"My suspenders match my gender"

Consent fries and other bizarreities in West Philly

West Philadelphia on a Saturday offers no lack of things to remark upon.

I am trying very hard not to curse, but seriously my beloved readers, WTF???

This was the “Consent Festival” in Clark Park, the park where I visit the super hot farmer and his charming, hard working American sons every weekend and buy farm raised meat and produce, some of which will go into a delicious sausage and kale soup tonight.

The Consent Festival was in the middle of the park. Tables in a circle with all sorts of no doubt taxpayer funded nonprofits hawking their… uh… services.

Many were about sexual health. That’s great. Condoms, HIV home tests (didn’t even know they had those!)

But some were downright bizarre. One table I stopped by featured several obviously men dressed as women talking about their hotline for rape survivors.

They happily informed me that it was trans-led and trans-staffed.

Okay, fine. Trans people are assaulted and should be able to talk to fellow trans people about it if they want. My actual best friend is a trans person, and she’s way more conservative than I am. She detests these people so much that she said to call her back when I was outta there when I started telling her what I was seeing. She didn’t transition to be trans, she wanted to live as a woman. By age sixty I think you know. Anyhow…

This survivors’ hotline is staffed by men with penises pretending to be women. As a survivor of multiple sexual assaults, I’d have to tell you - the last person I’d have wanted to talk about it with would have been a person with a penis who puts on a dress and pretends to be a woman. Thanks but no thanks.

I walked on. There was a woman who teaches consent and hosts cuddle parties. Yes, cuddle parties. She had stuffed bears, and said that she would give me one if I’d do an exercise with her. Sure, I said, because I love stuffed animals and the bear was quite cute.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

I noticed that her green eye shadow was very becoming and if I were attracted to women I might have said, “Sure! Why not?” But I’m not so I said, “Not right now.”

She proceeded to interrogate why I said “Not right now” instead of “No.”

Because I am polite and Southern, I said, still hoping to win the bear. I did, btw.

We chatted for a bit. She said she hosts cuddle parties where you can just say no to people who ask to give you a hug for practice at saying no.

Thanks, I get enough practice at saying no when I get asked by five homeless people for money every day. Or, “Can I ask you a question?” No, you can’t. You have no right to intrude on my day.

I walked along, collecting info for the book. All background.

I came upon a nice young woman who does some kind of sexual health education. Whatever. But the young lady, in her twenties I’d say, was paler than I am, with blonde hair and blonde eyebrows.

“Dear, forgive me if it’s too personal, but are you wearing sunscreen?”

No, she was not. She said she hadn’t thought of it. The girl was in direct sunlight.

“This is a medical emergency sweetie (I refer to everyone as though they are my student these days) I’m going home to grab my hardcore sunscreen and I’m coming back with it.”

So I walked the about twenty minute walk, grabbed a bottle of Helios sunscreen that my ex researched and recommended and brought it back to her.

“You are saving my life,” she said.

Awwww. I’m saving her from becoming a long haired lobster, for sure.

On my way home I bought a book from one of the booksellers on the street called White People Surrender. It’s hilarious. I’ll write a review when I’m done reading it. I have to give the author credit, he’s got guts.

Me and my white girl friend put on our sunscreen and had a moment of solidarity.

Meanwhile, I was reading one of Rob Henderson’s Substack notes about consent. How men have been so trained to think they will be charged with assault if they even talk to a girl. Thank the Goddess I grew up before all that.

Though to be honest, I was always the aggressive one. Ask anyone I ever kissed, “Was there any doubt in your mind that I wanted to kiss you?”

None. I was clear. I am nothing if not direct.

I have never, that I recall, grabbed a man by the hair and dragged him back to my cave. But I might, if he had enough hair and I had a cave.

As it stands, I am clear. I think all women should be. No means no and yes means yes.

The younger generations are swimming in an ocean of doubt. My friends wonder if they will be blessed with grandchildren. No one seems to know how to do the basics: get a job, get married, have kids.

Now granted, I didn’t do that. But it wasn’t the easy way out when I didn’t follow the script. Now the hard way is what used to be the script.

Heaven help us all. As cars drive past my apartment blasting rap screaming the N word that I wait all week to get away from, I contemplate a move. A big one. This is getting old.

I love fries and consensual sex. But I still don’t get the consent fries thing.