend to end up in after Sunday afternoon sex. My legs were hooked over his, and he was running his hand over my thighs, where most of my scars live. He'd listened as I expressed my discomfort with them several times, but never really understood why they were such a big deal. Until today, when an accident of light and shadow gave him an insight.

He was caressing me, gently, admiring my skin, when he suddenly stiffened. "My god" he whispered. "There's hundreds of the things." The light had come in the window at a certain angle, catching every little lip of scar tissue and tracing for him every cut and every slash. For the first time, someone was looking at my legs as I see them, instead of seeing only the ten or so big scars.

I automatically moved to cover myself, but he stopped me. Slowly and reverently, he bent and kissed my legs, running his hands gently over my skin. He worshipped those scars as part of me, and the shame slowly faded.

It took some time before I could say I totally accepted my scars, but that one day was a huge help to me. Now? They're me. I wouldn't get rid of them if I could.