Tag Archives: racism story

The Soapbox: What Online Prostitution Taught Me About Racism

The-Soapbox--What-Online-Prostitution-Taught-Me-About-Racism

Racism is a covert agent in our lives. Some claim that it is invisible to them; completely hidden. It is very infrequent that racism openly reveals itself for long enough to be identified, before disappearing, cloaked in discussions about “culture,” “socio-economics,” “sensitivity,” or “history.” Online prostitution is one venue where structural racism can be seen in plain sight.

That’s why I researched online prostitution in New York City for my college thesis. With the help of websites like Backpage.com and Craigslist.com, I became acquainted with the underground sex industry, where the value of a woman is in plain sight. Her worth is advertised without a hint of political correctness. No excuses are made about class, schooling or occupation. Every woman is simply a scantily-clad commodity who, with the click of a mouse, is deemed wanted or unwanted for purchase. Keep reading »

The Soapbox: The Disconnect Between Black Feminism And Gay Activism

Poor, Black Sex Symbol
True Story: I Grew Up A Poor, Black Sex Symbol
What it's like to grow up poor and black in America. Read More »
Soapbox: Piper's Privilege
Piper in prison on Orange Is The New Black
Piper from "Orange Is The New Black" is the poster girl fro white privilege. Read More »
Soapbox: Maasai Warrior
The Soapbox Warrior Princess
About the woman claiming to be the first female Maasai Warrior... Read More »

I am a black woman and my best friend is a gay man. He came out to me the summer between our senior year of high school and our freshman year of college.

“I really need to tell you something,” he began, while driving us home from our summer job at the local pool. I didn’t know what to expect — an admission of love, maybe? That would be awkward.

He pulled the car over, then stared deeply into my eyes and said, “I’m gay.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, that’s cool with me,” I replied.

He was excited that we would remain friends and was especially happy to have someone to go out and “meet boys” with. Together we frequented New York City’s gay clubs and bars, more often than the straight ones. Splash, Therapy or Barracuda, but The Ritz was a mutual favorite. It was a two-floor bar with a huge dance floor, usually jam packed with sweaty, shirtless men by 1 a.m. The environment offered us both freedoms: I could be as black as I wanted: dance to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies,” twerk it, shake it and break it (while being applauded), and he could be as gay as he wanted. Keep reading »

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