A lenda popular dicía que a mugardesa Amada García era unha pobre muller que fora asasinada polos fascistas só por bordar unha bandeira -republicana ou comunista, segundo as versións-. Mais o historiador Bernardo Máiz pasou anos recollendo datos que demostran que foi unha activista política molesta para o réxime. E para os que sempre mandaran na súa vila.
When Madame Caramel, a 39-year-old professional dominatrix living in London, first picked up my Skype call, she appeared momentarily distracted. "Sorry, when my Skype is on, all my slaves start messaging me," she said. Her hair was wrapped elegantly behind her head, and her smile, broad and warm, radiated as I asked her what female supremacy meant to her.
"Patriarchy has to end. For us to survive, women have to lead," she said. "The way men have done it for over these years... it's not correct. If the women lead the way, there's a much bigger chance there's not going to be any wars, any problems. Men think with their cocks. They're easily manipulated."
Put more simply, female supremacy is the belief that societies should be women-run, and that men, being inferior, should defer to women always. This ideology isn't all that new, though it is extreme: In the 60s and 70s, radical feminist theorists such as Andrea Dworkin, Monique Wittig, and Mary Daly argued for societies in which women ruled, though most of these imagined utopias were separatist in nature. Most infamously, Valerie Solanas argued in The SCUM Manifesto that contemporary society was totally irrelevant to women, and thus "civic-minded, responsible, thrill-seeking" women had to "overthrow the government, eliminate the money system, institute complete automation and destroy the male sex." (She later told the Village Voice that the group she envisioned in the text—the Society for Cutting Up Men, the eponymous SCUM—was "just a literary device.")
Read more: No Man's Land: How to Build a Feminist Utopia
"The male is an incomplete female, a walking abortion, aborted at the gene stage," Solanas wrote in the introduction to the SCUM Manifesto. "To be male is to be deficient, emotionally limited; maleness is a deficiency disease, and males are emotional cripples.
Though Madame Caramel shares a longing for a matriarchal society and keen awareness of Man's mistakes, she practices female supremacy on a micro level—in her personal relationships. For her, female supremacy exists between two people who agree on a set of rules, all centered on this one: the woman makes the calls. She's in a loving dominant-submissive relationship with her partner of four years, who proposed to her last year in Luxembourg Garden. Her ring is huge.
"The way we decided that this relationship could work for me was if I were in charge of everything," she said. "It's so much better when you take the responsibilities out of the man. My partner is a highly intelligent man—he's there for me for whatever I need—but the control is all mine. I buy the furniture I want. I buy the car I want. I travel to where I want. He just has to follow and enjoy the ride. He loves it."
Female supremacy is not for everyone, Madame Caramel says, even though it's the best way to live and play and fuck. The underlying idea—that women are supreme—structures her relationship with her partner and with her slaves, of which she has two types: paying and lifestyle. The former pays for hour-long or overnight session, while the latter offers something a bit more intimate. Her lifestyle submissives—"and this is when my female supremacy takes over"—pay her money so she can maintain her extravagant lifestyle, yet the relationship is not transactional; she says she feels a deep love for them. They're the ones who treat her like a goddess, the ones she trains to give her oral properly, the ones who recognize her pleasure is paramount.
Sadie Synn, a lifestyle and professional dominatrix who has been in the BDSM community for four-and-a-half years, makes a similar distinction between lifestyle and more professional, paid client relationships. "There will be lifestyle relationships that will be female supremacy relationships, where the man is a slave," she said. "I've known individuals in relationships where they give their pay checks to their wife: She's their domme, they don't own anything, they do a lot of chores around the house. The woman makes all the decisions. When you get into the dominatrix side, that's where it becomes much more a performance. Where lifestyle dommes really take it much more to heart, on the pro-domme side it can be much more of a show."
Synn is a trans woman, which gives her a unique perspective on the female supremacist ideology. "Ironically, I started off in the community as a male submissive, or a male slave," she recalled. "A lot of that had to do with my own personal transition; I was really attracted to femdom."
Synn started taking hormones in 2014. As estrogen levels increased in her body, she says, she noticed how much more she was able to feel. She started to believe that testosterone had "emotionally muted" her. This sense of heightened emotional intelligence, as well as her increased involvement in the BDSM community, cemented her female supremacist views, which she says land on the more accepting side of the spectrum.
Intuitively, the ideology makes sense to Synn, who considers herself an intersectional feminist. "For me, it's about recognizing the value of feeling more emotional and how that can lead to rational thought. If you look around, what percentage of crimes are done by men, what percentage are done by women?" she said. "It's obvious that men still act like animals because of testosterone. A lot of our political figures do stupid shit. You typically see women act better. They run things better. I'm just going off of those observations. Women do things better."
Outside of the BDSM community, the idea of female supremacy is not widely propagated, not even among radical feminists, as one might reflexively assume. The philosophy is intimately informed by the slave-master dynamic and dominatrix culture, teetering between fetish and worldview, if you can even disentangle the two. Complicating matters, the discussions surrounding female supremacy exist almost exclusively on the internet and private spaces; there is no "voice" for the movement, which can make its aims difficult to pinpoint. The Facebook group "The New World Order of Female Supremacy" has just 110 members and is somewhat puzzling—both admins are men. The description of the group reads as follows:
Our movement supports the idea of world peace through gynarchy, government by women.
On our groups, all women are presumed to be strong women. They are addressed as Mistress. Sissies are presumed to be servants of the female members. Men are presumed to be servants of female members and sissies. We welcome good quality images of women, and anything else that will not upset Facebook terms of service.
To what extent would these two men—and the group's other 108 members—advocate for "gynarchy" and government by women in real life?
According to Sue Storm, a fetish educator and host of the podcast In Bed with Dr. Sue, who worked as a professional dominatrix for forty years, most online female supremacy advocacy is "a façade." "It's all to make the money," she told Broadly. "Out of all the women that say they're female supremacists, only two to three percent are actual female supremacists."
It's obvious that men still act like animals because of testosterone.
She used to identify as a female supremacist, she added, but has grown disgusted by the bickering and bullying among young female dommes, which she feels has made the true realization of female supremacy impossible. "The whole femdom sisterhood is garbage. We are not evolved enough," she said, noting that the rise of financial domination, or "findom," has led to younger domes adopting female supremacist personas in order to attract subs willing to lavish them with gifts and money. "Most women who get into this business are doing it for quick bucks, so there's a lot of infighting. It's rare to see two women who aren't fighting. How is that supreme behavior?"
In July 2013, a 30-year-old polyamorous dominant who goes by Domina Jen wrote a blog post entitled "Why I No Longer Believe in Female Supremacy," in which she expressed similar reservations about the nebulous movement. While she still believes that "females are biologically and physically superior to males," she wrote, she is uncomfortable making essentializing generalizations.
"I don't want respect just because I'm a woman," she wrote. "That feels fake and empty. I want to be respected because of my actions, because of who I am. There are countless women who are weak-willed, weak-minded, self-serving, and cruel. I've known too many women who do not deserve any kind of respect. And the idea of those women being in charge of anything or anyone is fucking terrifying."
Do I think that women need to rise to power? 100 percent. Do I think we're supreme above all others? Absolutely not.
Dr. Sue, too, is decidedly anti-female supremacy, but needs for men to get it together. "Do I think that there's a hierarchy and that men have screwed everything up? Hell yes. White men have been the bane of everybody's existence. Do I think that women need to rise to power? 100 percent. Do I think we're supreme above all others? Absolutely not. There is no better race, there is no better gender, there is no better anything. We are all the same. And we need to all care for each other that way."
And yet, there is something alluring about a consensual, loving relationship that is structured by the model of female dominance. Every Friday, Madame Caramel and her fiancé celebrate what they call "FemDom Friday." She sleeps in, while he gets a bit of work done and then begins the preparations: setting out the outfit she chose the night before, cooking, drawing a bath, pleasuring her. Her fiancé devotes the entire day to her needs and wants. It sounds idyllic.
Madame Caramel plans on retiring in April, after 14 years as a professional dominatrix, so she can spend more time with her soon-to-be husband. "Although I have other lifestyle slaves and will continue to give them attention, my focus right now is on my partner," she said. "Because I want to train him even better to the best of my abilities. There are some things that he cannot do properly yet—like baking. And I love cakes! He cheats. He buys that Betty Crocker. No, no, no, no. I want it baked from scratch."
Foto: Douglas R. Witt (CC)
Cualquier paisano sabe que en Galicia no llueve. Y por eso las cosas importantes las hacemos siempre al aire libre: el churrasco, el carnaval, las procesiones, la feria, los pregones, los fuegos del Apóstol, la Santa Compaña, el pastoreo, la tertulia, el consumo de drogas. Naturalmente, también las verbenas. Un gallego medio, entre los ocho y los noventa años, puede citar veinte nombres de orquestas sin despeinarse. Son nuestros ríos. Panorama, París de Noia, Capitol, Cinema, Charleston Big Band, Filadelfia, Costa Oeste, Olympus, Sintonía de Vigo, Gran Parada, Los Satélites, Marimba, Gran Atlanta, Palladium… Hay más de trescientas para amenizar nuestras tres mil celebraciones populares al año. Estas son el tipo de cosas —y que procuramos tener un pozo ilegal para regar la huerta cuando el ayuntamiento nos corta el agua— que avalan que en Galicia no llueve. Y no las estadísticas. El abuso de la estadística, como decía Borges, conduce a la democracia. En todo caso, si resulta que la estadística es la solución, yo soy partidario de poner las cosas en su sitio: la serranía de Grazalema, en Cádiz, entre la sierra del Pinar y la depresión del Boyar, es el área de mayor índice pluviométrico de España. Eso es así. Grazalema recoge un registro anual de 2200 litros por metro cuadrado de media. Es decir, para tediosos chubascos, Andalucía.
No vamos a ocultar que durante décadas, tal vez siglos, se extendió la creencia de que en Galicia llovía sin parar, como si fuese una mentira acogedora. Pese a que nuestro himno lo desmentía, tácitamente. Ni una mención a la lluvia. Ni a un día nublado, gris o frío. En realidad, en la primera estrofa, se canta a la «costa verdecente, do prácido luar», y en la segunda a su «verdor cinguido de benignos astros, confín dos verdes castros e valeroso chan». Somos, traducido, un prado soleado y palpitante, con vistas al feliz mar. El siguiente himno gallego, surgido de la movida de los años ochenta, al fin nos deja intuir la pura verdad. Es ese minuto de 1986 en el que Os Resentidos de Antón Reixa cantan que en Galicia «Fai un sol de carallo». Ni que decir tiene que la canción se radió en todos los diales de España, y ese año se despacharon treinta mil copias del disco. Algunos al fin se rindieron a la evidencia.
Pese a todo, la idea de que en Galicia llovía caló. Casi nadie quiere la verdad en el desayuno. En los peores momentos del dogma, existieron hasta siete fábricas de paraguas en la comunidad. Es sabido que a veces, en el curso de una vida, solo tienes tiempo para las cosas inútiles, y nuestros emprendedores, vagamente erráticos, se lanzaron a invertir en un negocio que parecía próspero. Si llovía tanto, lo normal parecía protegerse mucho. Pero la realidad era otra. Después de todo, como advirtió Antonio Machado, la realidad también se inventa. Ineluctablemente, las fábricas fueron despareciendo una a una, como lágrimas en la lluvia. Y hoy solo queda en pie Paraguas Carballo, fundada en A Coruña, calle De la Torre, por un señor de Ourense. Allá por 1952. En realidad, trabajan con una idea de paraguas no tanto para el agua, como para la mode. Los fabrican con «un mango de madera noble, un varillaje bueno y resistente y una buena tela de poliamida». Es decir, un capricho de ciento veinte euros, que nadie echaría a perder abriendo bajo la lluvia. El género que despachan en Paraguas Carballo es «un complemento elegante, como lo puede ser un pañuelo de seda o un magnífico bolso de piel», admitía en una entrevista uno de los nietos del fundador. Creían en el paraguas como un adorno para los días en que la lluvia representa una vaga sospecha, nada más. Sería atroz echar a perder el complemento bajo un vulgar aguacero. En Galicia nos tomamos el paraguas como una bella ficción, sin más valor práctico que el monóculo. Hablando de monóculos, yo mismo tengo uno. Nunca lo uso para ver mejor, sino para parecer idiota y pretencioso ante ciertas visitas los domingos por la mañana.
Cosa distinta resultan las sombrillas. Son eminentemente prácticas. Todo gallego —así viva en un lugar remoto del interior— transporta una sombrilla en el coche. Sombrilla y papel higiénico. Por lo que pueda pasar. Paraguas Carballo las vende como si fuesen para comer. Se las quitan de las manos. Porque a la postre, como decimos, en Galicia tenemos sol y calor a raudales. No quiero resultar cargante con la estadística, pero es pertinente aclarar que solo en el último verano Ourense y Vigo alcanzaron sensaciones térmicas de cincuenta y cincuenta y dos grados centígrados respectivamente, según el departamento de Geografía de la Universidad de Santiago, que tomó como base la temperatura del aire, la humedad, la velocidad del viento, la radiación solar así como la bioclimatología humana y el índice de temperatura fisiológica equivalente. «Hablamos de una sensación equivalente a la de estar en el desierto del Sahara», expresó uno de los responsables del estudio. Eso es Galicia, un desierto con ríos y grifos, un lugar bello y absurdo, en el que Manuel Fraga inauguraba cascadas naturales.
En sus largos días sin lluvia, Galicia de vez en cuando se arroja a las llamas, al estilo de un mito griego. Es un impulso suicida, como esas personas que escuchan un pitido a todas horas en un oído que nadie más oye, y del que solo se libran arrojándose a las vías del tren. Cada verano, hartos de que no llueva, intentamos suicidarnos con un mechero. Entre los años 2001 y 2011, si en España se produjeron 187 239 incendios —perdón otra vez por la estadística— solo en Galicia se registraron 78 765. Es una forma de locura. A mí me recuerda a El extranjero, de Camus, donde nunca llueve y sus personajes vagan todo el tiempo bajo un sol tremendo. Me gusta creer que el protagonista no es Meursault, ni la ausencia de moral, sino el sol. Esa luz afilada, ese calor que suelta, y que persigue a Meursault desde que entierra a su madre hasta que, ya en la playa, todo su ser se tensa y su mano se crispa sobre el revólver. «El gatillo cedió —dice—, toqué el pulido vientre de la culata y fue así, con un ruido ensordecedor y seco, como todo empezó. Sacudí el sudor y el sol. Comprendí que había destruido el equilibrio del día».
Nuestro clima seco y benévolo moldeó nuestros hábitos, inevitablemente. Estamos en esa fase de la evolución en la que cultivamos kiwis neozelandeses. Me temo que ya solo los grandes ritos religiosos, como la eucaristía o el tute, se resisten a la intemperie. Será cuestión de tiempo que se rindan y salgan con las manos en alto. Ni siquiera el desnudo es algo que en Galicia tratemos en la intimidad. Nuestro nudismo es pionero y célebre, aprovechando el clima, precisamente. Empezamos a desnudarnos porque nuestro cuerpo reclamaba libertad, y porque no nos acatarrábamos. Nos desvestíamos acorralados por este calor perpetuo, asfixiante, a veces algo triste, y como quien se quita un peso de encima. De alguna manera, constituía un ritual para invocar a la lluvia. No somos muy distintos, por esa vía, de los cherokees o los zuñis.
Aún no había acabado la dictadura cuando nuestros nudistas ya se hacían detener en la playa de Barra, en Cangas. Después llegó el famoso episodio de 1983, en la playa de Baroña (Porto do Son), cuando un grupo de intelectuales y políticos se manifestaron en pelotas para reclamar su derecho al cuerismo y denunciar las primeras atrocidades urbanísticas en la costa. He ahí otra de nuestras actividades favoritas a campo abierto y seco: la destrucción del territorio y la corrupción. En el grupo había sociólogos, concejales, doctoras, filósofas, fotógrafos, historiadores. Cosecharon cierto éxito, incluyendo el calabozo. Uno de sus lemas era «Mente sana y no corrupta, en cuerpo sano, honrado, soleado y despelotado». En las fotos de esos días se les ve en cueros y con paraguas, para combatir la radiación solar, y acaso unas gotas rendidas a su invocación. Manuel Fraga llegó a dirigir a los nudistas el calificativo de «pendones», que delataba cariño y asco a la vez. Fraga. Precisamente Fraga. El Fraga cuya leyenda lo sitúa, en un día de calor espantoso, desnudo en una playa de Galicia, en compañía de Pío Cabanillas, cuando los dos eran todavía ministros de Franco. «Oye, Manolo, por qué no nos bañamos», le propuso Pío, desprejuiciado, en una de esas tardes vacías y solariegas en las que a veces cae un ministro. Ninguno llevaba bañador. Fraga no acababa de verlo claro. Pero su amigo lo convenció. Tenían ante sí un arenal solitario. Se bajaron del coche y se metieron desnudos en el agua. En ese momento, llegó a la playa un autocar con una excursión de alumnas de un colegio de monjas. Manuel Fraga fue el primero en salir despavorido, tapándose los huevos, con un instinto católico muy acentuado. Detrás, Pío Cabanillas le gritaba: «¡Manolo, la cara, la cara, los huevos no, la cara!».
La entrada En Galicia no llueve aparece primero en Jot Down Cultural Magazine.
We are obsessed with ourselves. We spend time and money and energy attempting to better understand ourselves: We go to therapy, we read self-help books, we get our astrological charts read, we take online quizzes. But the truth is that there is no answer, there is no singular self we can wholly know; there is only change and process.
So here we are: obsessed with an unsolvable puzzle, and hungry. Like, really really hungry. We are hungry for everything, sometimes (much of the time?) even ravenous. We crave deep connections and meaningful relationships, a sense of comfort, ideas that inspire us and make our brains hurt with growth, enjoyable engagement with our bodies without judgment, laughter that is so honest the sounds from our mouths surprise us, a feeling of security in the world. Online quizzes will not bring you these things. But cookbooks can, if in small doses. They are comestible self-help.
First we must acknowledge that cookbooks are books. This is not a dumb statement, though it may read like one. A wall full of cookbooks gets a different treatment than one of novels or a poetry collection, because cookbooks, to many, are practical books. And they really are: They teach us techniques, introduce us to new ingredients, encourage us to expand our palates, riff on old ways of doing things, and promise us new ways of doing things that with time will become old ways. This is very much practical.
But cookbooks are not simply manuals. Cookbooks contain everything: time and space and history and culture and politics and weather and human relationships and the way families are structured and the way societies are structured and economics and humor and art and an endless supply of human personalities and voices. Cookbooks contain all realities because cooking contains all realities. We read and then we cook and then we eat, at which point we have truly consumed our books and their voices and lessons.
This is as true of cookbooks that we agree to consider “timeless classics” as it is of cookbooks written by country music stars or television personalities or firefighters in a small Texas town. It is as true of cookbooks that are meticulously researched and recipe tested and proofread as it is of comb-bound community cookbooks that offer vague measurements and half-clear instructions. The books that speak to us do so because of who we are and what they contain, just like self-help books.
We are moved by books that connect us to times and places and people that are gone or far away. We are moved by books that remind us of a small, quiet part of ourselves that doesn’t often get light. We read old cookbooks to learn about the way things used to be, how people in the past lived and related to each other and made bread from scratch every day. We read cookbooks from cultures other than our own to learn about them and to be transported to another world, whether that's Yucatan or Taiwan or Minnesota.
We read cookbooks written by oddballs and obsessives to hear another voice in our heads, to laugh at jokes and engage earnestly in one-sided conversations and feel less lonely. We read restaurant cookbooks because we have eaten at the restaurant and wish we could go back or we know we’re never going to get there and want to be there anyway. Books on soup will make you feel warmer, entertaining books will give you energy, baking books will make you feel calm and composed (or anxious and fidgety, depending on your disposition). There are cookbooks for everything.
Sometimes we are searching for something to cook, and directions for how to do so. But sometimes we are simply looking to feel connected: to ourselves, to others, to history, to culture, to our bodies by way of the rumbling in our bellies that inevitably comes after reading a recipe for cinnamon rolls or lamb curry or mapo tofu. This is why cookbooks matter: They offer us a view of the world that we couldn't otherwise have and in doing so, they help us better understand, figure out how to become the best version of ourselves or how to pretend to be someone else for a moment, and, lastly, feed ourselves and others.
Sarah Whitman-Salkin is an editor and writer, and the founder of the online bookshop Classics Cookbooks.
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This is a nifty idea for a compilation: collect a bunch of ’60s hits, singles, and oddities inspired by classical composers. The key differentiating factor here is that these are “gassers,” not art-inspired stabs at prog profundity (in other words, Procol Harum’s famed “A Whiter Shade of Pale” is here only in a version by Shorty Long). These are all pop singles, some so popular that their classical origins may not be evident to some fans.
James Darren’s “Goodbye Cruel World” conveys a mad circus that overshadows its roots in Fucik’s “Entry of the Gladiators,” the Mindbenders’ stately “A Groovy Kind of Love” obscures its Clementi debt, and Roy Orbison’s “She Wears My Ring” also disguises its classical melody. Elsewhere, the nods to classical compositions are overt.
Love Sculpture’s hypercharged “Sabre Dance” is a psychedelicized cover of Khachaturian, the Toys’ “A Lover’s Concerto” winks that it’s based on Bach, and Kim Fowley’s studio concoction B. Bumble & the Stingers gleefully trash up Tchaikovsky with “Nut Rocker” — and that’s not even mentioning Allan Sherman using Ponchielli for his novelty “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah (A Letter from Camp),” Sounds Incorporated roaring through “Hall of the Mountain King,” or Harpers Bizarre skipping through “Peter and the Wolf.” Collecting all these singles in one place demonstrates that this really was a ’60s fad, and that alone makes Classical Gassers a worthy historical document, but it’s also fun because it swings between the effervescent and strange. It’s odd to realize the Toys went back to the classical well after “A Lover’s Concerto,” and it’s strange to hear Lesley Miller fit Grieg’s “Hall of the Mountain King” into the teen drama “Mountain of Our Love” and Waldo de los Rios turn Mozart into easy listening (this is the only cut that’s not from the ’60s). Such footnotes to pop history are worth preserving, and that’s why this collection is such a gas. — AMG
Fueron varias, al parecer, las cosas que le impresionaron de San Ambrosio, pero San Agustín resalta una en particular en su libro Confesiones: Era el siglo IV y, por aquellas fechas, la lectura era una actividad que solía practicarse en voz alta. Que aquel al que consideraba su maestro lo hiciera en silencio dejó atónito […]
Este post Por qué es recomendable leer en voz alta (y no sólo a los niños), escrito por Gema Lozano, se publicó originalmente en Yorokobu.
Whether it be in a porn mag or on the world wide web, most of us encounter people smashing their private parts together in visual form before we even really know what it is. While porn in many ways is wonderful, it's a pretty ass backward way to learn what actual sex is and can lead to some pretty fucked up ideas and ideals.
Furthermore, schools aren't really offering a well-thought-out alternative. Between the horrifically out-of-date sex education taught in schools today, and the small, but loud, minority of people screaming about the dangers of it, maybe it's time for alternative outlets to supplement the education.
Pornhub, as it so happens, is attempting to make itself into a one-stop shop for both jacking off and learning about jacking off. This week, the popular porn site launched its Sexual Wellness Center, a free subsite marketed as an "online resource aiming to provide readers with information and advice regarding sexuality, sexual health, and relationships." Pornhub even released a video with authentic porn-quality sound to explain the new initiative.
The site will be directed by Dr. Laurie Betito, who you see in the video above. Betito is a longtime psychologist who specializes in sex therapy, is the president of the Sexual Health Network of Quebec, and a past president of the Canadian Sex Research Forum.
"One thing I have realized is that, no matter our background or desires, sexual education—mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual—plays a vital role in our society," she said in a press release. "It has always been a dream to connect with, educate, and inform people all over the world on a massive scale."
The site features articles about topics you probably wouldn't discuss in a sex ed classroom, like "You Now Have Fewer Reasons to Avoid Period Sex" and "Top Erotic Positions for Lesbians." It also features Q&As and discussions about consent and STDs.
For something that includes "Pornhub" in the URL, the site is remarkably safe for work so, you know, after you're done doing what you need to do, maybe give that shit (or other sex advice sites) a visit and learn how sex really works. Because the other side of Pornhub can be a pretty shitty teacher.
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1. “I love blowing him right before I leave for work, so that I’ll still have the taste in my mouth when I get to the office. It’s a naughty little reminder of what I’ve just done. So yeah, I enjoy the taste.” — Amber, 25
2. “I don’t know if he needs to change his diet or something, but his semen always tastes so sour. I swallow, but then I run to the bathroom to wash my mouth out. He doesn’t know that, though.” — Amy, 20
3. “At first I wasn’t into it. And then, once, my boyfriend kissed me after eating me out, and the taste on his lips was horrible. Made me want to vomit. So yeah, I’d much rather swallow his load than taste my own fluids ever again.” — Taylor, 23
4. “For me, the taste isn’t a big deal. Nothing to brag or complain about. It’s the amount that gets me. When a lot comes out, it’s hard to swallow. Literally.” — Victoria, 28
5. “I pay pretty close attention to what he’s been putting inside of his body. If he’s had a lot of fruit and pineapple juice lately, then I’ll let him cum in my mouth. But if he’s been having a lot of beer and cigarettes, then I tell him to cum on my tits instead and we’re both happy.” — April, 31
6. “It doesn’t really taste like anything to me? Is that weird? It’s just like… nothingness. So I don’t like or dislike it.” — Olivia, 22
7. “That’s an impossible question to answer. Every guy tastes different. One particular guy could taste different on different days. It’s not always going to taste sweet. It’s not always going to taste sour. Sometimes, it’ll be in the middle. And sometimes, you’ll want to gag. It really depends.” — Laura, 29
8. “Taste is fine. Smell is gross.” — Shelby, 26
9. “I hate going down on guys. So when he squirts into my mouth, I’m just so happy that the blowjob is finally over that I don’t even notice the taste.” — Erica, 24
10. “Let’s get this straight, I hate the taste. Hate it. But I swallow and act like I’m loving it, because he finds it sexy. And when he thinks I’m sexy, I feel sexy. So I deal with it.” — Madison, 21
11. “I refused to swallow for years and my friends would always make fun of me. But when I started dating my current boyfriend, I tried it, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I imagined in my head. Still bad, but not unbearably bad.” — Lindsey, 30
12. “Honestly, I’ve never even considered spitting. The taste is fine. And it’s easier to swallow than to find a place to spit.” — Alicia, 25
13. “My ex tasted delicious. My current boyfriend tastes… pretty bad. I make fun of him for it all the time. Does that make me a horrible person?” — Miranda, 26
14. “I’ll be honest here, I don’t give blowjobs all that often. So when I do, I feel like I have to make it special. Swallowing once or twice a month isn’t really that big of a deal. It’s like eating salt. ” — Whitney, 23
15. “I’m bi and I personally prefer going down on women. I think they taste better, but that’s just one girl’s opinion.” — Alexa, 29
16. “Yup! I’m obsessed with the taste of him. Even when he’s inside me, sometimes I ask him to pull out so he can finish in my mouth.” — Faith, 24
17. “I mean, it’s not going to taste like a cappuccino. It came out of his dick. It’s about as good as it’s going to get.” — Paige, 23 
Hace unas semanas un lector que se hacía llamar Antónimo nos enviaba un enlace a algo que me ha dejado aturdido durante días. No es una...
Las jóvenes siempre han dependido de las películas de adolescentes para saber qué tipo de mujer quieren llegar a ser. Para muchas chicas, esas películas están escritas por la poeta riot grrrl convertida en guionista Kirsten "Kiwi" Smith. Su primera película, 10 razones para odiarte, les presentó a Sylvia Plath y a Bikini Kill. Al público le encantó la película y lanzó a Smith y a su socia escritora Karen McCullah al mundo de las comedias románticas. Juntas continuaron escribiendo algunas de las más grandes comedias románticas centradas en mujeres de la década de 2000: Una rubia muy legal, Una conejita en el campus o Hechizada.
Heath Ledger, Reese Witherspoon y Amanda Bynes son solo unos pocos de las decenas de importantes talentos de Hollywood que han dado vida a los personajes de Smith, pero ella creció en un velero en San Pedro, California, sin televisor. Cultivó su fantástica imaginación mediante estudios independientes y juegos. Como hija única, pasaba la mayor parte del tiempo sola, escribiendo. Cuando de adolescente empezó a trabajar como dependienta en un videoclub local, el cine se convirtió en la obsesión de Smith, junto con la poesía. A principios de los noventa, estudió narrativa y más tarde lanzaría su carrera cinematográfica.
Hemos editado y condensado la entrevista por motivos de claridad.
BROADLY: ¿Cómo influyó tu poesía en tu estilo como guionista de cine?
Kirsten "Kiwi" Smith: Siempre me gustó escribir poemas narrativos, de modo que para mí fue una transición fácil pasar a escribir guiones. A menudo escribía poemas creando personajes, que normalmente eran muy diferentes a mí. Pasé mi infancia observando a la gente, como pez fuera del agua dentro de un mundo de adultos. A veces se me daba mejor observar que interactuar y es posible que siga siendo así en cierto modo. Escribir películas me permite continuar haciendo lo que más me gusta: observar a una persona y después meterme dentro de la mente de esa persona.
¿Cómo lanzaste tu carrera profesional de escritora en la universidad?
Me centré muchísimo en enviar mis poemas a revistas literarias. Tenía todo un elaborado sistema que consistía en enviar 50 poemas a la vez. Era como una máquina, no paraba de enviar poemas adjuntando sobres con mi dirección escrita en ellos. Tenía mi propio método para llevar un seguimiento de qué poemas había enviado, cuáles habían recibido respuesta y cuáles tenían más probabilidades de ser publicados. Finalmente me publicaron mi primer poema en una revista literaria llamada Poetry LA, una publicación trimestral bastante cool. Creo que por entonces tenía 19 años.
¿Cómo te introdujiste en el mundo del cine después de estudiar narrativa?
Justo después de salir de la universidad me concedieron una beca para asistir a la Bread Loaf Writers' Conference y también hice una residencia en la MacDowell Colony. Todavía no estaba segura de si iba a dedicar mi vida a la poesía (signifique lo que signifique), pero después de MacDowell me di cuenta de que la única forma en que podía avanzar era obteniendo un Máster en Bellas Artes y finalmente convirtiéndome en profesora. Vi claramente que necesitaba encontrar el modo de fusionar mi amor por el cine y mi amor por la escritura. Había tomado una clase de estudios independientes en la universidad en la que había escrito un guion, así que llegué a la conclusión de que tenía que ser guionista de día y poeta de noche.
Mientras estaba en la universidad trabajé como becaria en una diminuta productora de cine llamada CineTel Films, donde leía guiones y escribía reseñas, así que cuando me mudé de nuevo a LA después de MacDowell contacté con mi antigua jefa Catalaine Knell y ella me contrató como lectora de guiones. Acabó contratándome a tiempo completo para que trabajara en desarrollo, que es donde obtuve mi auténtica formación en estructuras repasamos nuestros archivos y encontramos otra idea sobre una mujer muy estirada que tenía que convertirse en madre de una fraternidad. Acabamos uniendo el personaje de Anna con nuestro argumento y desarrollamos todo el guion junto con Anna, en colaboración. Lo revisamos como 22 veces. No paraban de decirnos que nadie compraría la película. Nos enfrentamos a mucho rechazo, así que venderla, conseguir que se hiciera realidad y que fuera bien recibida fue una experiencia realmente empoderadora.
¿Estás acostumbrada al rechazo?
Sí, creo que sí. Sobre todo por aquellos días en que enviaba todos aquellos poemas. Me rechazaban, asentía con la cabeza y ponía ese mismo poema en un sobre nuevo. No me detenía demasiado en el sentimiento de rechazo. Me centraba más en ver quién era el siguiente de mi lista y pensar, "Vamos allá. Puedo con esto".
¿Alguna vez te da miedo entregar tu material, tan centrado en las mujeres, a un equipo de producción lleno de tíos?
He trabajado con varios hombres que definitivamente no eran nada progresistas, pero normalmente también había otros hombres influyentes que buscaban este material. Hubo momentos en los que miraba a un tío y no podía creer que aquella fuera la persona que iba a dar vida a uno de nuestros guiones, porque no era una persona iluminada en absoluto. Y también ha habido momentos, en los productos ya finalizados, en que veía las tomas diarias o lo que sea y pensaba, "¡Ahhhh! Ojalá esto tuviera otro aspecto". Recuerdo en 10 razones, cuando vi la habitación de Kat por primera vez y pensé, "No. ¿Por qué tiene ese aspecto la habitación?". Estaba molesta por la música, porque yo había visualizado algo en una línea más dura, una banda sonora riot grrrl. Estaba segura de que esas cosas iban a hundir todo el rollo de la película, pero obviamente me equivocaba y resultó genial. Parte de ello es simplemente crecer como artista y como escritora. Puedes aferrarte a la idea de cómo debería ser algo, pero la belleza de la colaboración consiste en que una nueva perspectiva puede convertir algo en su mejor versión posible.
Una versión vomitiva con ukelele de Hora de aventuras realmente entrañable.
The word “alternative” appears both in the fun new craze sweeping the government (“alternative facts”) and in a few science fiction staple ideas (“alternate history” and “alternate universe,” for example). Despite that superficial similarity, legendary scifi author Ursula K. Le Guin wants to make sure no one confuses…
Sara writes, "It has been a few years since The Hobbit has its theatrical release and some fans have been toiling since then on the perfect edit. Joblit has posted links to his latest versions.They include the personal favourite Theatrical Edition (runtime 2:42), a somewhat indulgent Extended Edition (runtime 3:45), and a brisk Ludicrous Edition (runtime 2:10). He notes to keep in mind that the credits are 13 minutes long, so playback is considerably shorter. If you're a fan of the films and also like an early night then these film edits are for you." (more…)
Because this is the world we live in now, Ashley Glawe recently got her pet ball python stuck in her stretched earlobe and had to go to the emergency room, where doctors made a small incision in her ear and used Vasoline to free the snake. Ashley claims her snake Bart poked his head through her ear on its own, which I highly doubt. I suspect this was a party trick, and I also suspect that if this your best party trick, maybe you should reevaluate throwing any more parties. Me? My dog and I do a dance routine together that always brings the house down. If there's one thing I know, it's how to be the life of a party. Dare me to swallow a noisemaker?
Keep going for one more shot to really appreciate just how fat the snake is where it got stuck.
Thanks to Jarod and Zootghost, who agree if you can't own a pet without getting it stuck in your ear and having to go to the emergency room, maybe you shouldn't own a pet.
Syfy’s The Expanse is that rare science fiction show that fires on all cylinders: character, story, setting, and message. And its second season, which premieres tonight, is even better than its first. Yesterday, I spoke with members of the cast about the upcoming season—and how it uncannily mirrors a political…
Even if you've taken a lesson or two, this brisk run through the basics of musical chords probably will remind you of something you've long forgotten. (more…)
El pasado fin de semana fue especialmente rico en todo tipo de eventos, sobre todo en Madrid. Demasiados, incluso. Quizá por ello pasó desapercibido esta convención: la Furrnion, primera convención de la cultura furry en España. Y no puedo evitar pensar: “¡menos mal!”, porque aunque la cosa me haga mucha gracia, me daría pena que esta gente fuera objeto de las risas del personal.
De la cultura furry ya hablamos en aquel artículo dedicado a CSI. Imaginaos como me sentí cuando encontré esta publicidad en la tienda de cómics: ¡aquí también hay afición a esto de disfrazarse de animalito! Eso sí, como aquí somos muy nuestros, no dejábamos la oportunidad de dejar claro que hay sitio hasta para echarse la siesta. Como nos gusta “españolear”, que diría Luis Lucena.
Por lo visto, acudieron hasta 150 personas, algunas con su disfraz de alce, lobo o zorro, otros sin él, pero todos metidos en esta cultura totalmente underground. Y, claro: es algo que debe de pasar, pero muy de vez en cuando. Al menos eso es lo que nos dice este GENIAL youtuber Ruppy Fox.
He visto este vídeo unas 5 veces y estoy totalmente fascinado con él: como todos los Youtubers que me gustan, improvisa sus vídeos y sigue un tren de pensamiento totalmente causal. Lo que implica que hasta se le olvide el tema del que habla, como podréis comprobar, o se pierda con detalles triviales, fruto de la emoción que le embarga.
Entre otras cosas, Druppy nos cuenta como la mayoría de la gente no puede comprender la atración por un colectivo compuesto por “personas que se disfrazan de animales, se dan abrazos, mimos, y la mayoría son homosexuales”. Todo esto entre jadeos, ya que el traje no le permite respirar bien. Y de remate, nos enseña su consola nueva.
En su candidez, Ruppy es un excelente embajador para esta subcultura bizarra. Por supuesto, el capítulo CSI ponía esta afición como unos desviados, cuya vida consistía en acudir a orgías discotequeras en las que follar en su traje de animal. Por lo visto, y aunque pasa, aquello no es tampoco Sodoma y Gomorra y la cosa fue bastante tranquilita: puestos con merchandising y material para los trajes, discoteca y concurso de talentos, alguna charla y taller… y muchos abrazos y mimos, imagino.
Los tipos tuvieron el buen ojo de poner un precio de entrada de 9 euros. Y bien que hicieron: así se ahorraban la posible entrada de curiosos y graciosos como yo mismo. En realidad, y habiendo tenido que aguantar comentarios y risitas por jugar a rol durante muchos años, es fácil entender que quieran que su afición sea privada.
De hecho, los Furrys ahora afrontan su propio “asesinato del rol”. El caso de un niño al que violaban unos tipos disfrazados de animales está teniendo bastante eco en los EEUU, donde como hemos visto, esta subcultura ya hacía torcer el gesto a más de uno. Un caso trágico que representa carnaza fácil para público y medios y que puede estigmatizarles durante mucho tiempo. Como hizo el capítulo de CSI. Como pasó con alguna película que demonizadaba el rol…
También, como el rol, supongo que parte del encanto es construirse una personalidad alternativa. O quizá sea su afición sea lo contrario al nudismo, y se sientan libres y más cómodos dentro de un traje que les protege. No tengo ni idea, pero si os digo que también quieren que les dejen tranquilos. Yo, con ver esos vídeos donde Ruppy Fox pasea feliz por la calle, me divierto, me río y me conformo.
The day after the Presidential Election, we posted this note to you, our readers. There was clearly division in the country and we wanted to hear from you about how we might use our platform—which aims to bring people together around the table—to encourage those with different backgrounds to start listening to each other.
We heard from more than a thousand of you, which was thrilling. In an upcoming post, we’ll lay out our plans for addressing your ideas.
But we also want to respond to a common thread among those who disliked our letter. Their message was: You’re a food site. I come here to escape. Stick to your knitting.
It’s a view we took seriously—and not just because minority views deserve to be taken seriously. But we think food is inescapably political, inescapably part of a wider world. The Americas, where many of our readers live, were colonized because explorers were looking for a faster spice trade route. Today’s immigrants keep our food industry running. International trade laws determine what foods we can import. The Farm Bill mandates how our agricultural systems are funded. Hunger strikes have long been a form of protest. Voters parse not only what but how our politicians eat, as a gauge of their character and authenticity.
So, yes, we will stick to our knitting. But that knitting takes up many threads—inspiring recipes; articles about design; delightful infographics; culture pieces; practical solutions for getting dinner on the table and other home quandaries; maker stories; and, at times, politics.
This means we will report to you if imported foods face new taxes that might affect how we shop; if international cuisines are being misrepresented or misappropriated; or if new laws affect our food system or the people who work within it.
This isn’t new. We’ve covered the Farm Bill, G.M.O. labeling, food access, and the environment. Amanda wrote an Op-Ed in the New York Times that critiqued Michelle Obama’s stance on cooking. This opinion piece did not deter the administration from welcoming her perspective. She was later named to the Commission on White House Fellows, a non-partisan commission, by President Obama (and was thoroughly vetted by White House lawyers). And Amanda now serves as a Commissioner under President Trump, supporting the Fellows as they continue to work for incoming Cabinet members.
Though we believe that food is political, we don’t believe that that means it has to be divisive. We pride ourselves on creating an inclusive community—it’s been part of our mission from day one. We welcome everyone, and we welcome you to disagree with each other and us. Civilly, of course. If you stand behind a 20% tax on imported avocados, then please share your views. A food site has the power to change the way people think about the world. Let’s celebrate this fact, and each other.
—Amanda & Merrill, Founders of Food52
Un home de 63 anos faleceu nun bar de Narón ao atragoarse cun freixó que lle puxeran como pestisco. Atopouno no baño un dos propietarios do local.
O suceso ocorreu contra as 8 da tarde de onte, cando Manolo, cliente habitual deste establecemento de Naron, estaba tomando un viño.
Foi entón cando Emilio o atopou tirado no chan.
Non era a primera vez que o falecido se atragoaba, incluso coa inxestión, xa que padecía algunha discapacidade e parálise que lle impedia tragar correctamente.
Hoxe, o local, onde se concentraban veciños consternados polo sucedido, permanecía pechado ao público por respecto ao falecido e á súa familia.
You hate cancelling plans last-minute because you don’t want to let people down – but should others cancel on you, it comes as a definite relief. You relish the opportunity to spend some time alone, recharging your batteries.
Lately you’re finding yourself overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and overall chaos of your external environment. You long to cut yourself off from all of it and spend some time recharging in a clean, quiet space where you can be alone to organize your thoughts.
There is absolutely no better feeling than knowing that you’re immersed in solitude at last – and that you’re in complete control over when that solitude gets broken.
You spend a Friday night alone and then find yourself canceling plans for Saturday. You spend all of Saturday alone and begin dreading going out on Sunday. Though you know you need social time in moderation, it just feels so damn good to be alone with your thoughts lately – and you can’t stop getting your fix of it.
It’s not that you’re completely antisocial lately – it’s just that you aren’t up for the intense sensory stimulation of bars, nightclubs and other crowded venues. You’d rather spend one-on-one time with your loved ones, engaging in thoughtful discussions that give you something meaningful to think about once you retreat back into your inner world.
Logically, you know you’d go crazy within at least a week. But emotionally, the option of disappearing into the middle of nowhere just feels so right.
Seeing the little moon sign appear on the corner of your screen feels like a massive weight being lifted from your shoulders. Knowing that you’re cutting yourself off from external stimulation – even for a short period of time – is incredibly crucial to your sense of well-being.
It’s not that you don’t adore the people in your life – it’s just that at the end of the day, you are absolutely your own best friend. And lately you’ve been craving some good, quality time with your best friend. Because nothing else energizes or revitalizes you in quite the same way.
Denis Villeneuve has said that adapting Dune is his dream, but that it would never happen. Now he’s been officially hired to make the first in a series of Dune movies for Legendary Pictures. We wish him all the luck in Arrakis.
I know people mean well by encouraging me to love myself. But I just don’t need that kind of outside encouragement, thank you very much. Because in spite of what other people want me to think, I am very proud of my stupid fucking body.
I don’t need your platitudes about self-love or loving my body no matter what. I don’t love my body because it’s good. I love my body because it’s dumb. And who am I to tell my body she’s okay just the way she is, when she already knows she’s just a crazy lil’ dum dum?
I know it’s a stupid fucking body, but it’s my stupid fucking body.
I know this might seem unconventional to some people. You’re supposed to hate your body so people can tell you to love it, that’s how society works. But that’s just not me. Ever since my dumbo body flopped out of my mom’s pretty normal-looking body, I’ve been very proud of it.
It has been through so many changes and I have confidently strutted through each one of them. My body was born in a dumb way, transformed quickly into a real dopey hippo, morphed into a massive moron during puberty, coasted as a muttonhead for quite a while, and now it’s all grown up and totally fucking stupid. A fully formed, stupid fucking body that carries me around all the time. It’s great, and I don’t need you to tell me to love my curves because I scream “YOU’RE A STUPID FUCKING BODY AND I LOVE YOU” proudly into the mirror every night!
I encourage others to feel the same amount of pride in their walking ham slab. Everyone, even you. Look at what a fool your body is. It’s a real nitwit and that is so great. Like wow, go you for living in that! Now go show it to the world!
I like to take my body out and show it off, too. And when people go “Wow, what a stupid body” instead of “you’re great just the way you are,” I am filled with joy. They get it. They get me!
That’s right, my body is a part of me no matter how much of a dodo it is. This dummy loser cell sack is the only one I’ll ever have, so I enjoy every second it.
