Fuckable Feminist (or Standin On the Verge of Gettin It On)

wangechi mutu, a fantastic journey

some who’ve engaged #t4gb have asked, ‘what does fuckable feminist mean?’ i’m grateful

ana mendieta

for the question and wanted to take a moment to further explore the term as i’ve embraced it, as well as its inspiration.

first, i did not coin the term ‘fuckable feminist’ to (further) restrict boundaries of ability (i.e. who is ‘able’ to fuck whom or who is ‘able’ to be fucked by whom) nor did i create it to exist within binaries of ‘types of feminists’ (fuckable vs unfuckable feminist). the song and the term were originally created to combine two concepts that have been historically polarized by patriarchal heteronorms. quite personally, it is a celebration of the femme women i love (particularly as a self-identified butch/dyke). it is an ode to the femme women who beckon me with their minds, tenor,

terri gender bender, la butcherettes

and intelligence as much as their bodies, as we choose each other’s bed, which also means affirming the way i offer comfort and support (sexually and intellectually), choosing my gender presentation (and me choosing hers), choosing to exchange intimate care and good love with an integrity that asserts both of us as ‘fuckable feminists.’ the term is meant to be political as well as dense, complex, and inflaming; no different than the two words that comprise it.

from kai lumumba barrow’s domestic labor installation

so, on this heart-shaped ‘holiday,’ where love pays a commercial price for its pedestal, i salute the fuckable feminists of the world who are always standing on the verge of gettin it on; gettin it on despite imperialism and layered disenfranchisements; gettin it on in the name of freeing minds and liberating bodies; gettin it on because every movement needs a sexy-sweet-and-sweaty soundtrack, gettin it on for the fever induced by artsy femmes, a personal fetish. i see you, elegant hustler in scarlet stilettos, that defiant splash of ‘ride or die’ staining your skinny jeans, highlighting pages in your own manifesto, rifting the squared edges of the world with your middle finger’s manicure. you truly do. the damn. thing.

and i hope to be seen by you.

Betty Davis, Fuckable Feminist

“fast forward to reminisce on the poetry/if i ain’t in your vicinity, then woe is me\there was a song written, called your eyes open senses/ traded the cussin for kissin, your body’s a composition\intelligentsia, menace beyond the black fist/ squeezably lovable fuckable feminist”

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