#left wing statists

[blackwolfmanx4]

Real Talk:

Statism is the belief system of having authority use violence and coercion against the people who've broken laws, regardless of how arbitrary they are. That is the ultimate form of brainrot. Gun control, drug wars, imaginary lines on every country, taxes etc are the reasons how we got here. If there is no victim then there is no crime. Stop excusing politicians using fluffy words to justify breaking the non aggression principle.

[blackwolfmanx4]

You people have a lot in common with right wingers, the sole difference is y'all deepthroat the blue boot. The quicker you understand “lesser evil” is the fattest cope the better.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[blackwolfmanx4]

You can learn everything about a person by looking at decals on a vehicle.

This one worships two gods.

[blackwolfmanx4]

Pastor Jamal Bryant Attacks Black Conservatives, Exposing THIS...

A pastor who spouts political drivel is no man of God, but a false prophet. This guy is the reason why people on the right call them the Democratic plantation.

[blackwolfmanx4]

General Fluff & Specific Evil

Voters fill their own heads with fluffy nice things they were taught by the government, but never get in tune with reality of what they voted for.

[blackwolfmanx4]

☝🏾 Learn the fucking difference, government fags

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

RIP to you but what makes me immune to falling into a cult isn't that I think I'm too smart or moral... It's that I think it would require willingly making myself part of a group of people.

It would seem to require actually speaking to someone, but most of all what makes me immune is that I think the cults are all avoiding me personally, because they don't want me. They only knock on my door once and then never again and I always think it was something I said.

My toxic trait is that I think being sucked into a cult requires being willing to seek or accept human contact, and that it requires a group of people who actually wants you among their numbers [have not found one to date].

[dolphin-diaries]

Who Gets To Talk Detransition?

Originally published on Dolphin Diaries

The story is supposed to go like this: a trans cult, or maybe the medical establishment, steals a young girl under its ghastly wing. A wounded girl, a scared one, desperate for reprieve from a violent world that has whipped her into self-hatred. The kidnapping cultists promise an escape. A cure to the horror of her body. Then, mutilation follows, which a brave few will eventually try to undo—only they never quite can.

No, wait.

The story is supposed to go like this: some people are trans men. They are assigned female at birth, but they are men, and so some want to make their body male. But sometimes, a select few regret their transition. They aren’t trans men. They’re actually cis—in agreement with their sex—but they’ve made a mistake for whatever reason. They are very scarce. A statistically inconsequential minority to which we ought not cede ground. After all, why should a society be concerned with a statistically minuscule people?

Regardless of which way you tell it, two constants remain. One: the trans and the detrans are antagonistic; the detrans have been hurt by transition care and now threaten its existence. Two: those that detransition are seeking to correct a prior mistake. Be it from the right or left, the story is always that of failure and regret.

Part I: When Your Worst Fears Come True

September 2023 marked the eighth anniversary of me starting testosterone. Getting HRT was something I’d fought for with great difficulty and determination: I’d burned bridges with an abusive family; I’d come out a year prior to the entirety of my university class and had already lived as a man; I then dropped out of university so I could work a full-time job to afford HRT. I did all this with full knowledge that I could not access the legal transition system in my country. I’d be unable to change my gender marker and would have to deal with that fact in a place where most people barely know what ‘transgender’ is, let alone accept it. But I was willing to weather all of that, and to my luck, I had no trouble passing for a man, and the vast majority of friends and acquaintances accepted me.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic to start testosterone. In adolescence my masculinity had been denied to me, the feminine traits of myself and my body forcibly exaggerated to put me in my (woman’s) place. Now, it felt like having all the features I’d come to despise overtaken by new growth. Like a ruin reclaimed by fresh ivy. I wasn’t entirely content—I wanted to be indistinguishable from a cis man, untouched by any insidious womanhood whatsoever. Only I found most cis men either uninspired-looking or repugnant, so… a pretty cis man? Androgynous, but not too androgynous, so I don’t get gay-bashed?

The real end goal I wished of my body was nebulous. There was no man I could cite as the Ur-Man for me, trans or cis, neither in character nor appearance. It wasn’t for lack of the much maligned Good Male Role Models in my life; I simply resonated with none of them. But there was life to be lived anyway. So I put one foot in front of the other, and sometimes, I knew my steps were dictated as much by fear of transphobia as they were by my own desires.

There are many things to fear while living as trans. One of my most personal anxieties was detransition. A forced one would be most horrid; to be put in a position where my bodily autonomy, so hard-won, could be stripped away as if it never existed.

But my strangest fear was that I would want to detransition. Not from some cruel necessity or right-wing brainwashing or what have you; genuinely, rationally, actively want it.

I knew why I feared that. Whenever I met another trans man or heard of their stories, some jigsaw puzzles would simply not fit. I never once desired to be a man until I learned of trans men’s existence. Never sought to play the role of a man and only half-enjoyed them now, if at all. Never, not even now, dreamt of myself as a man. At times another trans man would have the same ‘odd’ pieces, but then something else would find itself amiss again. On and on that list went.

One might call this a foregone conclusion in retrospect. Shouldn’t I have known? Shouldn’t a doctor have known? But this rather ignores that the psychology and study of transsexuality are hopelessly warped with attempts to eradicate it. My country’s procedures were dated. The questionnaires I took to have my doctor conclude I’m transsexual? Those were lousy with decades-dated misogyny (do you like housework? do you get aroused by housework? or maybe by cars?) and with voyeuristic, invasive questions (how do you have sex? how do you masturbate?) There were correct answers; there was no variation, which is only allowed for the cisgender. That procedure has since improved, especially in the West, but the traces remain. How does one introspect on one’s gender when that was the model for it? How does one even attempt to unravel the relationship between misogyny and desire to abandon womanhood when to do so threatens access to medical care? What sign ought I have looked for to distinguish myself from trans men when it was demanded no distinctions exist?

One does not exit a hostile care system with a healthier, more stable identity. That is nothing short of a miracle.

September 2023 marked the eighth anniversary of me exiting hostile care with a coveted prize in my grasp. It also marked the moment I looked in the mirror and saw exactly what I’d sought to win in that hellscape: an indisputable man. Not a cis man, of course, but one bereft of all the features that had haunted me to the point of self-harm. I was free, I had won; no one would ever look at me and think me a woman—no one ever did, those days.

I had won. And in my victory, I felt nothing at all.

Part II: Failure and Regret

The Right invests much bombast into transition regret. Loud ring the warning bells: this could happen to you! Your child! A girl with so much to live for, rendered barren, flat-chested, a misshapen man-thing! You, too, will live to regret it!

It amuses me. Queerness and butchness had marked me long ago; I was never particularly buxom or fecund. Never, in the heterosexist sense, something worthy of desire. I was a misshapen man-thing far before I asked people to call me ‘he.’ The people who made sure I knew I was a monster man-woman were precisely the kinds of people that now warned me away from turning myself into what—according to them—I already was. The sheer parental panic with which I’d been forced into makeup and dresses, you’d think I transitioned already.

Even more amusingly, sometimes the Right claims to care about butch lesbians. Tomboys are being mutilated, they say. It’s an imposition of gender stereotypes; women can be masculine!

But if the Right believes women can be lesbian and masculine, what’s with the whole fixation on ruined femininity and birthing wombs?

Indeed, the Right’s acceptance of detransitioned women is full of little caveats. They are to be paraded as damaged goods at conservative rallies. Their lost breasts and ovaries will be ever-ogled, figuratively if not literally, and the ‘irreversible damage’ left by testosterone examined with morbid fascination. They are the Right’s Magdalenes. They’re proof there’s good in the transgressive—that is, that the enemy can be pitied, assimilated. As an underclass, of course. They’re never to truly cease being damaged, for they must be proof that sex can only be ruined, never changed.

For a detransitioner, there is temptation in the Right’s conditional acceptance. It offers an easy answer to their current pain. The past choice they may regret or suffer under—why, it should’ve been prevented! If only you listened to the right authorities, all would’ve been well. Not altogether different than regretting a marriage or college major. Many an adult decries stupid choices of youth—and those certainly happen—but what’s scariest of all is the notion you weren’t making rash or ill-informed decisions. I know I wasn’t. And if that is so, then it means the current self—the mature one, the one with 20/20 hindsight—could make a mistake, too.

Right-wing detransitioners take for granted there exists a guardian angel that could’ve healed them of the gendered distress they once felt and showed them a path to contentment. That is a very tall order, considering how misogynistic and hostile psychiatry and psychology are, historically speaking. And that’s to say nothing of religion. But at least they would’ve been prevented from transitioning; misery averted—right?

My guardian angel, you could say, was lack of funds. I wanted top surgery—double mastectomy—but there was no way I could afford it, not in many years’ time. Now I realise I would’ve come to regret it and would’ve likely sought to reverse its effects. So I’m all good, right? I benefitted from how flawed trans healthcare is, didn’t I?

Perhaps. But there was a reason I wanted a mastectomy, and not a frivolous one. Every time I needed to see a doctor for a respiratory infection, I did so in fear of transphobic malpractice. I would minimise the time I spent in places where my chest could be exposed—gyms, pools, beaches, goddamned corporate retreats. And then there was the way my body, breasts included, had been used to prove to me I was not just a woman but Woman, a biodestined vessel for coy giggles, cookware, and pregnancy. And how that made me feel.

Indeed, I would later find out there are women and nonbinary people that do not identify with manhood yet seek the exact same top surgery I once wanted, for similar reasons. With no regrets. They wish to take control of their body and do so. And I know that, had I been able to get top surgery in the past, it would’ve made me happy for a good while.

So what’s more important: years of constant anxiety, or lack of hypothetical regret?

The right-wing detransitioner assumes one’s current self to be the ultimate judge of one’s choices—but take that principle to its logical conclusion, and it will seem like no decision should ever be made. There is always a prospective Future You which possesses more knowledge. Always the possibility of regret. Of course, decisions in life are sort of inevitable, but don’t worry about that—the powers that be will handle that. Ancestral tradition, or a caring authority figure. That’s also all humans with exactly the same issues, but don’t worry about that either. Maybe God is speaking through them. You never know.

In the end, the prescripts of the Right march to the same grim conclusion. That the only decision you can ever make with total certainty is death.

Part III: Death, the Tarot Kind

Queer culture delights in tales of transformation. We were all once larval—in the closet, often abused and scared. Trapped in a world of rigid roles and brutal dominion. But one day, we hope to metamorphose into our true shape and to take flight above a blissful, lawless, ever-shifting sea of change.

Most queer people are cisgender, and more still do not seek to transition, but the nature of all our transgressions is intimately entwined with gender anyway. We’re all doing it ‘wrong,’ by the wider society’s definition, even the most masculine of cis gay men or the most feminine of cis lesbian women. Unsurprising, then, are the queer community’s various attempts to embrace gender variance and to lay bare the plasticity of sex.

There is nothing per se about detransition that does not fit this mould. If gender is to be fucked with, why not take it for a swing? Indeed, in my experience most queer people would agree it’s entirely possible to detransition without weaponising transphobia or lapsing rightward.

But that’s usually a hypothetical thought exercise that ends exactly there. Maybe that queer person knows a detransitioner, maybe they don’t; regardless, the lives of the detransitioned do not interact with queer ideas of sex/gender, or indeed queer ideas about anything. The only time the detransitioned are really remarked on is only to state our statistical insignificance—or rather, the statistical insignificance of transition regret. I don’t personally regret my transition for the most part, so I wouldn’t even count there.

Whereas the Right sings lyrical about all the motivations and trials and tribulations of the detransitioned (and deftly twists the verses to fit the chorus), the Left does not usually consider the lives of the detransitioned at all. Mistakes happen, they suppose. Kind of funny we ‘failed at gender’ twice. Too bad we’re so miserable, they guess. What, ‘the patriarchy made you do it’? BuzzFeed feminism is so-o-o 2010s, bro.

It would be accurate to surmise the queer community has ceded the concept of detransition to the Right. The queer stance is, in effect, ‘it doesn’t matter anyway’—a defensive and reactive one.

That is not to say the Left as a whole is to blame for grifting detransitioners or the Right itself—the blame is always, first and foremost, on the ones that actually do the harm. And the negligence of the Left doesn’t really harm those that happily push others under the bus—sadly, some people are just assholes. No, the consequences are felt instead by detrans people that have no desire to participate in the transphobia circus, and after that, trans people themselves. The Right’s deathgrip on the detransition narrative means detransition itself is conceptually tied to the Right. Because there is no alternative trans-positive narrative, there is no way to exist as detrans and not affirm someone else’s transphobia, no matter how many times you say you don’t hate trans people. After all there is only one thing people think of when they hear ‘detransitioner.’ And now you are it, whether you like it or not.

I feared I would detransition because, on some level, I knew I might. But why fear it? It’s hard to be trans. There are clear privileges to socially presenting as your birth sex. Doctors will readily help you undo transition. I didn’t want to grift—well, fucking fantastic. Easy enough to not do something. What’s the problem?

I feared it because it’s soul-crushing to know your existence hurts the people you love most. Your friends, partners, mentors. So many cis people in my past knew me as The Trans Person—and now what? How much of the good I had done would be ruined? And by what possible example could I imagine my life as a detransitioner? What is there to even aspire to? And what about everything I’d sacrificed to transition in the first place? All the strife and ridicule I endured, only to have it whispered to me from leering faces: “See? We were right all along.”

All that, to face alone.

At a certain point my resistance to the idea of detransition was motivated only by this. Only by what others would make of me against my will. Not my personal desires. Nothing else at all. To be turned into such a spectacle, a public property of a person, felt like nothing short of death.

Part IV: Afterlife

I decided to start this substack after listening to every podcast appearance by Lucy Kartikasari I could find. She is a detrans woman with a similar yet different story; she transitioned much younger, but went through a similarly arcane approval system and years of waiting; she is not a lesbian; she has detransitioned, and she speaks in favour of trans healthcare and trans rights. The name Dolphin Diaries also originates with her—or rather, with a different, anonymous user, whose idea she broadcast on her TikTok. A dolphin as a symbol of detransition; a mammal that evolved from the ocean to walk on land and then returned to an aquatic life. I find it an appealing and pithy comparison, one free of unnecessary gendering or judgement.

There are precious few voices that speak of detransition in a positive, non-right-wing light. It’s a perspective fraught with thorny, uncomfortable questions. A perspective which is easier to ignore—unless you can’t. If for no one else, I write this for people that felt the same way I did. Trapped, not by ‘mistakes’ or by ‘gender ideology’, but by the image others have painted of them before they could even protest.

I do not write this for the Right. There is nothing I can say that would sway you, and there is nothing you can say that would sway me—and believe me, I have listened more carefully and with far more good faith than you ever have. Feel free to comment how much you pity my womb, or something. I promise to leave its fertility a mystery. I’m a tease that way.

As for other potential readers of this blog: while I do believe it a failure of queer rhetoric to adequately synthesise detransition into the overall gender politic, I don’t believe it’s everyone else’s job to create that synthesis. Who better than a detransitioner, after all? I ask not that you solve my problems for me.

I ask only that you listen.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part One

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

Barcelona always felt golden at dusk. The sun melted over the rooftops in amber streaks, casting shadows across the streets below like brushstrokes on a canvas. You stood on the balcony of the apartment you shared with Alexia, eyes tracing the skyline, the weight of the moment settling softly in your chest.

You had made it.

Three years ago, that dream had felt almost foolish. Transferring from Bayern Munich to FC Barcelona Femeni was a leap — not just professionally, but personally. You had left behind a city you knew, friends who were family, and a club where you'd found your footing. But something in you had known: to become the player you wanted to be, you had to go where the very best played.

And now, looking back… you couldn’t believe how far you had come.

A regular starter. The team’s go-to left winger. Goals, assists, chemistry that clicked. Last season had been the best of your career — and not just statistically. You played free, fast, fearless. You felt alive on the pitch in a way you never had before. Your name was being whispered alongside the biggest in the game — your name even floated among early predictions for the Ballon d'Or shortlist.

But it wasn’t just about football.

Inside the apartment, you heard the clink of mugs and the sound of soft humming. Alexia. Your Alexia. She had been everything you didn’t expect when you first arrived — and everything you didn’t know you needed.

You remembered your first day at training so clearly. The girls all huddled together, talking fast in Spanish and Catalan, laughing, hugging, always touching. It had been a lot. Too much, if you were honest. You were used to the quiet intensity of German training sessions — focused, structured, emotionally reserved. The warmth here had felt overwhelming.

But then Ingrid had appeared beside you like a calm in the storm.

Quiet, grounded, kind — she had taken you under her wing from the start. Introduced you to the rhythm of the team, told you which girls would make you feel at home, which cafe had the best coffee, and which Spanish phrases you absolutely needed to learn. She’d told you, with a small smile, that the affection would feel strange at first. “Give it time,” she’d said. “It’ll grow on you.”

She was right.

Through Ingrid, you got to know Mapi. Sarcastic and fiery and completely unfiltered, but protective as hell. At first, she’d just been curious — always teasing you about your accent and your music taste — but she’d also gone out of her way to make you laugh. To make you feel seen. And eventually, she became someone you could count on — someone who had your back, no matter what.

And then there was Alexia.

You still remembered the first time she spoke to you. It was something simple — a comment about your left foot in training — but her voice had caught in your ears like a song. You’d looked up and there she was: the Alexia Putellas. Captain. Ballon d’Or winner. Legend.

You were completely starstruck.

But the more you spoke, the more you saw through the icon. She was quiet. A little awkward. Gentle. She blushed easily and made the dumbest jokes when she was nervous. She tried to teach you Spanish over long walks and cafe dates, always patient, always smiling when you got the accent wrong.

Somewhere in those moments, between late-night conversations and quiet touches, you fell in love with her.

She fell right back.

And now, two years into your relationship, you’d built a life that felt like something out of a dream.

The sliding door creaked open and you turned to see her stepping out onto the balcony, carrying two mugs of coffee. She wore your hoodie — the big grey one with the frayed cuffs — and her damp hair was tied back loosely. Her face was soft from her nap, eyes still a little sleepy.

“Cafe para mi estrella,” she said, handing you your cup with a smile that still made your heart skip a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing hers. “Gracias, carino.”

She leaned against the railing next to you, shoulder pressing into yours, her gaze following yours toward the city skyline.

“Do you ever think about how far we’ve come?” you asked softly.

Alexia looked at you. “All the time.”

You let out a slow breath, letting the weight of it all settle over you. “Three years ago I was terrified. I didn’t know if I’d make it. I didn’t know if I’d fit in. I didn’t know if I’d find people who got me. And now…” You smiled, eyes stinging just a little. “Now I have everything I’ve ever wanted. On and off the pitch.”

Alexia turned fully toward you, lifting a hand to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers lingered on your cheek.

“You built this,” she said. “You worked for all of it. Don’t ever forget that.”

You leaned into her touch. “I won’t. Not with you reminding me every day.”

She grinned, that rare, shy grin that was just for you. “I’m your number one fan!”

You laughed, heart full. “You and my mom.”

The two of you stood there for a while in comfortable silence, the city buzzing quietly beneath you. The world felt still. Peaceful. Balanced.

It had taken sacrifice. Grit. Courage. But it was worth it. Every step had led you here — to Barcelona, to the team, to the love of your life.

You smiled to yourself, whispering the words under your breath like a quiet prayer.

“I never thought life could get this good.”

Alexia, eyes still on the city, reached for your hand. "And yet… here we are.”

Here we are.

Neither of you could know what was coming.

In a matter of days, a single moment would change everything.

It would start with a sound.

A screech.

A crash.

And then silence.

And just like that, the life you had built so carefully would begin to crack.

[beloved-of-john]

Please pray for Marcy Rheintgen

Marcy, a 20 year old transgender college student, has been arrested for using a women's bathroom while visiting her grandparents in Florida. In an act of protest against Florida's absurd and bigoted public bathroom laws, she sent a letter to each of Florida's 160 state lawmakers beforehand, informing them that she would be entering a women's public bathroom as a trans woman.

The letter reads:

Hi, my name is Marcy Rheintgen, I'm a twenty year old college student, and I'm writing this letter to tell you that I am going to break the law. On March 14th, at around 3 pm, I intend to use the women's bathroom on the second floor of the Capitol building, across from room 222C. I know that as a transgender woman, this means that I will probably be arrested. I am violating this law because I personally believe it to be wrong. I don't work for or are associated with any major political or media organizations, I'm not a political activist, I'm not an influencer, I'm just a normal college student who thinks this law is wrong. Enclosed is a photo of me to identify me if you wish to arrest me. I understand that I could go to jail for up to sixty days in a men's prison, where, if the statistics are true, I would likely be raped. Going to jail would uproot my life and give me a criminal record. I understand that if you're receiving this letter, you're part of the Florida Bicameral Legislature, which means you're probably one of the people who wrote this law or voted for it. I know that you know in your heart that this law is wrong and unjust. I know that you know in your heart that it's wrong to arrest me and jail me for sixty days for simply using the bathroom. I know that you know in your heart that transgender people are human too, and that you can't arrest us away. I know that you know in your heart that transgender people are no different from you or anybody else. I know that you know in your heart that the same people that go to church with you, eat in the same restaurants, go to the same schools, root for the same sports teams, watch the same movies and pray to the same God as you cannot be all bad. I know that you know that I have dignity. That's why I know that you won't arrest me. Pray for me,

M.R.

Marcy Rheintgen

Unfortunately her hopes for compassion were misplaced. She was met by police when she arrived at the bathroom, and when she continued to enter the bathroom, to wash her hands and pray the rosary, she was arrested. An officer from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement confiscated Marcy's rosary and handcuffed her, searched her person and her car, and dragged her to Leon County Detention Facility, where she was kept in the men's ward for over 25 hours.

Elaborating on her decision to pray the rosary in that moment, she told the Substack publication Erin in the Morning, "I'm a really religious person", describing herself as a devout Catholic with an appreciation for "family values" but a soft spot for the famous Catholic left wing activist Dorothy Day.

Her act of defiance against transphobic and unjust laws is an inspiration for all trans and queer people, but especially for trans and queer Catholics and Christians. I was moved by her unapologetic expression of both her faith and her identity and their intersection in the face of adversity.

However, now Marcy needs our support and most importantly our prayers. She has stated that she didn't expect to be arrested or prosecuted, and is very scared of the potential consequences for her - being held in a men's prison for up to 60 days where she could be sexually assaulted and/or forced to cut off her hair, being temporarily denied access to her HRT and having to live with a criminal record. "If I’m a criminal, it’s going to be so hard for me to live a normal life, all because I washed my hands," she said.

So please pray for Marcy, and if you feel able to do so, join me in dedicating a Rosary to her, as she intended to pray.

Lord God, please keep Marcy safe and lend her Your strength during this difficult time. Soften the hearts of her oppressors and help them see that this manmade attempt at justice is not God's justice. Amen. 🙏

[blackwolfmanx4]

Trump Won & You Can't Blame Black Men

Guess gaslighting the “brothas” to vote for Kamala Harris didn't go as intended. It's almost as if black people aren't owed to the Democrats.🤷🏾‍♂️

[yammpi3]

𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀 𝙉𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏 𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙆𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙤 𝙏𝙖𝙠𝙖𝙢𝙞 [𝙃𝙖𝙬𝙠𝙨]

synopsis. You were a former hero commission hero but when you made a simple mistake in a mission the commission sent you on they deemed you unfit and fired you, hence made you out to be a villain to the public. A few years later you meet your old partner Hawks out on his nightly patrol then you guys make up….made out .. :3

— content warnings. sorta plot with smut, eating out, p to v, kissing, sex sex sex, not really coordinated well? i think? dom/sub hawks

— W.C 2.3k

— authors note. This has been rotting in my drafts for like a year now but i thought i should post something…so..heres this!! Im rlly sorry if it’s formatted kinda weirdly, imo the smut is also written sorta weird but i think thats just me..overthinking it ANYWAYS enjoy reading <33 also Thank you FOR 100 FOLLOWERS?? i didn’t expect my blog would reach that much so TYTY.

Hawks sighed heavily, leaning back in his office desk chair, elbows propping on the armrests. He rubbed his tired eyes, tilting his head back, attempting to avoid eye contact with the stack of paperwork that lay out before him.

Every muscle in his body ached with exhaustion. It felt like he had been sitting in this same spot for days, poring over reports and documents in an endless cycle of busy work. As the number-two hero, the public demanded nothing but his very best. They expected him to always be alert and swift in responding to any crisis, dealing with volatile situations and dangerous villains with calm precision. 

But they didn't see this part. They didn't witness the countless late nights spent filling out forms, compiling statistics, and attending meetings after meetings. No cameras captured the headaches induced by mind-numbing bureaucracy or the frustration of dealing with petty politics. This was the hidden cost of his elevated rank—an incessant paper-pushing grindstone that wore him down more than any actual fight ever could. 

 

Slowly dragging his hands down his face, Hawks sighed again as the aches and knots of tension complained loudly in his neck and shoulders. For a brief moment, he considered using his feathers to shred just a few stray documents, to do less work. 

He stretched his arms over his head and rolled his tense muscles, his wings fluttering restlessly behind him. All he wanted at that moment was to forget. To spread his wings and fly through open skies, feeling the wind ruffle through his feathers as he left his troubles far below.

 

Tilting his chair back as far as it would go, he gave a long-suffering look at the piles of work that towered precariously around him, silently pleading with it all to spontaneously catch fire or simply vanish into thin air. With a resigned sigh, Hawks dropped all four chair legs back to the floor and reluctantly pulled the topmost file towards him once more, bracing himself for another grind of the ever-turning wheel.

Hawks rubbed his tired eyes once more, feeling his motivation drain away with each mundane paragraph he read. At this rate, he'd be here all night and well into the morning. With a groan, he tossed the file back onto the pile, temporarily defeated. Maybe a quick break was what he needed to recharge his focus. 

 

Pushing away from his desk, Hawks stood and stretched out his cramped body to its full height, his wings unfolding to their full span. A midnight flight around the city was just what he needed. The cool night air and darkened streets would do wonders for clearing his cluttered mind. 

Stepping out onto his office balcony, Hawks took a few steps back, then launched himself into the sky with his wings. He flew high, circling up towards the crowning heights of the skyscrapers that shone below. Closing his eyes briefly, he took a deep breath of the fresher air, feeling tensions beginning to melt away already. 

 

As he glided back down towards street level, Hawks scanned the sidewalks lazily while lost in thought. He was mulling over the options when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. 

Your shadow slipped between alleyways, scanning for any civilians in the area. Suddenly flashes of red nearing a rooftop drew your eye—a familiar winged silhouette.

Going on a nearby rooftop, you spotted Hawks looking down, trying to find who or what he saw. 

You and Hawks used to know each other pretty well in your teen years when you dreamed of being a great hero. So when you were selected by  the Commission to become one, you were ecstatic. But from day one, Keigo Takami made things... complicated.

You two went way back to your training days, though you mostly kept your head down back then. Once in the pro scene though, Takami always found ways to rile you up during sessions, whether with sly taunts or risky stunts that pushed protocol to the limit. 

Part of you wanted to throttle that arrogant asshole, but another part couldn't deny the thrill he made you feel. 

Late nights spent training turned into more..private scenarios. For a time, it was nice to find solace in each other. But then came the ruling—you'd been deemed "not hero material" after one mistake, ruining your future. That's when Takami tried to connect with you again, but the hero commission wouldn't even allow him to be close to you to not damage the reputation he already made with the public. 

"You're up rather late for a hero," you whispered directly into his ear, barely suppressing a chuckle at his startled flinch. Golden eyes met yours warily, yet he made no move to escape our intimate embrace. 

"I'm off duty," was his measured reply. "And you?" Smoke clung thick to the memories in his eyes. 

Your fingers, carefully gloved, traced the proud arch of his wings, feeling tension bleed away slowly. "Care for some company, Keigo?"

He held your gaze steadily, considering. At last he nodded, extending a hand. “Not that I can shake you off anyway,” he replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

You sat together on the secluded rooftop, settling close against one another. As you caught up, you both couldn't help but feel deprived of each other's touch; it had been far too long since you'd seen one another face to face. Sure, he'd heard about you through others in the commission, but being here together was different somehow. 

When your voices at last fell silent, a gentle touch turned your chin to meet Hawks' searching eyes. "Y/N…" he murmured, leaning in so your faces were mere inches apart. One of his wings stretched out to block any view from the street below, enveloping you both in its feathery embrace. 

Hawks closed the remaining distance between you, pressing his lips to yours in a soft yet insistent kiss.

One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, as the other wrapped around your waist to draw you flush against his body. You felt even better than he remembered. 

 

When your lips parted under him, Hawks held back a groan as he rested his forehead against yours as you both panted for air. Wisps of steam rose between the two of you in the chill night. 

If he tasted you fully, it would undo his last shred of willpower.

“You're going to be the end of me.." Hawks murmured thickly. Already, he ached to have more, but taking you here against the railing would be too brazen, even for his recklessness. 

"Then take me somewhere more...private then," you shot back in a sinful whisper. 

With a sly smile, Hawks swept you into his arms in a bridal carry, wings already prepared for launch. "Hold on tight.”

 

Hawks kicked off from the roof of the building and took flight, relishing your tight grip around his shoulders. The thrill of having you in his arms sent adrenaline surging through his veins. 

He landed lightly on the balcony of his high-rise apartment, still holding you securely against his chest. Your masked face was turned up to meet his gaze.

"I.. I really missed you," Hawks murmured, pressing you back against the wall with his body. He caged you in with outspread wings, feathers gently ghosting your skin. 

 

"Me too.." you replied. Your hands came up to roam his body just as eagerly.

Hawks captured your lips in a searing kiss, conveying all his pent-up needs and desires without restraint. This was wrong on so many levels, and yet he'd never felt more alive. 

 

Kicking open the balcony doors, he swept you inside and laid you down on his plush sofa. His hands worked busily to remove your mask, wanting nothing between you and him; clothing fell piece by piece until nothing was left. 

 

"Say you want this," Hawks pleaded roughly, desperate for your answer. 

Your intoxicating laughter rang out as you pulled him against your body. "I want all of you, Keigo." 

Hawks' hands roamed your body eagerly, relearning every curve as his lips traveled along your jawline. You sighed contentedly, arching into his touch while undoing the fastenings of his hero costume with practiced expertise. 

 

Slowly, methodically, he kissed his way down the delicate column of your throat. Hawks lingered there to suckle your rapid pulse, eliciting breathy moans. His name falling from your lips in such a manner sent fresh spikes of arousal through him.

 

As you lay bare under him, Hawks paused to simply take in the sublime vision of your naked form, illuminated by the moonlight. "You're so..beautiful," he whispered in awe, tracing idle patterns upon your sensitized flesh.

 

Your hands delved into the downy feathers at his wings' bases, eliciting a guttural groan. The way you caressed his most sensitive areas, teasing but not quite enough, tested Hawks' faltering control. He nipped lightly at the swell of your breast in retaliation.

Tracing a tortuous path down your torso with wet kisses and love bites, Hawks' fingers dipped between your thighs. He chuckled at discovering your slick arousal, already swollen and desperate for friction. Slowly, he circled your clit, gathering your arousal onto his fingers.

 

"Please..." you begged wantonly, bucking your hips to chase more contact. But Hawks would loathe to grant your unspoken request so easily. He continued his maddening ministrations, coaxing you higher and higher with expert precision. Only when your keening cries bordered on anguish did he finally decide to sink two fingers deep inside.

 

The powerful rhythm he set drove you swiftly towards the peak. Hawks swallowed your hoarse screams of completion, savoring your intimate essence on his tongue.

"I've missed this..," he murmured, pressing a tender kiss on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

 

Then his tongue delved into your slick arousal with deft, practiced strokes. Your responsive sighs and the way you grabbed Takami's hair only spurred him onward in his devotions. 

 

He alternated between broad, flat licks and focused flicks directly over your clit. When Keigo very lightly grazed his teeth along your folds, you keened and bucked again into his ministrations wildly. He hummed his approval, sending vibrations through your core.

 

It did not take long for you to climb once more towards the precipice, unraveling beautifully beneath his skilled mouth. Hawks drank deeply from your release, prolonging each aftershock with slow caresses of his tongue. Only when your quivering stopped did he withdraw, his eyes twinkling mischievously as he cleaned his glistening chin. 

 

As he swirled his tongue around his lips, savoring the last hints of you, you gazed up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Your chest still heaved in languid aftershocks of pleasure, your limbs boneless and slack upon the plush cushions.

"Come here," you beckoned hoarsely, crooking a finger. Your body cried out to be filled after such thorough worship, muscles reflexively clenching around nothing inside. 

 

Hawks obeyed without hesitation, crawling up to drape himself over your welcoming form once more. You gripped his shoulders firmly, flipping your positions with a playful show of wiry strength, and smiled down at him wickedly. 

 

Grasping his aching length and rubbing the tip of his cock had him seeing stars. Hawks groaned unabashedly.

Slowly, you let him inside, savoring each velvet glide. Hawks bucked helplessly, claws scrabbling for purchase against the cushions as your sensual walls milked his length.

 

The pleasure you drew from Hawks was exquisite torture. Each roll of your hips sent fresh shockwaves through his twitching member, shattering his composure. He was reduced to begging, his nails scratched weakly at your thighs as you rode him to the brink. 

 

"Please...I need to come," Hawks gasped, moving his hips upward in frantic little thrusts. His cock throbbed painfully with the desperate need for release. 

You smiled down at him cruelly. "Beg for it." Your lips formed the words deliciously slowly, knowing their effect.

Hawks keened, wings fluttering uselessly. "Please let me cum p-please I wanna cum, I need..to please..” 

 

Suddenly, you bore down on him, grinding your pelvis against his in brutal circles. The new angle sent Hawks reaching his high with a raw cry. 

 

You quickly let him pull out as his cock pulsed and thick ropes of seed spilled forth, splattering his taut stomach in pearly ribbons. Hawks shuddered through wave after wave; your continued help milking every last drop from him. 

Breathless and spent, he could only lay pliantly as you leaned down to collect his essence on your fingers. Your wicked tongue flicked out to taste, making Hawks twitch anew in oversensitivity.

 

You smiled softly, your expression gentling as you gazed upon Hawks' flushed, panting form. His chest still heaved mightily in the aftermath of his climax.

 

Reverently, you traced light patterns on his ribs and pecs with delicate fingers, soothing away any last tremors. Hawks hummed appreciatively at your tender touch, grasping one of your hands to press a lingering kiss to the palm. 

 

"Come here, Birdie," you murmured, beckoning him into your open embrace. Hawks complied readily, nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a contented sigh. Your legs tangled together comfortably as his wings folded around you both like a feathery blanket.

No threats of capture or duty rules could penetrate the sanctity of that moment. There, held securely within your arms, Hawks felt at once protected yet free—freed from the shackles of self-doubt and expectation. He belonged, body and soul, to one who accepted him fully without judgment or demand.

 

Drowsiness began to take hold as your rhythmic caresses through soft-down lulled Hawks towards slumber. "Stay?" he mumbled into your skin, his voice blurred by oncoming sleep yet filled with gentle hope. 

You kissed his forehead, followed by a whisper, "I’ll stay, promise." was the sweetest assurance Hawks could wish for.

© yammpi3 2024. All work belongs to @yammpi3. You can repost if you want to support my blog/writing! Please don't modify, translate, or plagiarize in any way on ANY platform.

[blackwolfmanx4]

“Nyooo my tyrannical candidate didn't win, I'm gonna kill myself!!!😭”

[complete]

Our womanhood is not an opinion to be debated: it is real

Words P. Eldridge

On 16 April, the UK Supreme Court moved to exclude trans women from legal definitions of womanhood: a decision which shocked trans and LGBTQIA+ communities across the UK. Let's be clear, without any caveats: regardless of what the law says, trans women are women, trans men are men and non-binary people exist.

Below, one writer pens a moving call to arms following the devastating ruling.

We do not need the permission of courts or pundits or politicians. We do not require validation from panels, party manifestos, or editorial columns. Our womanhood is not contingent on your consensus. It is not open for discussion. It is not up for democratic vote. It is not yours to approve. It is ours: lived, sacred, defiant.

Our womanhood is not an opinion to be debated. It is not a position on a talk show, a point of controversy in a manifesto, or a hypothetical for white men in robes to argue about. It is real. It is felt in our bones, in our blood, in every moment we step out the door and dare to exist anyway. It is a lived truth, tested by fire, carried with scars, and proclaimed with every breath we have left.

"You do not get to legislate our lives like we are clutter in the margins of your cis histories"

You do not get to redefine us out of existence. You do not get to write policy that renders us statistical ghosts, then feign neutrality. You do not get to draw a red pen through our lives and call it feminism. You do not get to control the narrative and pretend it’s science. You do not get to kill us – through systems, through silence, through neglect – and then misname us on our gravestones as if we weren’t here at all.

You do not get to dictate the terms of our survival. You do not get to decide who is “woman enough” to be protected from violence. You do not get to weaponise biology as if it were a gun you could point at our identities. You do not get to legislate our lives like we are clutter in the margins of your cis histories.

We will not let you erase us.

We are not your rhetorical device. We are not your institutional afterthought. We are not tokens. We are not costumes. We are not missteps or misunderstandings or mistakes. We are not some philosophical edge case in your tired debate about the “limits” of inclusion. We are not your moral panic. We are not your social experiment. We are not the enemy.

We are women.

Not because a government database agrees. Not because a court has ratified our humanity. But because we say so. Because we live it. Because we have always been. Because we carved space for ourselves in a world that left none.

"To every cis person reading this: now is your moment. Choose your role in this history"

And we are women in the fullest, richest, most radical sense. We are women who’ve had to build our womanhood in the ruins of state neglect, in the aftermath of family rejection, under the weight of public scorn. We are women who have loved each other through grief and terror. We are women who have taught ourselves how to survive when survival was not guaranteed. We are women who mourn every sister lost and carry their names into every room we enter.

We are women who do not apologise.

We are women who will not make ourselves smaller so that you can feel safe in your ignorance. We will not dilute our identities into something more palatable for your sensibilities. We will not shrink our truths to fit within the boundaries of your institutions. If you cannot stretch your understanding of womanhood to include us, that is a failure of your imagination, not our legitimacy.

We are women.

And no court, no government, no right-wing columnist, no bitter social media troll can take that from us. Not today. Not ever.

We are women, and we do not need your fucking permission to exist. https://magazine.gaytimes.com/our-womanhood-is-not-an-opinion-to-be-debated-it-is-real/

[shituationist]

With regards to "lonely young men" discourse, people often talk as though this is a new problem which confronts young men and often as if it's a problem that's unique to the digitalized world, that the internet plays a casual role.

That kind of attribution is wrong-headed even if digital technology has exacerbated it, but the decline in socialization among young men predates the internet reaching into everyday life. The decline starts by the 1950s. If there's a technology that's responsible, it's the suburb, which isolated individuals into nuclear families, couples, or themselves alone. The increased distance between individuals, represented easily by population density statistics, obviously created the material basis for social estrangement and isolation. That, combined with the technology of the car, which isolates the individual even further into a cell with antagonistic relations to other cells on the highways, did a number on the very possibility of socialization in our everyday lives. Even at work, the tendency of capitalists to reduce the number of people on the job to a minimum has done damage to the potential of workers to socialize on the job.

Plenty of young men have false consciousness about the causes of their isolation or estrangement from society, but they are a real problem (and it doesn't just afflict young men). When the average young person is not contributing to society in a way that makes them feel like a part of it, when the society their labor reproduces also reproduces their isolation and estrangement, what else can you expect but the rise of anti-social ideology corresponding to the anti-social material conditions?

Left-wing theorists have had all kinds of analyses of these issues, with Erich Fromm, Paul Goodman, and Raoul Vaneigem coming to my mind as theorists from the mid-20th century who tackled the subject. But even liberal sociologists have been able to see it, the book that's usually cited on this front is "Bowling Alone". Reducing the issue to resentments from men who aren't trying hard enough to get laid just recycles that resentment and fails to account for the non-sexual aspects of this isolation which are just as damaging to the individual psyche: the lack of friends, colleagues, and confidants to share their thoughts with, and the stunted social skills that many young people (and the rest of us) are dealing with as a result of a lack of socialization.

[girlactionfigure]

AUGUST 5, 2024

TOKENISM 

Tokenism is the practice of selecting a person from a minority group to give the illusion of diversity or of representation of the minority group’s opinion. Tokenism is racism — or in this case, antisemitism — because it weaponizes the identity of the marginalized person to justify things that hurt that very same marginalized group. 

In other words, when you tokenize someone, you’re using them in a way that ultimately will hurt them or the group they are affiliated with. 

BECAUSE I KNOW I WILL BE ASKED…

I often highlight the voices of Palestinian dissidents, anti-Hamas Palestinians, and of Palestinians seeking to make peace with Israel. People tend to ask me a very good question: how is this any different than “tokenizing” fringe Jews?

Firstly, I want to make it clear that when I highlight the voices of “fringe” Palestinians, I am in no way claiming that they are necessarily representative of the majority. The overwhelming majority of past and recent surveys and statistics I’ve seen unfortunately suggest otherwise.

Secondly, there is a major, major difference between tokenizing the voices of Jews who minimize antisemitism, both in the Diaspora and in Israel, and uplifting the voices of Palestinians who seek to make peace. Tokenizing Jews who dismiss left-wing or Islamist antisemitism or who believe Israeli Jews are fair targets endanger the rest of us. That’s a far cry from Palestinians who wish to live side by side in peace.

Most importantly, the overwhelming majority of Jews worldwide have all the freedom of speech in the world. They are not risking their lives by sharing their views. Palestinian dissidents in the West Bank and especially in the Gaza Strip are quite literally putting their necks on the line to speak out against their tyrannical leaders. To not understand the difference between this and a Jew living comfortably in Brooklyn is a sign of privilege, of not understanding authoritarian societies. When dissidents speak, whether in Iran or the Palestinian Territories, I believe it’s the duty of the people in the free world to uplift their voices.

SELF-TOKENISM: ASSOCIATION OF GERMAN NATIONAL JEWS 

In the earliest days of Hitler’s rule, there was a small group of Jews that supported Hitler. In 1921, a Jewish man named Max Naumann founded a group known as the “Association of German National Jews.” 

Following Hitler’s rise to power, the Nazi regime itself never tokenized the Association of German National Jews, but the members of the organization tokenized themselves, particularly when speaking to the press. In 1933, a member of the group, Hans Priwin, issued a statement alleging that reports of the Nazis’ mistreatment of Jews were “stupid lies.” In 1934, the Association issued a statement of support for Hitler. 

The Association of German National Jews was especially hostile to the less assimilated Jews from Eastern Europe, who they considered backwards and “racially and spiritually inferior.” They were also hostile to Zionists, as they believed that they were a threat to Jewish integration into wider society. The main goal of the Association of German National Jews was the self-eradication of Jewish identity. To accomplish this sinister motive, they weaponized — and tokenized — their own Jewish identities. 

After Hitler’s appointment as German Chancellor in 1933, Jews worldwide protested, boycotting German goods. Instead of supporting the protest, the Association came out against the boycott and issued a manifesto that the Jews in Germany were being “fairly treated.”

In 1935, the Nazis declared the Association of German National Jews illegal and dissolved it. Naumann was arrested by the Gestapo the same day.

TOKENISM: HELENE MAYER

German Jewish fencer Helene Mayer is considered one of the best fencers of all time, having won gold at the 1928 Amsterdam Olympics and placing fifth at the 1932 Los Angeles Games. After Los Angeles, Meyer stayed in California to earn a law degree. In 1933, Adolf Hitler rose to power in Germany, stripping Mayer, who was then banned from her old fencing club, of her rights.

Leading up to the 1936 Berlin Olympics, the United States Olympic Committee was under tremendous pressure to boycott the Games. The head of the US Olympic Committee, Avery Brundage, was a Nazi sympathizer, who convinced Germany to allow one German Jewish athlete to compete to give the impression that Jews in Germany were being treated fairly. In other words, the Nazis needed a token Jew.

Enter: Helene Mayer. Mayer had been living in the United States since her expulsion from her fencing club. Desperate to reclaim her old Olympic glory, Mayer tried out and was selected for the German team. She placed second and gave the Hitler salute on the podium. 

After the Olympics, where the Nazi press and government ignored her, Mayer returned to the United States, thus saving herself from the Holocaust. She moved back to Germany in 1952 and died a year later. She never publicly addressed her decision to participate as an athlete under the Nazis, a decision which temporarily sanitized Nazi Germany’s image. 

TOKENISM: YEVSEKTSIYA

In 1918, the Soviet Communist Party established a “Jewish branch,” with the consent of Vladimir Lenin. It was named “Yevsektsiya,” meaning “Jewish Sections of the Communist Party.” The mission of the Yevsektsiya was, quite literally, the “destruction of traditional Jewish life, the Zionist movement, and Hebrew culture.”

From the outset, the Yevsektsiya began harassing Zionist Jews. Initially, the Yevsektsiya legally abolished the “kehillas,” the traditional Jewish community organizations. Sometimes, they even burned their offices down. They shut down everything from Jewish political groups to theaters to sports clubs. They raided all Ukrainian “Zionist” offices and arrested every single one of their leaders.

Until their dissolution in 1929, they imprisoned, tortured, and murdered thousands of Jews. The fact that the Yevsektsiya was “Jewish” was central to its purpose. After all, the Soviet regime couldn’t be accused of antisemitism when those shutting down all Jewish cultural and spiritual life were Jews themselves. In other words, the Soviets tokenized the Jewish identities of the Yevsektsiya members to legitimize their systematic persecution of Jews. 

According to historian of Soviet history Richard Pipes, “In time, every Jewish cultural and social organization came under assault.”

The Soviet government dissolved the Yevsetskiya in 1929, claiming that it was no longer needed. During Stalin’s Great Purge in the 1930s, virtually all its members were arrested and executed. Some were shot by bullet, some were tortured, and others were sentenced to hard labor in Siberia. A former member even died when the prison he was in refused to supply him with insulin.

TODAY 

NETUREI KARTA

Antisemites today continue to uplift fringe Jewish groups to deflect from accusations of antisemitism. The Neturei Karta, for example, are a staple at pro-Palestine protests, despite the fact that they share just about zero values with the progressive left, given their sexism and homophobia, among other things. Their membership does not surpass 5000 people, and they are considered so fringe that even other anti-Zionist Orthodox groups, such as the Satmar, have disavowed them, issuing a cherem (censure, similar to excommunication) against them. The Neturei Karta have friendly relations with the Islamic Republic in Iran and even attended a conference in Holocaust denial in Tehran. 

JEWISH VOICE FOR PEACE, IFNOTNOW

Surveys consistently show that between 80-95 percent of Jews support the existence of the State of Israel. Yet politicians and activists often uplift anti-Zionist Jewish groups such as Jewish Voice for Peace and IfNotNow as though they are representative of “true” Judaism. These groups have a long history of regurgitating the propaganda and glorifying, excusing, or justifying the actions of terrorists and terrorist groups responsible for heinous attacks against Jews around the world, including October 7.

HOW NOT TO TOKENIZE JEWS 

#1 Before you amplify a Jewish person, pause to think: is there anything in it for you? Are you amplifying us because you care about what we have to say or because our words validate your pre-existing opinions?

#2 Some discussions are intracommunity discussions. You don’t need to speak for us, over us, or weaponize intracommunity discussions to demonize the Jews you dislike.

#3 You cannot adequately support Jewish people if you are not open to hearing about our experiences, even when they don’t align with yours.

#4 Listen to many Jewish voices, and not just voices that you always agree with. It’s also important to listen to Jews of diverse backgrounds, races, sub-ethnic groups, social classes, genders, sexual orientations, and more.

This also means that if you disagree with a person about a topic unrelated to Jewishness or Judaism, you should still be willing to listen when they talk about their Jewish experience. People — Jews included — are multifaceted individuals. You might not always agree with us, but you should understand that no one can speak to the Jewish experience better than we can.

#5 No Jew — not a single one — deserves antisemitism. Antisemitism is not a valid punishment for bad behavior; it’s an ancient, senseless form of hatred that has gotten innocent people murdered for thousands of years. All Jews deserve protection from antisemitism, no matter how good or bad their views and/or behavior. Additionally, antisemitism targeting Jews you dislike always spills over and hurts other Jews. If you do not pursue safety for every single Jew, you are not an ally.

#6 To adequately represent the views of the Jewish community, share the views that are representative of the majority of the Jewish community, not fringe opinions. Don’t uplift a minority voice to pretend that that’s how all of us feel.

#7 Understand that Jews can very much perpetuate antisemitism. Agreeing with a Jewish person doesn’t mean you are not antisemitic.

rootsmetals

Olympics x As a Jew crossover

Sources