Like so many things in life, my sexuality makes so much more sense in retrospect than it did when I was in the stages of “figuring it out”. I now know I have been bisexual all my life. I either just didn’t know it earlier on, or didn’t know what it entailed.
“White women need to learn how and when to follow — not lead. They need to do their part to uplift, learn from, follow and support Black and Indigenous women in dismantling white supremacy. But again, not lead.” Amanda Svachula.
To celebrate 1 year of Clitbait, we hosted a night of spoken word, drag performances and live music. We were honoured to have had the wonderful Grace and The Flat…
Don’t dare to go outside, my sweet lady
Although we’re just a bubble, ever-ready to burst,
You’re safe with us, I promise
I remember catching a bus a day before we would meet again
Crying, because I thought I was going to kill you,
For I had stepped into a world
Which was trying to live with covid while you have cancer.
And it feels like I can’t breathe knowing you won’t,
Between the grief-stricken gasps, gritting teeth through glaring tears
One might be assuming symptoms of that thing, when they are effects of the other
And I hate how the two interchange,
How our fear is preyed upon by them both.
What is going through your sweet head?
While I usually wear my heart on my sleeve, I stiffen up
When I see that you are guarding yours behind secret chambers,
For you’re a headstrong rationalist, a chin-up kind of woman,
But when the night has been rough to you,
And you wake up vomiting, with words I’ve never heard come from your mouth before,
That proud chin drops in your hands
And what I see before me is a scorned child with a distasteful gaze
As I try to hand you your peeled grapes or spiceless daal.
I’m sorry sad one, I feel like a terrible parent,
When we say the world outside is too big and bad for you right now,
For best intentions look so opposite
When the blue-suited baboons control what comes next.
I felt like I couldn’t offer much at first,
Helplessness hurts the most.
But I’m trying, really hard, to be your doctor,
Your friend, your mother, anything you want and need,
Even if that means at moments I have to stop being your daughter
So that I can get you to keep on being my mother.
It’s selfish, I know. And I’m sorry.
-Anonymous
I recently read that tourists in the US can take ‘sex trafficking bus tours’ to ‘shudder over locations where they’re told sexual violence has recently occurred’ (1). Learning this was not something I was able to take lightly. I carried the words around with me for days, alongside the absolute bafflement they gave rise to.
“Pleasure is not something to be consumed. Pleasure is something to enfold into different aspects of our lives as much as possible.” – Ruby Rare
From a young age, I was always told that I was a bossy person, and I just accepted it and took it as the criticism it was intended to be. Thinking back to when I was labelled bossy, it was when I took charge of a task and put myself in a leadership position in order to do something. This adjective has never been used to describe one of my male friends, but many of my determined female friends.
Writing letters is something a therapist suggested to me as a way to cope with my emotions. It was a very difficult time for me; in one year I had endured a sexual assault and also had made attempts to take my own life. I was angry at everything and had grown reliant upon unhelpful practices like substance abuse, disordered eating and self harm. I told her about a typewriter I had and we thought together it would be cathartic to punch out my thoughts onto paper and keep them somewhere safe. That way they wouldn’t be in my head anymore.
I am angry. At first, I thought it was just about you. And you. And you. The way you dimmed me; reduced me down and down until I was on my knees and begging for you to do it again because I didn’t know what the world looked like from an upright position anymore.
Go read more about this incredible painting in an article by our wonderful Arts and Culture Editor (and organiser of the recreate art series!), Manvir Dobb: The Two Fridas and finding the balance between normalcy and reality. Manvir explores how Kahlo grappled within her disconnected and counter selves as well as reflecting on our relationships with ourselves in Lockdown.
A few days ago a large number of houses in central Edinburgh experienced a power cut. My phone was on 5% so I went to charge it and then realised that I couldn’t do that. I also had to go to the loo and as I made the trepid journey out of the safety of my covers into the dark abyss of all two metres I tried to turn the bathroom light on but also couldn’t do that.
I don’t know about you, but recently I have been relentlessly trying to convince myself that spring has sprung. Perhaps as a way to try and find a sense of renewal in a January which seems to be lifelessly trudging on from the year before. I have found myself resurrecting springtime playlists, eating only egg-shaped chocolates, sticking my body to rectangles of sunlight on the walls of my room as the sun sneaks through the window. You name it and, in the name of spring, I’ve done it!
Twelve tips for coming…
Eleven swipers swiping…
Ten distanced meetings…
Nine ways of dancing…
Eight means o’milkin’ (festive cocktails)…
Seven lakes to swim in…
Six games for playin’…
Five pleasurable rings…
Four festive curds…
Three French Gems…
Two sexy books…
A tried and tested mulled wine recipe…
Black artists have traditionally been marginalised from the mainstream conversation, despite their respective brilliance. Since the majority of our team is based in Scotland, we thought we would shift focus and shine some light on some of our favourite Black Scottish artists…