Increasingly, we’re seeing more women onscreen dealing with mental illness, often in ways that treat their disorder as just one element in a fully human, complex character. But all of these women are white. Women of color—specifically African American women—are not afforded the same type of humanity onscreen, if they’re even represented at all.

Calls for visibility almost always occur in conjunction with appeals to normalcy. The argument goes something like this: “It’s okay that we are everywhere, because we are just like you, except for our sexual orientation (or some other difference).” The problem is, this strategy only works for LGBTQ+ people who come across as “normal” in most other respects. It most benefits individuals who are white, middle-class, able-bodied, and relatively conventional in their lifestyle and politics.

YouTube’s filters haven’t improved and LGBTQ sex ed content is still being censored. In fact, for some creators like himself, the problem has only gotten worse. “The rate of restriction and demonetization is happening faster and faster nowadays with the way they’ve ‘improved’ their computer learning,” he says. “A few years ago, we’d get dinged every so often, but now, our videos won’t even be finished uploading before they get a little yellow check mark on them indicating they’ll be censored and not properly monetized.”

Psychedelic experience in the modern era has always been queer—not just in the sense of being enchanted, wayward, and weird, but in the more concrete sense that queerfolk have fundamentally shaped the substance, style, and spirituality of the psychedelic underground.

Women came together over coffee and cake, sharing what they could. These meetings, while less overtly political than later lesbian activism, did something amazing: In an era where being out could lead to serious legal and social consequences, they helped American lesbians realize their collective strength.

[CW mention of abuse and rape]

“Why are you depressed?” my mother asked me when I responded truthfully instead of lying with a simple, “I’m doing fine.” […] And then more men used my body like a glove and they used my kindness as a balm for their own wounds, and they used the home I made for myself to shelter their needs, and then I kept trying and it got harder.

Anne Lister considered herself to be married twice in her life, once to her beloved Mariana, who broke her heart. Anne’s other marriage was to Ann Walker, her main love interest on the HBO series. Their marriage is now considered to be the first gay marriage in the United Kingdom. Both of Anne Lister’s marriages were sealed with communion at the Holy Trinity church in Goodramgate, York. Both engagements were also sealed with the exchange of rings — and Anne Lister’s favorite type of jewelry: a locket with a tuft of her beloved’s pubic hair inside. In fact, she had an ENTIRE COLLECTION of pubic hair lockets.

Lesbians FTW 😈

Cops are the front-line of the state, tasked with defending and reinforcing all illegitimate hierarchies of power. They are the armed enforcers of white supremacy who catch paid vacations for murdering Black children in the streets. They are the knock on the door to evict you from your home. They are the no-knock SWAT Team raid that shoots your dog. They are the corrupt overseers of the ghetto, the barrio, the favela. They are the unmarked cruiser that slows down to harass a sex worker. They are the vicious interrogators of rape survivors. They are the protectors of bulldozers and pipelines. They are the batons, flash bangs and rubber bullets used to break up our demonstrations, and put down our riots. They are the guardians of capital. They are the oppressor. And without exception… they’re all bastards.

In my opinion, the general grouping of crushes can be labeled as such: IRL crush, not-famous internet crush, quasi-instagram-famous internet crush, celeb crush.

Here’s the thing: lesbian sex can, and frequently does, involve cocks. (The TERFs are quaking in their boots right now.) Whether that means a strap-on, a penis, a tongue, a fist, a clit, or whatever else is totally up to the individual dyke. One’s cock, or lack thereof, doesn’t have to be concerned with gender, or it can have everything to do with gender. Butch, femme, andro, boi–anyone and everyone of any gender expression can have a cock.

For many people, when they breakup, that’s the definitive end—they want no further contact with their former partner. For plenty of others, though, a breakup is not an end so much as a change. The ex was an important person in their lives, and they’d like them to remain that way. But how?

Lana Wachowski came out as a transgender woman in 2010, and Lilly Wachowski came out in 2016. The Matrix, for all its talk of enforced reality and system-smashing anarchism, was likely never just about power fantasy and combating feelings of insignificance in the daily grind of corporate America. It is a film about transition into a truer, freer version of oneself in a world that resists you doing so, and it is informed by the Wachowski sisters’ experiences as closeted transgender women.

One thing I’ve learned about trans people is that almost all of us end up asking ourselves these questions, in one form or another. As easy as they are for me to answer now, though, these lines of questioning can make you feel hopeless and defeated if you’re trying to work through them on your own. There’s no way to sum up all transfeminine experiences, and everyone eventually has to find their own, unique answers, but if you're a person who was assigned male at birth and is struggling with questions like the ones I had, here are some answers that might help.

When Europeans came to North America, they brought patriarchal societal traditions with them, Finley said. Wrapped up in those gender roles were Europeans’ understandings of land ownership and inheritance, ideas that were crucial to the process of seizing the continent from indigenous people.

Among the measures used to extinguish native customs in the United States was the state-sponsored Native American boarding school program, which forced generations of indigenous children to attend school away from their families to be educated in Christian, European traditions.

Television has never really excelled at representing lesbian culture and/or queer culture. We get lesbian or bisexual characters, generally enmeshed in the linoleum lives of The Straights, but rarely will a lesbian know any other queer women besides her girlfriend and infrequently will anything about the character clock as gay besides their interest in chastely kissing a member of the same sex with her shirt on.

This specific photo shoot came about when Zaire messaged me on Instagram. I was pretty full, didn’t have much time in Oakland left, but something told me that I should take it. From the moment I met them, I knew they were someone I definitely wanted to know.

We don’t just need historical documentaries, coming out narratives, or survivor stories—and we certainly don’t need any more devastating endings. We need something else, something that heterosexual people take for granted: romantic vision. We need the bread-and-roses romantic comedies that make our hearts soar to the theater ceiling.

It’s a common misconception that members of gay relationships have to map onto the roles of a straight couple: woman and asshole,” said Acharya. “But neither of us is the asshole; that’s the entire point.

My most recent experiences in the classroom, coupled with my experiences while conducting research within the transgender community, however, have convinced me that our current practice of asking that everyone state their personal pronoun is not a good idea. My position is perhaps best explained by sharing two experiences.

In my gender class, as it has come to be known, I ask that students journal in response to readings, class discussions or a prompt on a controversial issue. Occasionally, those entries get personal. In a recent year, a student revealed in an entry that they thought they might be transgender. The next time I spoke with the student alone, with the best of intentions, I asked what pronoun they wanted me to use. Their eyes filled with tears as they answered, “I don’t know.” At about the same time, I asked someone at a conference what pronoun to use, and she burst into tears. She later explained that she had hoped that she “passed” and that my question made her feel like she did not.

I enjoyed talking to friends about our arrangement, but quickly found that most everyone knew someone who had left their male partner for a woman after a messy bout with polyamory.

“Be careful,” they’d say. “What if you fall in love?”

This Sunday, there’s a tall woman a few tables over with this hot outfit (almost entirely denim) and her hair gracefully swept up and back. She’s here with her parents. Do they even know she’s gay? I’m pretty confident that she is, she gave me the nod on the way in. I’m here with a sweetheart, teaching them how to control the object ball with little adjustments. I pocket a shot and catch the woman’s eye, she gives me a look: mutual recognition but definitely flirtation too. I think maybe she would come home with us. She certainly seems to be signaling, the way her eyes ask me to play just before she looks away. A fantasy starts to grow in my mind; I want to take her home with us. What does she enjoy? Would she let me lead the way I like? Am I allowed to be fantasizing about a stranger like this?

Last year I quit my well-paying city job to go back to school and work in retail and my mother still hasn’t gotten over it. To her my decisions seem like symptoms of mental illness that plagued my grandmother and great grandmother. It’s hard to explain why I needed to leave the world of business casual clothing and passive aggressive emails to feel sane again.

We’ve heard a lot about what it is to be a woman who is unsatisfied in herself and her relationships and turns to another woman for those needs; we haven’t heard the stories of the Other Women. Those stories might reframe these affairs away from the question of loneliness, unhappiness, malaise, and need, and towards a question of labor, consumption, and use. It might help us recognize how when straightness is the assumed default, gestures of queer intimacy get muddled, blurred, and erased amidst all that platonic friendships have been stretched to encompass.

There’s little conversation about the bodies of trans women who have not undergone gender confirmation surgery—online, in media, anywhere, really. Where are all the sex guides for trans women who don’t want to have surgery, who aren’t ready, or who haven’t yet had the opportunity?

To create my own, I decided to chronicle my own process, and reach out to trans women friends to ask what’s helped them most. Here's what I learned.

Les lesbiennes trans et leur·s partenaire·s peuvent baiser de plein de supers manières qui impliquent le pénis et les testicules, sans forcément engendrer de dysphorie.

Queer women probably don’t cruise because it is simply too unsafe for us to do so. It’s why Woolf is so careful to close her doors; it’s why Lorde sticks to lesbian bars, spaces created for and by queer women. Queer women’s sexuality is such a threat to patriarchal, heterosexual control that for many centuries its existence was completely denied, or deliberately hidden. The oppression levered against queer women is one of violent control: keeping us trapped, denying our existence, struggling to remake us. And even now, to be a woman in public is to be harassed—catcalled or followed home, leered at or abused. The threat of violence is inseparable from the idea of lesbian cruising.

Around three years ago, I came out by writing about biphobia for Archer, and the article was then picked up the Sydney Morning Herald. Considering the article talked about people treating bisexuality as a phase, I was wracked with guilt about how what I’m about to write might contribute to that.

Earlier this year, after a lot of introspection and a come-to-Jesus talk with a dear friend, I realised that I’m not bi, I’m a lesbian. […]

My realising this doesn’t make bisexuality as an identity invalid, or a phase. The reality is that a lot of gay people, especially lesbians, first acknowledge their same-gender attraction by coming out as bi, but eventually realise that isn’t the label for them. Ultimately, I think my original article was too naïve, and didn’t allow for the nuances of the wide variety of queer experiences.

Black women have the unique experience of being subjected to both misogynistic and anti-Black violence, but are never positioned equally amongst non-Black women or Black non-women. Black women experience all of the pain their counterparts do and yet are somehow regarded as second-class.

This history and its legacy leave me feeling that my anger about the world ascribing femininity to my body without my consent borders on betrayal to Black women. How can I claim to support Black women when there are times I resent the fact that I am perceived as one? Can I do both? The more steps I take to be comfortable in the body my spirit occupies, the more it feels like my transness and my Blackness stand in opposition to one another.

BBW is a euphemism for “fat,” but it also implies that not all “big” women may be “beautiful,” according to societal standards. In other words, the BBW category only includes women who society considers acceptably fat: That often only includes white, cis, straight or commercially plus-sized women, and leaves everyone else out.

She was in the midst of transition and unable to secure safe employment considering her yet-to-be-state-sanctioned womanness. I was still in the process of accumulating my still-accumulating student debt, just 20 years old. We had no familial support; our queerness reviled, my family had little-to-no resources to spare.