I fucked Harvey Weinstein T-shirts – coming soon

Every girl grows up with the threat of Weiner Productions: from the beaches of Thailand to the villages of Russia, refugee camps, to banking; the spectrum of prostitution that women maintain to better themselves is alive, and flourishing.  It’s not solely aligned to girls either – boys and trans alike, we all know placating men with sex, and the possibility of it, is the trade of marriages real or unreal the world over.  It’s the denial of this reality which is harmful.

The fact is, Weinstein delivered.  Two fold. If the girls chose to suck his cock, he made them famous.  Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington, it is only a step away from prostitution.  But Mother, the stage is Everywhere.

It makes me sad that my cum face is the best face.  We play the roles of the female stars, sucking it up like Marilyn.  To pass Go! successfully, independently, without passing a cock, has anyone ever done that?  I’m not saying any of my sisterhood have stooped, but it’s about time we had an honest conversation about why paying it down to a hyperreal cartoon of a Trump-like Harvey Weinstein is impossible to ignore in all industries.  Show me a girl who hasn’t had guilt for feeling dirty about her choices, and I’ll find three that have been raped.  Ultimately, no woman who wanted stardom turned Weinstein down.  He played out his own masochistic fantasy that women would not fuck him UNLESS he could offer them fame.  And all of us fell for it. The power that the co-founder of Miramax represents is endemic to masculinity.   The danger of Weinergate is the flipside, the shadow, the villain to the heroine:  it perpetuates an acceptance that women are victims.  We are not.  Feminisation does that.  Falling into roles.  And this is the first case in the media where the women admit to being implicit in the rape by saying, yes, we did try to use our female powers, and it wasn’t as straight forward as a gun being-held-to-our-head situation.  The polarisation of victimhood is where this is too black and white; if we were born into worlds where equality was the norm, and girls’ muscles were accepted to be as strong as the man’s wallet, we’d all be richer.

We can hope that by exposing Weinstein, as he exposed his power and penis to us, it will lead to a greater understanding of casting couch mythology, and dialogue about unwritten behaviour of knowing when to flick your hair, go Diana-coy, bash your eyelids like you’re Manga.  Because it is not only in Hollywood where a casting couch is the route to stardom or bettering one’s opportunities.

The issue revealed here canonises a false belief that women can’t enjoy sex as much as men.  The reality we create, the one we indulge, the one sold to us – behind the screen, it fizzes with the moralistic micro-chimera we carry in our souls of being as good as the last person we fucked.  That is the reality.  When this is abused, it means we carry heavy guilt.  Rape sucks.  We are who we’ve slept with, and still, we seem to accept that we have to fuck the cock that feeds us.  It’s a tragic feedback loop.

 

Entitlement to sex through dominance is what this is about.  It is owned by men, but also by girls, young women, consciously, or without awareness capitalising on eyelash length and bouncy hair.  Why wouldn’t we, those are the images we receive.  Yet tropes of max excess infantalise our own expectations of men.  Weinstein is just another victim of our beauty, a symbolic representation of power, of super-patriarch being our prey: of youth and beauty.  We are part of this system, and we need to fess up, that the norm is a girl who nicing up the boss,  smiling, looking maternally, or sex daughterly, or with a promise, all the way up the greasy pole: we all wear the I FUCKED HARVEY WEINSTEIN T-shirt.   And there has never been such a clear symbol of this dichotomy.

Weinstein has hounded people for the rights to their works as they lie on their deathbeds.  He is no angel, but we could say that if it wasn’t him, it would have been another pursuing those ‘rights’.  It is the culture.

In my novel, DEATH WISH (my agent loves it, other agents love it, the few friends I’ve shown it to love it) – the main character, Scarlett Flag, a victim of the patriarch wears an I SUCKED A LOT OF COCK TO GET HERE – T-shirt.  It’s too strong.  For a woman to say that.  I’ve had 8 solid refusal letters.  I think they’re all from women.

My ol’ DJ blud, Irvine Welsh assures me: ‘Trainspotting would never get published now’ – in the world of middle class gatekeepers.  But I can’t help feeling it’s because I’m a woman writing about a lifestyle that’s usually reserved for men.  As I get older, the shield of my youth falls, thank fuck – but I find women like Cosey Fanni Tutti guiding my way:  speaking at Frieze recently, she was keen to explain expectations of sexual behaviour being codified by sexuality, citing women who have written with male pseudonyms, and vice versa.  We need to discuss why men rape and don’t realise they are doing it.  They don’t accept they rape like they don’t accept No.  Women are forever the victims, accepting Men are more powerful.  Men are predatory.  They hunt.  They rape. They earn more.  So we have to be nice to them. Girls, seriously, is our only option to stop playing out ideas of beauty in wanton fuck me imagery of selfie-filter-face culture?  All of us enact gender roles: sadly affected by what we consume on all screens, literature, news, friends, role models. Everywhere.  It does not have to be this way.

We are the society we create.  Create the culture we want.

In my life as a DJ, I worked with strippers – empowered by the Hugh Hefner super-sexualisation of us, and the laddish culture that was apparently about men reclaiming their manhood post-rave and equality – but I’ve known a lot of girls less into it.  You could say forced by circumstance.  Forced to wear mascara.  Forced to be judged on image.  All of this may be as old as the hills, as is it being about what is inside that matters.  That is what we radiate.  Many burlesque dancers I meet are the kind of girls bullied at school, their sexual spectrum makes them drop dead sex magnets, who express themselves through dancing and fantasy.  Everything is on a spectrum.  I am happy naked, on a beach.  I took my clothes off at Manumission.  In solidarity of my sisters, like it was a taboo I had to break with myself, towards liberation, from being fucked by men.  I was born naked, ran around a hippy kid, camping for months at a time across Europe.  Why apologise for liking heels?  They make my legs look longer, my arse better.  That’s the imagery I fancy.  Or is that something I should police – along with the production of feel good hormones?  I don’t accept anyone telling me what to do, so why should I accept the way they make me feel?

Back to Harvey: he’s not the first and last guy to whizz around the best hotel suites in the world, eating the best food, being offered sweet pussy.  He’s done exactly what he wants.  Sure it’s a filthy habit but we all know acting is one step away from prostitution.  As long as we are acting, we all are one step away from prostitution.  Yeah – we could lose everything and end up on the streets.  The moralistic media and BAFTA backlash reinforces such fears  – reputation, victimhood, it’s one long bog roll, perpetualising imagery of the sexes.  So wear the T-shirt – be proud.  If you’re acting, you’re taking part – so choose and accept what you suck up.  Be the directors, and producers of the world that we want to live in.

Enshallah.

THE FILM & ALBUM PROJECT, GHOST DRIVER BY KELLI ALI, IS NOW HAPPENING!  I AM PLAYING HOLLYWOOD ARCHETYPE, GRACE RIDER – SUPPORT IT NOW!

https://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/ghostdriver

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