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What is the point of a #SlutWalk if you are going to cater to sexist male photographers?

I growl in my best death metal voice "Fotógrafo pendejo, no somos objetos" (Asshole photographer, we're not objects).

Instead of embracing my cry as a legitimate concern, organizers decide to shut me down. One of those sexist objectifying photographers tell me "piénsalo tantito, tienes que ser tolerante, esta es una marcha pública y te expones a ser fotografiada". (Think about it, you have to be tolerant, this is a public event and you are exposed to being photographed.) I reply in anger, "tú no me dices qué pensar, qué hacer, qué tolerar... eso lo decido yo... yo decido y no es no" (you won't tell me what to think, do, or tolerate. I decide. No means no.) Another asshole tells me I'm not interesting enough to be photographed anyway.

Where are my "sisters"? Why is no one backing me up? Is this not the sexism we are supposed to be fighting against?

My "sisters" decide to defend their male "allies" from the media instead of a fellow victim of an obvious aggresion. The "organizers" transphobically explain to me that say "trans love posing and being photographed".

Fangirl/Idol

Do it.
Let me drop my sanity to negative levels.
Make me love you so much
that it will hurt so much
that any other pain I feel is no longer relevant.
Play it.
Play it loud.
Play it with a passion that sets us both on fire and set me free.
Make my body react to your sound.
Make my hips obey.
Smoothen my movements.
Round me up.
Lift me.
Stop me from hurting myself.
Watch me dance.

10 things that make my body feel good

1. Fa'arapu, varu, hura, tairi.  (Four things, but they go together.)
2. Dancing barefoot.
3. Dancing with flamenco shoes.
4. Massaging my feet after dancing.
5. Eating dark dark chocolate (the less milk and sugar, the better.) 
6. Bathing in running water.
7. Pouring warm wax on my hand and removing it when it has hardened.
8. Braiding or twisting my hair, or just running my fingers through it.
9. Applying blush with a fluffy brush.
10. Eating apple-cinammon jam without using spoons, only my fingers.

I bought a book yesterday titled What You Really Really Want.  I found it in the Women Studies section of Barnes and Noble.  I went in looking for an Eve Ensler book.  I was dissappointed to have found books like Why Men Love Bitches,  How to Marry a Rich Man, Why You Are Single, How to Meet and Keep the Man of Your Dreams, but I could not find Insecure at Last nor I Am an Emotional Creature anywhere. 

Before I left the store, I asked the guy in customer service if he could help me locate the book.  He misheard me.  He thought the book was called "Insecure at love".  I felt slightly embarassed, first because he did not get the title correctly, and second because I wondered what the clerk would have thought about someone looking for a book with such a title. 

"So do you have any book by Eve Ensler?"

"Eve... Ensler... no, we would have to order it.  It would arrive in a week.  No other bookstore nearby has it, either."

"Well, in case you had one, what section would it be in"

"Let me check... Uh, Women Studies."

"Where is Women Studies in this bookstore?"

And so he lead me to the "section": a very easily missed shelf.   Half a shelf, actually.  Less than 10 different books and their copies. Meanwhile, the Shut-Up-Girl-Please-Get-A-Man-And-Get-Married section was an intimidating whole aisle.

The experience was not a new one.  A week ago I had been at a bookstore at the local mall and also noticed that the "mujeres" section was full of books with the words "cabrona", "chismes", "casarse" and "hombre" in their titles.

I bought In the Body of the World by Eve Ensler.  Also, I got a pretty little workbook addressed to younger women titled What You Really Really Want, by Jacklyn Friedman.  This second book requires 10 minute writing exercises daily.  I'm going to do them, just because.

Fuck this

There's this person I wanted to know better and with whom I would have liked to share some cake.  

But fuck this.  I have been making a fool of myself.

My cynical adult mind cannot hold adolescent fantasies any longer.  

No tolero los poemas en español cuyos versos terminan en infinitivos.