Zloubida

Bien joué, mon frère !

You don’t think being reified is demeaning?

However:

I suspect your view may be distorted by algorithms feeding you content they expect you to enjoy.

And an accusation. Let’s stop, you don’t discuss in good faith.

I’ll ignore as much parts of your comments as I want when you don’t answer to mine but derail the discussion.

However let’s explain. Porn, in its mainstream form, doesn’t show a sane form of sexuality, where the desires and needs of all participants are met, but shows women as objects of male pleasure. If, from an individual point of view that doesn’t present any problem (I won’t kink-shame women, nor men, nor gender fluid people, who like being sexually reified), as a form of media it normalizes a vision of womanhood as essentially inferior to manhood, as women being necessarily at the service of men, and thus is a product and reinforcement of rape culture.

Your argument is the porn version of #NotAllMen 😂

Man, porn is scripted you know. And by men for men. Porn actresses don’t express their sexuality, but the fantasies of the consumers.

Yes.

Porn sex has not much common with actual sex.

It’s not that extreme with pornography, but if a black man acted in a KKK propaganda film willingly, the message of the film would still be demeaning for black people.

Even if porn actress are doing that willingly, and even if porn films aren’t propaganda, they still convey a vision of womanhood which is demeaning.

Femboys are encrypted

I have a brain, you know.

That’s true.

That’s your right. But when I look at the things I own, I see the suffering it caused to other humans beings. My shirt was probably made in a sweatshop, my smartphone has Congolese children blood in it, my car is destroying our environment … and I see no actual alternatives to these. I just try to change these things as little as possible.

There’s no ethic consumption under capitalism, unfortunately.

The flags are wrong, though.

I need parts one and two.

This, but unironically.

Between this closed door and the startling attics, and needing coffee, I feel trapped and sick. I look for a key, a note, anything which could help me find the sense of all this.

I try to get our to look at the mailbox. Maybe there’s a name on it?

Maybe there’s an orchard or a vegetable garden outside? I look out a window.