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Profile for Rachel Rabbit White
Tampon ads are a big business. I mean, without them, would we understand the carefree-ness of white pants? Or the importance of feminine deodorizing? These ads have long been doling out advice. Like Kotex and their 1950s “Are you in the Know?” campaign, which offered gems like: “When at a restaurant, choose what appeals to you then give your order to your escort; he should pass it on to the waiter.” According to Harry Finley, curator of the Museum of Menstruation, ads started in the late 1800s and they’ve changed very little. “The companies (usually run by men) take advantage of the secrecy surrounding menstruation. They’ve always been about covering up any sign of menstruation, sight or odor. The worse women feel about menstruation the more vulnerable they are and companies make money from that.” With thanks to Finley, here are a collection of some of the weirder ads from all around the world throughout the years.
I lost my virginity at age 15, in a double wide trailer. I remember his abs glowing under the black-light and the mood music–a Ginuwine album on repeat. I had snuck out on a snowy school night, holding my shoes in my hand. I felt sort of frozen and surreal, somehow knowing this was the night, and barely noticing the fact that I was just wearing wet socks in his car.
There isn’t much to describing first time sex. I felt more like I was watching myself from above than experiencing it, thinking Oh my god, this is sex! or Just move your hips with Ginuwine. Afterward, naked and side by side, I stared into his eyes, my heart feeling huge. My virginity had become a burden that past year and this was, surely, a turning point in my life. He suddenly locked eyes with mine and opened his mouth. I wanted to remember every second of this moment.
“Want a Capri Sun?” he asked. Keep reading »
If you have sex with 20 people, you will get genital warts. At least, that is how I framed it to my friends. My pillows had seen more than a few DIY haircuts when I saw something downtown, too: bumps. I knew it was an STI. Genital warts, to be honest, but I wasn’t ready to be. Maybe it’s razor burn? I thought, instead of facing facts. Or just ingrown hairs? Maybe if I grew out a ‘70s bush it will go away?
Yeah, it didn’t. Keep reading »
When I was a kid, I was a bit confused by the word “thespian.” I watched adults say it with a certain swish of the hand. Did it have something to do with drama or was it a sexual orientation? Now, I’m older and I get it. But I do think it’s interesting that the theater is known as place with a higher representation of gays—except of course in Hollywood. Where everyone is totally straight. Straight! And in happy marriages! Jumping-on-Oprah’s couch happy, OK!!! Yep, we can’t be sure of course, but some have alleged that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes got married to mask the fact that he prefers men or is just straight up asexual.
Ahh, the classic lavender marriage. After the jump, more suspected marriages of convenience and a history of how this type of faux relationship came to be.
I’d stay up until 3 or 4 a.m. the room lit with a pink glow, filled with the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. I was 16 when I joined Girlpunk.net. This all-girl forum quickly became a window out of my small town. It made me feel like the life I wanted was possible—punk shows, wild clothes, sneaking into clubs. These were the girl friends I always dreamed of. Dream girls who I would trade studded clothes with, and dance all lanky and cool next to. Girls to fall asleep with, side by side. Keep reading »
It was summer when Andrew and I met. He was a straight-edge hipster DJ—a slutty vegan in organic American Apparel underwear. We had sex the first night we met, the kind of sex that is so good it seems choreographed. The kind that reminds you what kissing is—all catching your heart and secret parts of yourself opening up.
I shouldn’t have left his bed. Maybe then we would have gotten it out of our systems, or gotten to really know each other. But instead I kissed him goodbye and said, “You are really fun. Text me if you want to do it again.” My heart fluttered—an angelfish gasping for air—and our game began. Keep reading »
My parents are still married. They just celebrated their 28th wedding anniversary. But when I saw them again it was separately, first one then the other. It had to be this way. Seeing both of them for the first time in over two years would have just been too much.
See, I broke up with my parents two-and-a-half years before this visit. I called them on Halloween, after avoiding voicemails for weeks. My teeth were chattering. “I need a break from this relationship,” I said and my mom burst into tears. My dad, quiet, mirrored back what I said … then tried to turn the conversation to normal things. Keep reading »
I grew up in a small town. It was in the “heartland”– the middle of the country, yet everyone had twangy Southern accents. The town didn’t have much money or restaurants or people. But we did have churches. Churches in pole-barns, churches whose congregations were made up of only one family, churches in the hills with members who spoke in tongues and fancy churches with stained glass that told you to vote for George Bush.
All through my youth, I probably would have said I was a Christian. It was just the default. My parents did take me to church when I was little, I grabbed from the tin of sugar-cookies and drank dixie cups of watery Kool-Aid, but I had somehow remained a bit feral. Keep reading »
You’d think I’d remember the night that I discovered that my would be-husband was also bisexual–that the relationship I was entering into was a bi-bi partnership. But I can’t. It probably seemed … normal.
Previous boyfriends had not been out as bi, but some had made out with boys and, well, all of them did things like borrow my jeans or gush over indie-boy hotties. I guess bisexual boys are my type. Keep reading »
I was on a date with my boyfriend of six months. But after we purchased popcorn, took our seats, and held hands watching “Dark Knight,” I couldn’t help but think of Luc, my ex, during the film. Something about Heath Ledger’s character reminded me of him—the lip-smacking attitude of too much Xanax. Sometimes I guiltily tried to measure how much I thought about Luc. Was it once a day? Once a week?
Back home with our shoes off and phones switched on, my boyfriend saw that I had a voicemail. It was from my mom. I watched him listen to the message, my heart quickening.
“Luc died,” he said. Keep reading »