Staying Where You Don’t Belong

One of the strongest feelings I had in my last relationship was uncertainty.

I remember scrolling through Google for hours, with the search engine spitting out nearly identical articles reading “Signs You Love Him More Than He Loves You” and “10 Signs He Is Losing Interest.” As I scrolled through these articles, I thought to myself: see, none of these reasons ring true for me. I mean… only a few of them do. I would click on another, desperately searching for an answer to how I felt inside. The truth was, I could look at articles from corny Kickstarter websites all day, but I was still refusing to acknowledge my intuition. He wasn’t right for me. The fact that I had to turn to Google is an answer in itself.

So, why stay where I don’t belong? It’s a fact of life that we will grow out of people and places. But I had trouble accept that, and I was clinging to what I thought was love. I allowed the good to outshine the bad, telling myself that he was just going through a rough time. I didn’t have boundaries. I couldn’t recognize that I was being drained by someone who barely even thought about filling me up.

I’ve noticed that myself and many other women struggle with our boundaries when it comes to romantic relationships, especially with men. There are many facets to this problem, so I’m going to try to explain my experiences as best as I can.

We value romantic love over all other types of love.

There’s no doubt our culture overvalues romantic love. We are fed ideas of finding the “one” or “soulmate” from novels, TV shows, movies, art, poetry, advertisements, and the list goes on. This media gives us a unified, pre-packaged, and often heteronormative version of romantic love, which we end up modeling our own romantic relationships after. Basically, this media we see almost every day of our lives shapes how we love, how we find love, and how we expect to be loved. It makes me wonder, would we even fall in love if it weren’t for these mediums telling us how to love, how to find the perfect person, and the best age to do it? Would we still freak out at being the only single friend in our 30s and beyond? Would we still stay in toxic relationships out of fear of being alone? Would we still feel like failures after every relationship that didn’t work out?

I question what our lives as women would look like if they weren’t centered around finding the “one.”

While many women have actually broken free of this cycle, it’s often met with sour looks and scrutiny. I saw this several times when I was watching Sex and the City. Although Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte were happily single, outsiders often questioned their happiness and assumed they were miserable for not being married or having children because, well, misogyny. Women are expected to want to settle down and have children because that’s how it’s always been, that’s their presumed role. And to be completely honest with you, my best friends have always felt more like my soulmates than any of the guys I’ve dated. They support my passions, they randomly check up on me, and they make me feel full.

Women are expected to heal men / “Ride or Die” culture.

I’ve seen this idea pop up a lot lately, and it always rubs me the wrong way. I think that supporting your partner through tough times is important to any healthy relationship, but this burden is often so heavy it causes women to neglect our own mental health and lives.

A lot of men who depend on women to unpack and sort their problems actually need professional help from a licensed therapist. I encountered this problem in my last relationship, and I didn’t even realize it until I was out. I was constantly breaking my back to help my partner out because I loved him, but whenever I needed the same support — I rarely got it. I was always filling him up emotionally and worrying about him, but I never felt like he cared about my well-being. I never felt the same genuine love and care I gave him when he needed it most. Still, I didn’t feel like I could leave him because I wanted him to be okay, even though the relationship was draining me.

I was crying a lot. Every time I felt misunderstood or undervalued by him, I would cry. I wish I could look back and tell myself to snap out of it. None of my friends’ boyfriends made them feel this way. None of my friends would ever allow me to stay with him if they knew what was going on. Why was I so oblivious?

It’s so easy for me to spiral into anger at myself for staying somewhere I didn’t belong, but I learned something valuable from the experience that I wouldn’t have learned any other way: trust your intuition.

Despite what I’d been taught in the past, being in a romantic relationship does not mean you have it all. Most importantly, I learned that being single will always be better than being miserable with someone else. Whether we leave or stay with a person or place that isn’t meant for us, life will eventually push us in the direction we are meant to be in. There’s no point in beating ourselves up for staying where we don’t belong and not realizing it sooner.

The most important rule is to be compassionate with yourself and always, always take a lesson from every hardship, because most lessons cannot be learned in any other way besides through experience. Staying where we don’t fit teaches us how to recognize when future situations and people aren’t working. And that lesson that will take you far in life.

Photos (in order of appearance) by Lin Cheng-Sheng, Erika Bowes, Petra Collins, and Herbie Yamaguchi.

Men & Emotions: A 404 Error

Although I don’t have a lot of experience with being fully emotionally invested in a lot of men… I can say there’s a very prominent pattern that surfaces 80% of the time: they become a somewhat consistent presence in my life.

Whether it’s a lack of empathy, the inability to verbally respond to (mild) conflict without resorting to anger/ghosting, or a plain incapability in dealing with their own emotions — there’s often something that makes you take a step back and shake your head in disappointment when a man is present.

Now, before any rabid, foam-mouthed screecher aggressively types, “nOt AlL mEn,” through gritted teeth behind their screen, I am not talking about all men. But nonetheless, a CONCERNING AMOUNT of men I’ve encountered have displayed lower levels of emotional intelligence. So let us all, in unison, take a deep breath and prepare ourselves to digest the food for thought I’m about to feed you.

I’ll begin by saying that I assume partial responsibility for these recurring instances of mild heartbreak and helplessness. Perhaps it’s just the type of men I choose to pursue! If only I could find out which type of men tend to be more dysfunctional then maybe — just maybe — I can start avoiding this specific male subset like the plague! So, jolly and eager to investigate, the time has come to uncover the possible upstanding barrier(s??? yikes) between me and that seemingly impossible healthy courtship.

Why are the men I’m attracted to so emotionally handicapped?

A.) Do I subconsciously lust after those bad boy nuances?

This is an internal phenomenon one can only call self-sabotage. Every single pursuit I’ve had with men of this caliber has failed me, and yet I never seem to learn. My sadomasochistic desire to mutilate my own sanity remains unfaltering. It’s like I actively choose to blind myself whenever incompatibility looks me dead in the eyes; plastering my hands over my sockets whenever red flags attempt to present themselves.

For whatever reason, I strive to become the saving grace of these men. I daydream about posing heroically on top of a cliff while my starstruck and stunted lover praises me from below, screaming “SHE DID IT! SHE CHANGED ME! I’M A BETTER MAN!” at the top of his lungs. Why?

Do I view “damaged” men as an exciting, esteem-boosting opportunity to showcase my persuasive talents, achieving success when I manage to steer them away from bad behaviors and towards a more enlightened path?

Do I use them to fulfill some deeply repressed maternal need to nurture?

Is this just me trying to prove my “wifey” skills and pet-like “through thick and thin<3<3<3” selflessness, hoping my worth as a life partner will come to light?

Is this what I feel I have to do/be in order to be seen as “different” and “not like the other girls”?

Do I deliberately seek out these men because I lowkey feel I’m undeserving of anything proper that’ll yield a positive contribution to my life —

I digress.

I’ve tried to rewire my brain to veer away from these toxic cravings, but they are rooted in something beyond my conscious comprehension. The only thing I can do to alleviate the pain I’m putting myself through is to recognize the red flags and hope, for my own well-being, that I have the willpower required to say, “thanks : – ), but NO thanks : – (” to all the emotionally inept men who come my way.

My main problem with this is that self-restraint and internal “pros and cons” analysis have never been a practice of mine. So me saying, “Yes please” in response a devil’s spawn’s request to enter my life wouldn’t come as a surprise. Think of me as Eve and poisonous men as the apple… gobble gobble! That’s all I have say for myself.

B.) Is it just their young age?

It’s definitely part of it. But if I were to hypothetically gallop away from the smooth skin and towards the wrinklier flesh, would I be willing to spend the remainder of my youth snorting the scent of wine, swiveling it in my glass until I show symptoms of carpal tunnel — all for the adoration of a man who’s going through his fourth midlife crisis?

Maybe. I’ve really sold this scenario to myself — it’d be quite the experience. But I don’t think I can fake i(n)t(erest) for that long when the “making it” isn’t that fulfilling. I’m sure their life experiences would mean they’re more emotionally adept, but being around these silver-fox-esque activities just isn’t my cup of tea at the moment.

C.) Is it related to issues regarding men and hyper-masculinity?

Simply put — yes. It’s something that, for once, I don’t have to blame myself for. This socialization manifests itself in many ways: from some men genuinely being unable to describe/pinpoint what they’re feeling — which is clinically referred to as alexithymia — to difficulty expressing any emotion besides the “understandable” (and oftentimes encouraged) outbursts of Manly™, testosterone-fueled anger. These established gender norms affect crucial components of healthy interpersonal relationships, and I’ll tell you why.

The expectations placed on men to “toughen up” and “be a man” will inevitably result in the suppression of anything seen to reflect “vulnerability” (i.e. a traditionally “feminine” trait). However, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, only through honest communication and mutual transparency can a relationship grow. And that honesty and transparency requires vulnerability.

This ongoing problem is heavier and much more worrying than it first appears. If someone has difficulty understanding and interpreting their emotions, it often affects the way they will absorb, perceive, and process events throughout their life, including, for example, trauma. Asking someone with an underdeveloped emotional repertoire to process trauma (of any degree) will likely result in the adoption of unhealthy coping mechanisms, psychopathology, and possible projection onto others via — you guessed it! — anger and aggression.

Men have to unlearn the ideologies surrounding the acceptability of emotions based on gender, and then relearn how to process emotions in such a way that not only benefits them, but the people around them. This can’t all be done internally; there has to be some external societal change in how we raise and teach boys to express their emotions (not to mention how male peers react to each other’s emotional expression). Because let’s be real, certain masculine social standards are borderline inhumane. No one should have to endure a feeling of anxiety/inadequacy if they fail to fit into our culture’s macho ideal.

Of course, all of this is easier said than done. If the world did indeed revolve around me, I’d do us all a favor and enforce mandatory emotional development classes for men.

In conclusion…

As my condensed analysis draws to a close, I’ve realized the answer to why I continually fall for emotionally unintelligent men could be either A or B or C or all of the above. Or maybe this is one of those situations where everything’s intertwined to some extent and I’ll never be able to figure out the dynamics of it all. Nonetheless, I’ve gotten a lot of things off my chest writing this. All that’s left to do now is just: live… and hope that eventually, at some point — fingers crossed it’s in the next few years — the answer will come to me and I will be at peace.

Curiosity really does kill the cat(‘s psyche). Until then, I shall self-medicate by telling myself that nothing is as bad as it seems.

All photos by Ashley Armitage.

Phases Of Love

There were five notable phases of my first love.

These phases marked the way my feelings changed for another human being. Let’s call him, Mr. First. My feelings swayed not violently but quietly. They crept up on me in the middle of the night and bit me in the fucking face.

Phase 1: I can’t get enough of you.

We were like magnets. Never not wanting to be holding hands or kissing. We fucked like wild maniacs. It was the best kind of love. The kind that felt like a frenzy, a sugar rush, a high. I felt like I had fallen down his rabbit hole and he, mine. We were so happy to have found something out of the stars. Being who I am, I knew it couldn’t last long. I like to think there’s something wrong with me, almost like an excuse for things getting dull after a while. It could have been too much too soon, like we were meant to fall apart.

Phase 2: Why am I getting sick of you?

I started becoming irritated with every little thing that he did. He could tell. He would confront me, and I would just make up excuses: a bad day, a fight with my dad, a depressive episode. I wasn’t being honest, and I wasn’t being fair. I couldn’t admit that I just wasn’t happy anymore.

Phase 3: Uh-Oh.

It started with a wave of constant fighting. The first breakup. The second breakup. The period of silence. The reconciliation. The “let’s make this work again.” And finally, the third breakup. The one that counts the most.

Phase 4: Acceptance.

The loneliest phase by far. The period of relationship remorse. I missed him. I really missed them, but I knew this was what I had to do.

Phase 5: Relapse.

But, I’ll get to that.

* * *

There are moments in life that we can’t forget, no matter how quick they were.

I had just told my first boyfriend that I no longer had feelings for him. This time I meant it. No bullshit, no sugarcoating — just the plain and simple truth. We were standing outside my apartment building, sweat dripping down my neck. I told him, “I’m just being honest. I can’t lie to you anymore.” All he said was, “I appreciate that,” before walking away. It feels quite permanent now. We haven’t spoken in almost a month.

In those few seconds, I was forced to answer a question I had asked myself when I started doubting my feelings for him: what are the consequences of falling out of love? I could give you the short answer: pure heart ache — but the short answer doesn’t do the pain justice. The consequence of falling out of love is that you’re forced to lose yourself for the sake of whoever’s heart your protecting. Let me tell you this, you aren’t protecting your own. Not at the beginning, anyways.

When we talk about relationships, no one really talks about how it feels to be the murderer of one. For a while, that’s how I felt. I knew that if I broke up with Mr. First (for real) I would be responsible for breaking someone’s heart. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hold onto that burden. Beyond that, deep down, I knew I’d rather be alone than be with Mr. First. When we first started seeing each other, I was the one who was head over heels. I was the one who stalked him at the beach just to see if he was there. I was the one who longed for him. More importantly, I was the one who wanted it to end. And in the end, I was the one who had changed the most.

In the whole year that I was involved with Mr. First my feelings for him would change immensely for no particular reason at all. For the record, that’s the worst kind of change. The kind you can feel but can’t pinpoint for the life of you. It’s the worst because it’s coming from the heart not the brain. You’re permanently cast in a state of wonder, knowing you’ll never get that satisfactory answer you really want. All you know is the feeling that something isn’t right anymore.

It soon became clear that it was unrealistic to be stuck in Phase 1 forever. Phase 2 hit me four months into our time together.

After spending months tip-toeing around the fact that I had gone from full blown infatuation to melancholy, I told him I was questioning our relationship. He wanted to know what he had done. To me, the answer was simple; I had fallen out of love. My feelings were responsible, not him. But he couldn’t understand that. How are you supposed to tell someone that? How are you supposed to look someone that you love in the eye and tell them you don’t want to kiss them or hold their hand anymore? That the very thought of continuing to do so makes you feel like you’re cheating on yourself, cheating on your own feelings?

The truth is, after all the complication, all the fighting, all the sighs — the kissing and the hand-holding seemed like a hobby that we hadn’t touched in years. Actions that had turned into old tennis rackets or roller skates dusting in the corner of an overstuffed closet. Of course we used to be good at those things, in fact, we were the best, but somewhere between the pain and the discomfort, our old hobbies died. We were simply shadows of ourselves trying our hardest to repair what had already been permanently broken.

Phase 3 was the hardest. The first breakup wasn’t official. It was fucking messy. All the fights, all the crying, all the screaming wore me down. It wore down Mr. First, too. Through it all, I’ve learned that I’m not a bad person for wanting something different, something new. Not necessarily a new guy or a new boyfriend, but a new direction. I’d been spending so much time caught up in a relationship that I was unable to enjoy the time I had with myself. It felt unnatural, not being able to let go of something I knew was toxic. I would find myself crying in bed at night. I was stuck in a battle between myself and my love for another. Growing up, you’re told love always wins. At this point, love was winning, but I was also letting love beat me down.

My moment of undiluted clarity came when I realized it was too hard to be with someone who I felt like I was always pretending with. That takes a toll on you, pretending to feel the same way for the sake of saving a heart. I didn’t want to lose feelings for Mr. First. It would have been so much easier if I hadn’t. It was too late though. I had let my love for him morph into a version of affection where I was too scared to hurt him. I put that fear above all of my other emotions.

We were both tired and broken. He was trying to fix it. I was trying to end it. We all have our own methods when it comes to dealing with love. At the end of the day, it’s hard to admit that no matter how close we get to the skin of another, we will never fully understand everything they feel. Maybe that was our problem. We had gotten so close to each other, but we refused to recognize what the other really needed. As I watched Mr. First walk down my street, I realized we shared some of the best memories of my life. I loved him and will always love him. I only hope he feels that way, too.

Phase 4, acceptance feels uncomfortable at first. I knew it was over but there was still that longing to send a text or call him. I found that everything I saw somehow reminded me of him. I was forced to recognize that I was now alone, but that’s okay because the memories we share with the ones we love help get us through that loneliness. Whether it’s the people that make us smile or the people that make us cry, they both make us a little stronger. Mr. First made me smile and made me cry. In a way, he was a part of making me into me, so I’d like to thank him for that.

* * *

Now that I’ve made peace — or at least I’m trying to — with what happened, the final part of breaking up has found me: Phase 5. Relapse comes when you start finding yourself craving love again, as if love hasn’t already broken you down enough. Maybe that song is right; we really are addicted to love. The drug-like, pulsating, sex-dazed, intoxicating type of love. Now it’s different because you don’t have that person you let go of anymore. You’re on your own again. All you have is a few glances from strangers on the street. The promise of something that tastes a little different than the drink you had before. Hopefully this time, it isn’t as bitter, maybe it’s sweet.

It’s kind of funny; we go through all of these stupid phases of love just to get hooked again, and trust me, you will.

Diary of a Sidechick

Withholding information has always been a vice of mine. As a child I loved to learn the secrets of others; keep them close to my chest. What I never considered, though, was that I too may be a secret kept from others.

Some notions of love are based on satiating a personal desire, indulging in a fantasy conjured to fill an emotional void. That being said, I still can never understand how people cheat. It’s natural to want to put a face to the “cheating type,” but the notion of a type is one dimensional, whereas a cheater is a multifaceted individual. Often, cheating serves as an attempt to manage emotional trauma or satiate a hidden desire. In a couple instances, I’ve observed the act of cheating from an alternate perspective, inhabiting the role of the “side chick.” In both cases, lines were crossed and circumstances skewed by my attempts to ‘have my cake and eat it too.”

* * *

Ricky and I went to the same high school. He had a long term relationship, one that seemed destined for a young marriage. We met at a stop light after graduation. He pulled up next to me at the red light and waved. In a state of confusion I rolled up my window and continued on my way, thinking little of the matter; after all, we were strangers. However, later that week I was checking my DMs and spotted a message from Ricky containing a red location pin. I responded with a cloud emoji, possibly to avoid conversation, possibly because I recognized his endgame. We began texting regularly, establishing a strange, yet intimate relationship. It was the kind of surreal internet relationship in which you get to know each other’s daily schedules and create fake plans to meet up in person; entertaining each of your personal fantasies without following through. That was, until we ended up actually meeting about a week later. Our encounters were restricted to secluded areas and the cover of night — we had created a secret life for ourselves.

I began to fall for him just as his true nature began to reveal itself. Despite insisting that he was in fact single, he was clearly still implicated in a relationship which never fully ended, and which came with its own set of emotional baggage. His manipulation continued for close to a year.

In the process, I grew depressed and desperate for attention. I cried all day, feeling as though I wasn’t apart of his reality, only revealing myself to the people in his life through fragmented photos on the internet, while his girlfriend remained his main concern. In the meantime I gained a false sense of accomplishment from attracting and maintaining his attention throughout the course of his previously established relationship. In calling it quits, I felt like I was letting the “other girl” win. We both wanted his attention, and would do anything to get it. In reality, he was the only one benefiting from our arrangement, while his girlfriend and I both suffered from his half-truths and blocked calls.

* * *

I see a guy around around school, by early June we’re hanging out. We spend the night together and I can tell that the connection is real. My body is on fire when he kisses me. I take this shit way too seriously.

Leaving the next morning, I couldn’t feel better. Sleeping together felt right; he’s so attractive. He texts me right when I get home and we keep in contact throughout the week, chatting constantly and indulging in our own personal fantasies. He tells me he wants to hang out, he misses me, he wants to go to the beach, he wants to talk about everything and nothing.

We follow each other on Instagram. I notice a pretty face in his past feed and think nothing of it – after all, some people never delete pictures of exes. I decide that I may as well ask him directly: “Do you have a girlfriend.” Two days later he responds, “I don’t have a GF,” so I take him at his word. Two weeks ago I find myself asking him to hang out more and more, only to be met with dry responses or a lack-thereof. I figure he must be ghosting me, and think that I’ll get over it soon enough; five days at the most.

He texts me on Monday asking me not to take things so seriously, to just enjoy having fun. I’m left confused. He finally grabs my attention, only to ask me to ease up? At this point I begin to see a pretty face all over his feed. It’s hard not to speculate. After all, this person is completely curbing me, better find out why and for whom. Questions begin to swarm my brain: Why does she get to be seen and admired as his significant other? Why not me? Why would he keep me around when all his time and affection are focused elsewhere? How could someone who can’t even text me back expect my loving attention? I begin to spiral.

A week later I text him telling him to never speak to me again, not to call out of boredom when “she’s” not around. A week after that I see him in a restaurant. He smiles and shakes his head as I sit and eat. It’s easy to hide behind false promises, but seeing him in person, his eyes look sad and dull.

* * *

At first, being pursued by a cheater seems mysterious or even thrilling. The idea of being coveted at face value is extremely flattering. However, soon enough it becomes evident that, to the cheater, you are simply a secret to be kept from all those they hold most dear. As a “side-chick,” I wasn’t receiving any face-time with my pursuer, despite knowing that my face definitely deserves to be loved and admired in public. In the hopes of filling an emotional void, I lost sight of the bigger picture: the cheater’s previously established relationship, in which I simply played a minor role. Gleaning that my pursuer considered me to be the “less significant-other,” I began to lose sight of myself. Self-analyzing morphed into self-critique, as I surveyed body and mind for the attributes which had demoted me to “second best.” The result was confusion and emotional exhaustion; the depletion of self-worth without any consolatory results.

In the months that followed I began to reflect on the implications of this experience, becoming increasingly concerned with the effects of side-chick culture. While I am sympathetic to the complexities of intimacy and relationships, I am also concerned that people (men in particular) are not being held accountable for their actions in the face of this culturally accepted phenomenon. At the end of the day, it is what someone does to show you their loyalty and respect for you that matters. It is hard to not get caught up in things that could be, and everyday I need to remind myself to practice what I preach.

If they don’t want to truly know you and display their love for your to the world, forget them.

The Sisterhood Of Sluts

Last week, I hooked up with a stranger for the very first time. He was an Ivy League hotshot with a French background. I definitely wanted to see his baguette, if you know what I mean. I met him through Instagram, and yes — I slid into his DMs. We decided to hang out in person with mutual intention to hook-up. When we met, we talked for thirty minutes and then… we had sex. It wasn’t until after I had gotten home that a fearful question began to sneak into my head: Am I a slut?

I was stunned. The whole experience was exciting, totally entertaining, and really fun. Why did something that felt so silly and random have to be hexed with this negative connotation? Was I entering the Sisterhood of Sluts? The sorority that I had never rushed but was shoved into anyway by the countless years of demoralizing sexually active women. The truth is I don’t feel gross or dirty for sleeping with some random guy. So what does slut even mean and why does being a slut have to be a bad thing? Guys get praised all the time for sleeping with random girls. Yet, I don’t see anyone giving me a high-five — and not to brag, but I’m really good at high-fiving.

This double standard shit is hard to escape from, even intrinsically. Before having sex with Baguette Boy, I said to myself, “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m not a slut.” What the fuck! I sort of betrayed myself with that exclamation (realizing it only afterwards when I was lying in bed alone). Bottom line: I felt deep down that I had to justify my sexual behavior and he didn’t. Even though I still don’t know how many sexual partners he’s had, somewhere inside of me, I felt like I had to prove to him that I was not a “used-up woman.” I felt like I had to prove my purity, which technically, by this socially constructed standard, I had lost long ago. And why is that? What made me the one who had to assure him I was clean enough to touch, to fuck? And what will happen the next time I sleep with someone new? Will that feeling come again? And again?

In all honesty this whole thing is rather confusing.

Society seems obsessed with defining women’s sexuality for them, and has come up with this negative concept of sex that almost feels like a scare tactic. Isn’t that what the word does? It makes women feel derogatory for enjoying something so basic. Why should tiny glitches in my life, tiny moments spent with other humans, short intervals of random sex come to define me as an individual? I know I’m more than how many guys I’ve slept with; whether that’s one or fifty. Screw the world for making me think I’m no more than a number. The truth is, sex with my Baguette Boy won’t be on my mind in five months, let alone five years. If sex is the most natural thing humans do, then isn’t it unnatural for us to categorize each other by how much we do it? Couldn’t we do the same with how much we eat or drink? Isn’t it all in our biology? Yes. Yes, it fucking is.

First, I’d like to address that this double standard is a clearly defined differently depending on the gender that’s having the (too much) sex in question. But I’d also like to address that this issue, at its core, is about our overarching need to categorize people. We think if we can categorize people as “sluts” and “non-sluts” that there’s a “better” side. Not to say there isn’t value in drawing a personal line for yourself, but it seems that that line is being drawn for women rather than by women.

So how do we contend with this idea of female promiscuity? It’s been so ingrained in our heads that this is a negative thing, that it becomes almost impossible to ignore. Hard to push away the thought that you’ve “done something wrong as a woman.” It’s hard to ignore that you’ve, “let society down.” And what’s all this guilt and shaming for? For twenty minutes of your life that a dick was inside of you? Is that what your whole self-worth is going to come down to?

Yes, sex is important in a lot of different ways, but the amount of sex we have is not who we are. Why would anyone want to be defined by who they’re sleeping with in a given week?

Nonetheless, women are constantly defined by their sexuality.

I wish I knew how to make this problem go away. I wish I could show you the male equivalent of slut in the dictionary. (There isn’t one by the way. Manwhore doesn’t count because whore is still defined as a promiscuous woman. Fuckboy doesn’t count because it’s not in the dictionary — yet.) I wish I could say there are no consequences for having as much as sex as you want as a woman. But sadly, in today’s world, people are likely to talk about you differently, look at you differently, and treat you differently.

I think all I can do to help is just be honest. Maybe, if I can show you that it’s okay to do whatever the fuck you want sexually, you won’t feel so alone out there. The reality is that women like sex and want to have sex. If it’s impossible to shed ourselves of the slut title, let’s choose to own it. Let’s make those judgmental bastards cry! Instead of being unknowingly inducted through whispers and shit-talk, I cordially invite you to the Sisterhood of Sluts: a new sorority.

If you want to join great, and if you don’t — that’s great too. Don’t let someone else push you to join. Open the door yourself, if that’s what you choose to do.

RoleModel: Julia Fox

*RoleModel is an interview series highlighting badass individuals.

To be honest, I was always a little intimidated by Julia Fox.

Smart, beautiful, and talented, when I first moved to New York it seemed everyone knew who she was. She was the downtown It Girl. But Julia’s contributions to nightlife are the least fascinating thing about her.

Whether she was launching a fashion line or premiering a deeply intimate photography exhibit — she displayed a knack for spinning personal struggle into unforgettable art. She doesn’t shy away from her demons, and in a city that often deals in artifice, it’s refreshing to meet someone who’s the real deal.

I caught up with a 27-year-old artist and talked sex, toxic relationships, healing, and living on your own terms.

How do you sexually identify, if you’re open to sharing that?

Julia: I don’t know. I’m never really attracted to anyone by the way they look. You’ll never hear me be like, “Wow, I wanna hook up with that guy. He’s so hot.” I guess [I’m] sapiosexual — just attracted to someone’s mind.

I don’t think you have to label yourself. When I label myself I feel like I’m succumbing to someone else’s idea of who I should be. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. If you don’t get it… it’s not your life.

Yeah, to be completely honest I’m attracted to pieces of shit. Like that’s my thing. Love ’em! The more disturbed or just like a bad guy, I’m like, “Ugh, it’s gonna be so fun.” Wild roller-coaster ride of hell.

Where are you from?

I’m from here [New York City] — well actually, I was born in Italy. My mom is Italian, but I grew up here with my dad. I think that’s something that we have in common. You also grew up just with your dad, I can tell.

I don’t take shit, I’m very comfortable around men, and I also know how to fight back. When you’re in a house full of crazy men, you have to learn to stand your ground. For the longest time I was a tomboy, and then I was like, actually, I can get way more stuff if I’m being hot and slutty.

*Eileen laughs*

Rebrand.

What type of influence do you think growing up in New York has had on you?

The worst. But what I can say is that I’m very comfortable around all different types of people from all different walks of life. Because I am a city girl, I’m always prepared for battle.

I went on a road trip to Louisiana last spring, maybe you could describe the experience you had down there?

I’ll tell you a little bit about where I was mentally. I was coming out of this really terrible two year relationship that ended in this huge scandal [because] my boyfriend attacked me, physically. I called the cops. It became this really big thing — it was on Page Six, and everyone was taking sides. People didn’t believe me. People were like, “Julia’s just crazy.” Why the fuck would I make up something so humiliating? I was so mad.

Then I put out my first book: Symptomatic of a Relationship Gone Sour and I actually published photos of the abuse that was inflicted upon me. You don’t believe me? Well, here’s some photos. Then it blew up and went viral, and I couldn’t handle it and I had this breakdown/breakthrough. I was like, I’m leaving.

So I bought a car, went and picked up my friend from upstate who I knew would be down, [and] we just left. We didn’t know we were gonna end up in Louisiana. Eventually, we ended up there. I stayed with some friends. I didn’t think that I was ever gonna come back to New York. I went to Walmart and applied for a job. I was literally like, I’m gonna live here and just be this.

Three months in, [a friend] was on my private Instagram, seeing all these people I was meeting, all the things I was doing, and he thought it was so fascinating. So for Christmas, he gave me a camera. He was like, “Julia, I really want to curate a show when you get back.” And I was like, “What do you mean ‘when I get back?'” But, obviously I came back. After six months of being [in Louisiana], the walls started to close in. We were getting in trouble and the town was like, “Who are you people, why are you here?” So we had to go.

I came back to New York, which was really difficult, [because] at that point I had excommunicated almost everyone. I came back and was like: who are even my friends. What did I use to do? Who was I?

I realized that I was not [the same] person. I wasn’t materialistic anymore. The thought of carrying around a twenty-thousand-dollar bag was completely unfathomable. I became more humble because I had pretty much lost everything.

It took a really long time to recover from all of that trauma. That’s why [I had a photography] show called PTSD. Not only did I lose the love of my life, but I did it in such a public manner that I never had time to mourn.

And with the added stress of people not believing you and [the case] becoming a public spectacle.

Yeah [it was] like the People’s Court. I had people that I used to hang out with everyday be like, “Come on, Jules, you’re breaking up the friend group.” I was like, are you fucking kidding me?

I feel like a lot of your artwork or photos I’ve seen center on your personal life. Does intimacy or a lack of intimacy inspire you?

I don’t know. I guess at that time, love and codependency was such a drug. I would just get high off it and it was so unhealthy. Now, I steer clear and I don’t want any type of romantic relationship with anybody. But back then, I needed it like a drug. I think that that’s why all those images are so dark.

It was a part of you that you couldn’t even control?

Yeah and it was purging, I had to let it all out. Years and years and years of crazy relationships.

Even in my first book, it wasn’t just about what happened at Happy Ending with [my ex]. It was also about stuff that happened ten years prior, with my first real boyfriend who was also abusive. I was a runaway, and then I was a kidnap victim because he wouldn’t let me go home. It was so crazy. If he hadn’t gone to prison, I don’t know what would have happened. Then he terrorized me from jail; had people follow me in cars, threaten my family — it was just so bad. I remember having a breakdown and going to the mental hospital, and after two weeks they were like, “You can go now,” and I was like, “No, please. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here.” And they were like, “Well, your insurance ran out.”

I [have] never really talked about these things.

It seems like you’re in a better place now. Do you have any advice for other people who find themselves in either codependent or even physically/emotionally abusive relationships?

Stop being afraid. It’s your fear that’s holding you. All your obstacles begin and end in your head. Take the plunge. Leave. It won’t be as hard as you think it is, but you have to really want it. You can’t kinda want it.

And there is something so addictive about that discomfort.

And the adrenaline when you’re fighting, or even the making-up ritual afterwards. It’s just such a vicious cycle. Don’t let your fear hold you back — that shit’s not cool.

You recently got your Instagram deleted. Do you have any thoughts on social media censorship, especially when it comes to women’s bodies?

I think it’s such a joke. Oh you’re afraid of kids seeing [women’s bodies]? If your kids are seeing it they already have an iPhone and could easily Google porn already. It just seems really outdated and an antiquated way of thinking. [Instagram] needs to be a little more progressive.

Have you had any experience with sex work?

Mhm! I was a dominatrix in high school because I didn’t live at home [or] have a way of making money. Come on, I wasn’t gonna be a waitress.

How did you get into it?

In 7th grade, I used to basically live at my friend’s house, and her sister was a dominatrix. She was so cool. [My friend] was the only one who had a full length mirror in her room and I was just sitting on the floor [when] she walked in wearing these black fishnets and patent leather platform, open-toed shoes, and this really amazing corset situation. I just remember looking up at her like, wow. She was a dominatrix, and I was like, if she could do it, I bet I could do it.

Later on, at seventeen I had heard about another girl who was doing [dominatrix work] and making so much money. I was like, I’m just going to go on Craigslist see if there’s a job. I met this guy who owned a dungeon [the next day] and he was like, “You’re hired.” And the rest is history.

Did you ever feel nervous about your safety?

It’s legal in New York, so it was controlled. There was a legit establishment. I did have out-calls [out of dungeon appointments] but it was always with regulars that I had seen before. No, I never did [feel nervous].

What did you do on a normal day? Obviously it’s a lot of verbal…

Yeah a lot of verbal degradation, which I always thought was so corny. Like, “Yeah, you fucking pig!” It was just so corny. Some guys wanted to get their balls stepped on with stiletto heels —

Shut up!

I’ve made men’s balls bleed. Like literally. These men would want to get pinned up to the wall by their neck and get kneed repeatedly in their balls. I loved those sessions.

Then I had guys who wanted to be paddled with a wooden paddle as hard as I could go, to the point where this one guy, every time I would hit [him], blood would squirt out. I was getting butt blood on me; it was so lit. He’d be taunting me like, “That’s all you’ve got?” I was like, this motherfucker.

By the end, my arm was sore for two days. It was the craziest workout of my life.

Do you think doing that at such a young age shifted your perception of men?

Yes. Entirely. I feel like maybe that’s why I’m so uninterested [in romance]. Because I feel when you start looking at men more [from the perspective of] what can I get out of you — they’re no longer humans with feelings. I’ve learned now that love isn’t enough. Love is great but it’s not gonna hold together a home.

What would you tell someone who says because you’re a dom, you didn’t respect yourself? People who slut shame you?

My profile went up on this website and I remember I showed my friend, and [then] within a week everyone in the city knew. Everyone saw it, everyone talked about it. I never felt… I don’t know. I feel like being a waitress and being disrespected by one of your customers and then [getting] a shitty tip — that would be not respecting yourself. I’m just not a sub.

You’re taking your life in your hands and doing what you wanna be doing.

Exactly, and I never did anything I was uncomfortable with.

How did you set up boundaries?

They’re not allowed to touch me. No way. So gross. It was just what I wanted to do. That’s the beauty of being a dominatrix as opposed to being a stripper or prostitute. When you’re a stripper, you’re grinding on these guys and letting them touch your tits — it’s just a little more invasive and you’re a little more of an object. When you’re a dominatrix, you’re this goddess. You’re on a high. Like this man will literally drink my piss right now and pay me extra for it. Not saying it’s for everyone — I’m sure a lot of girls wouldn’t be able to do it, to be around those types of freaks.

Did you ever have repeat customers?

Oh, yeah. I’m still in contact with a bunch of them. Even after all this time, they’re so loyal. They really worship you and think you’re the best goddess ever. They want to be your slaves — we call them slaves — and they want to be your slave forever. They want to go grocery shopping for you, be your chauffeur.

Now for some rapid fire questions we like to ask at KAAST. Dating apps or meeting people IRL?

In real life.

Hand job or oral?

Hand job. Blow jobs are gross.

Sub or dom?

Me? Dom.

Sex on the first date or no?

Nah.

What turns you on in a partner?

Being funny.

What turns you off?

Being judgmental.

How do you let someone know you like them?

I go to their first Instagram photo they ever posted —

Nu-uh!

— and like it.

No, you do not, Julia!

Yeah I do.

Do you send nudes?

Mhm.

Do you have any advice on taking them?

Don’t put your face in them.

What’s the worst thing a former partner has ever said to you?

I would never have kids with you because you’re a junkie.

What’s the best thing a former partner has said to you?

That I’m the smartest, most powerful girl he’s ever met.

How do you personally deal with rejection?

I always say rejection is God’s protection, so if you’re rejecting me it’s because I’m probably too good for you. Something better is gonna come and you’re gonna feel so bad when you try to hit me up again and you’re cancelled. So it’s fine.

Have you ever been in love?

So many times.

Do you have advice for getting over heartbreak?

Fall in love with something that is just yours and doesn’t depend on anyone else. Have a project that you can put all your passion in because validating yourself through something you love to do is so much better than any validation you’ll get from someone else. But also, for a lot of my friends, having sex with someone else helps — but that didn’t work for me. What worked for me was doing a creative project.

If you could say one thing to one of your exes what would it be?

Can we get back together? To one of them.

How important to you is sex in a relationship?

It’s very important. But I really think communication and meaningful conversations are way more important.

Any tips for people who aren’t as confident as you?

No one cares as much as you do. Don’t live up to other people’s expectations, only live up to your own.

What’s your sign?

Aquarius. What’s your sign?

Leo.

I love Leos. So loyal. Would you say that you’re loyal?

I’m so loyal, to a fault.

Photo of Julia Fox by Mike Krim. You can follow her on Instagram here.

Paintball

The following content contains explicit descriptions of assault which may be triggering to those affected by sexual harassment or violence.

The first time I was sexually assaulted, I was 16-years-old.

I was a junior at a prestigious boarding school that I had begged my parents to let me attend. That night was the second weekend of the school year. It’s over three years ago now, but I still remember what the early fall night air smelled like as I walked home from the gym with the boy who assaulted me. I still remember the strange, bitter tang of soap in my mouth as I scrubbed my tongue in my friend’s dorm room.

The second time I was assaulted, I was still sixteen. I still went to the same school, and this time it was a different boy who made me feel so horrible that I spent all night scrubbing my mouth out with soap until I was gagging.

When I left high school, I thought I was leaving that part of my life behind me. I was no longer going to be the girl who had a panic attack in the fluorescent-lit bathroom, digging her nails into her forearms.

I thought that I could choose to be happy, to leave my experiences with violence in the past. I started my freshman year at Dartmouth, and immediately joined a group that does work with sexual violence prevention. I met amazing women, and I felt like the work I did was making a difference. At a college with an overbearing drinking culture and a dominant Greek system, I felt my friends and I were making campus a little safer, even if we only influenced a few people.

Then, I was raped at Dartmouth.

It had happened to girls I vaguely knew, even close friends. But when it happened to me, I finally realized what it was like to feel unsafe at all hours of the day. Sure, it was helpful being around people who I knew cared about sexual violence prevention and cared about me, but no one can spend all-day-every-day being protected. Alleged rapists walked freely not just at frat houses or dimly-lit parties, but through the dining halls, libraries, dorms. They are in the places we study, sleep, and eat. Nowhere felt safe for me anymore. I was terrified and unhappy — but that was not the worst part.

The worst part was that people knew and still know that this kind of thing is happening, and they choose not to care. Not caring is easy. Being complacent is easy. Being friends with perpetrators is easy. What’s difficult is acknowledging one’s own participation in the vicious cycle of harm.

People don’t care. They show up to soccer practice, to frat meetings, to parties, but not to anything that might — God forbid — make them uncomfortable. I hope that some of you will read this (hello frat boys!) and I hope that it ruins your day, just like every single day of my life is ruined by the harm I have experienced. Unlike the rapists who so easily run away from the fact that they are rapists, I can never run away from the fact that I am a survivor of sexual violence.

In places that are overrun with sexual violence, we need men to step up and do the work. Not because women don’t want to do it, or are tired of doing it, but because people listen to and respect men. I wish this weren’t the case, and I’ve tried to do prevention work while ignoring this fact. But the simple truth is that men listen first and foremost to other men. Their teammates, their fraternity brothers, their friends. Women can share their stories — I can share my story — but people don’t give a shit about things unless it starts to affect men.

I believe men at Dartmouth care about preventing sexual violence insofar as it helps their own reputation, or the reputation of their fraternities. For most of these men, the issue is not life and death. They don’t spend their days on campus ducking into bathrooms to throw up because they saw a rapist, or running home at night because they’re terrified of being alone in the dark. Some men at Dartmouth will say that they’re “passionate about sexual violence prevention,” then shove your head onto their dick so hard that you’re gagging.

A friend of mine once said that he “couldn’t even get the guys to show up to paintball,” much less care about sexual violence prevention (sometimes frat brothers play paintball together for some fun, non-hazing bonding). Somehow, rape and paintball have become analogous in our world — something the guys might have the time to worry about, but probably not.

I organized a march against sexual violence over the summer with my best friend who is involved in the same prevention organization as me. We took turns screaming from a megaphone, holding our signs above our heads as people joined in the march. For about an hour during that August night, it felt as though other people maybe gave a shit about the innumerable women who were (and are) violently raped at Dartmouth. But the next day? Not so much.

My friend’s rapist had the audacity to show up to our march. He stood with his fraternity brothers, yelling that “rapists are not welcome here” while our march snaked down fraternity row and across campus. He left the march after a short while, probably to go get shitfaced with his brothers and rape someone else.

The boy I had been sleeping with all summer did not show up to the march. When he saw me a few days later, he said that he was at a party, getting fucked up. “You would have hated it,” he told me. “Thanks for coming to the march,” I replied sarcastically. He slipped on his ray bans and changed the subject, because he didn’t have to care.

So, as one frat brother once asked me, “what are some implementable night-to-night solutions?” Well, show up to paintball. Start thinking about sexual violence — no, caring about sexual violence. And not just because some guy who isn’t your frat brother assaulted your friend’s girlfriend or your little sister. Care because sexual violence ruins the lives of women on Dartmouth’s campus and around the world. Care because you are all complicit — no, culpable — in the cycle of violence that rules my life, and the lives of countless other strong, amazing women.

What Does It Mean To Be Alone?

I live in a city with 8.5 million people.

That’s 8.5 million faces, 8.5 million smiles, and 8.5 million hearts. Yet, I still ask myself why I feel like I’m invisible. I don’t mean invisible in that emo high school way, more like I’m a red herring. I’m going the wrong way, swimming in the wrong direction; why should I care if they notice or not? At least I’m fucking swimming.

I’m only 18, but I’ve come to recognize that one of the hardest adulthood battles is that against solitude. Of course, I have my family and friends who I couldn’t live without, but this battle regards romantic love; it’s against being alone. I’ve come to realize that our lives, more are less, are defined by the periods we spend in and out of love. Yes, life is much more than those two simple periods, but in a way, isn’t our humanity defined by the people we choose to be around and even more so by the people we choose to love?

I’ve recently entered my first out of love period. I graduated high school, moved across the country from the palm trees of South Florida to the high rises of New York. I start college in the fall, and I can count the amount of people I know here on one hand. As much as life’s new developments fascinate and scare me, I can’t help but think about how I just broke up with my first boyfriend.

As I work my way through the anxiety of a new home, new friends, and a new life — I realize I’m doing it all on my own. There are no kisses to make things better, no hand to hold, no sex. I’ve lost the individual who was the very first person that represented love to me. And I can’t even say that I lost him, because I chose to be alone. I could feel something ethereal telling me the relationship was over — and as it turns out, it was.

I’ve been in my first out of love moment for over a month now. I’ve started writing again, which is something I’m genuinely proud of. I’m getting a tattoo, something I’m slightly terrified of. More importantly, I’m getting genuinely appreciative of being alone again. I grew up ferociously independent, so when I found my first love it felt nice having someone else to tell me things were going to be okay. I got used to that, as anybody would, and I was afraid to let that feeling go. As scared as I was after we broke up, I was ready. I was ready to get back to being who I was when I was alone: a little too loud, boy crazy, and fucking alive.

Now that I’m single it feels like I’ve made some grand return. I was off vacationing for a while, gone from my own skin and body, but now I’m back to being a little too loud, boy crazy, and fucking alive. Not to say I wasn’t those things while I was in love, but I have to admit they feel a little more true now. I don’t have to share any part of myself with someone else. I get to hold onto all of me. Maybe that’s a little selfish… but I damn well deserve it.

As I wade through my time alone I find myself thinking about the need humans feel for connection. Maybe the problem is that we’re terrified of being alone. To some extent, I get it. There’s comfort in knowing you have someone to sleep with every night, but there’s also comfort in knowing who you are when you close your eyes. We should be taught that it doesn’t matter who you attract, who wants to fuck you, or even who loves you if you aren’t able to understand and love yourself. Being alone gives you that opportunity to genuinely appreciate what makes you who you are. Having moments where you become the main reason you wake up each morning is truly precious.

By accepting periods your of aloneness, you don’t run the risk of giving yourself up to find a person to spend the rest of your life with. When you find them, you’ll already know who you are. You’ll be able to cherish those moments you had to yourself, because being in love with yourself is crucial to loving another.

We can either accept or reject the periods of our lives where we don’t have someone to be in love with. Whatever your choice, try harder to relish your being alone sometimes. As much as I love love — the time I spend out of it is the time I can truly focus on being and becoming me. There’s no distractions, no fights, no sacrifice. When we’re alone, we get to do whatever the fuck we want.

I hope you accept your time, cultivate the love you have for yourself, and make that the best love story there ever was.

Burned by a Woman

The first time I had sex with a girl was unplanned, clumsy, and awkward. We were mutual friends and one thing led to another… sober hands grazing my breast, a kiss with tongue, sharp fingers and awkward body movements. Somehow we both managed to cum.

I realize now I have always been attracted to women, but had previously rationalized all crush-like feelings as a product of alcohol-induced intimacy; thinking I was kissing girls at parties to impress boys, it never occurred to me that I might actually be kissing girls because I wanted to.

Since then, I’ve had my fair share of sexual rendezvouses with women but I’ve never dated one. Only now at 23-years-old, am I sitting down to analyze… why?

It’s not as if I’m more attracted to boys than girls, but I grew up in Catholic household that only offered me one image of what a couple should look like. To be frank, dating men was what I knew and what wouldn’t upset the people around me, so I took the more comfortable route. For as long as I remember, I have been conditioned to know what a man wants: be polite, cross your legs, take up little space. Since middle school, I’ve known how to flirt. I can walk into a bar with the confidence that I can get a man to look at me or buy me a drink. Those feelings tend to dissipate in the presence of a woman. The uncertainty can be invigorating and exciting, but it’s also nerve wracking as hell.

To ease myself into this unknown territory, I began hooking up with a couple. I was more interested in her, but he provided a level of familiarity that helped me explore my other inclinations more freely. I knew my way around the bedroom with a man, but figuring out how to please a woman? I felt like I was 15 all over again. We’d all fool around, but it became increasingly evident I just wanted to be with her. Before I could vocalize my desire, things got messy.

The couple broke up. She and I remained close, but kept it platonic and both started dating other men. A few months and women later we found ourselves in the same city again, so I asked her out. But with neither of us owning labels like “bi” yet, my flirtations wouldn’t always land. We had been interpreting romantic behavior with men for years, but when it came to the same sex, my advances would get lost in our friendship. This all came to head one night.

We went on what I thought was a date; Italian and expensive wine—how much more obvious could I get? Everything seemed to be going well, until she had a guy she was hooking up with pick her up. I looked at her and I said, “If I was a man, you wouldn’t have done that. You would have waited till you got home for whoever to come over.” She said she thought we were just friends.

I didn’t know at what point we fell off the same page, but in hindsight I realize neither of us knew how to romantically communicate with the same sex. Soon after, she started dating that guy who had picked her up.

Fast forward to the end of summer, I met someone else. We started seeing each other, and while we weren’t exclusive, it was more than sex and definitely the most intimate I’ve ever been with a woman. Around the same time I met a boy who inconveniently appeared at a party she and I were attending. One drink lead to another and I ended up kissing him in front of her. I stopped myself and ultimately went home with her. But it’s ironic how quick I was to repeat the trajectory that had hurt me just a few months prior. She headed back to college and I began dating that guy for two years.

The more I think about it, all the women I’ve been with have previously dated men. I’ve been led on by women only to have them choose a man over me, and I’ve been with women and chose a man over them. Is this preference merely personal, or at the end of the day, are we socialized to choose a side?

I’d like to think that every time I’ve chosen (or been passed over for) a man it’s been because of the individual—but maybe there are bigger cultural forces at play. Heteronormativity is easier and perhaps on some level I’m scared to actively pursue a different lifestyle; scared of the unknown or of losing my level of comfort in a world that favors normative people. Some mornings when I would wake up next to my boyfriend, I wondered what it would be like to wake up next to softer skin. When I touched his broad shoulders, I thought about the curves that felt distant. I hate how much more comfortable I felt spooning with him in comparison to laying side to side with a woman.

At the end of the day, we are all going to get burned one way or another. I’m still learning how to be okay with that. Just because someone chooses someone else over you, for reasons beyond their control, doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate you for what you gave them. And just because it doesn’t work out with someone, doesn’t mean there’s not others out there that it will.

I may have felt in moments that certain people took the easy way out, even myself at times, but who am I to decide what’s best? Your identity is uniquely yours and you should be able to explore however you wish, my only advice is be as transparent as possible with those you are intimate with regarding where you’re at on your identity journey.

Getting rejected sucks for everyone but getting rejected for something you were taught to suppress, can sting a lot deeper.

Who Is Brett Kavanaugh?

In June of 2018, Justice Anthony Kennedy retired after having served 30 years on the Supreme Court. With his retirement, he left one of nine spots on the Supreme Court open. The court is the highest federal court in the United States, and its primary function is to interpret the constitutionality of laws, acts, etc. Their rulings have a major effect on the upholding or suppressing of civil and human liberties. Supreme Court Justices serve for life and are nominated to the position by the sitting President. To be confirmed, the nominee must approved by the Senate. Trump nominated Brett Kavanaugh; here’s what you should know.

So, who is Brett Kavanaugh?

Brett Kavanaugh is currently a justice for the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit. He has served on that court for over 12 years and has heard many major cases. Historically, he has ruled in a significantly conservative manner.

What’s an example of a major case he’s taken part in?

Last year, Kavanaugh was part of the three-justice panel that heard the case Garza v. Hargan, which had already been appealed by the government and had gained significant media attention. The case regarded an undocumented 17-year-old’s right to seek an abortion while being held in federal custody. Kavanaugh voted in favor to keep the minor in custody until she could be assigned a sponsor—which he did not see as placing an undue burden on her right to abortion. Effectively delaying the minor’s termination by over a month. Ultimately this decision was overturned by a larger court, which Kavanaugh again disagreed with. The minor was eventually able to attain her abortion with no further delay. Kavanaugh is believed to be pro-life (anti-abortion).

He’s been accused of sexual assault.

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, a professor at Palo Alto University, wrote a letter to Congress members accusing the Supreme Court nominee of pinning her down on a bed, attempting to remove her clothing, covering her mouth when she tried to scream, and sexually assaulting her at a party when they were both teenagers in the early 1980s. She initially requested that her identity remain anonymous, but then went public with her story.

Kavanaugh has denied these allegations. Ford has agreed to testify before a Senate committee regarding the assault.

What are the chances that he is confirmed?

It was previously believed that the confirmation vote would be close. The Senate is currently made up of 51 Republicans and 49 Democrats, and it was suspected that the vote would be split between the parties (Kavanaugh has a more conservative ruling record, making him an unattractive candidate for liberals), although there are still many Senators who have not taken a clear stance.

However, the recent sexual assault allegation has received extensive media and its affect of public and Senate opinion of Kavanuagh remains to be seen. It is worth noting that Justice Clarence Thomas was accused of sexual harassment by his former employee, Anita Hill in 1991 during his confirmation process. He sits on the Supreme Court today.

If confirmed, what impact would this possibly have?

Although Kavanaugh’s leanings in the past do not necessarily dictate his possible future on the Supreme Court, we can look to them as a guide. Whereas recently retired Justice Kennedy took a moderate stance regarding social issues, Kavanaugh has shown significantly more conservative leanings. If he’s confirmed, the Supreme Court would be compromised of a 5-4 Republican majority. There is large concern that—given that a case regarding the right to abortion is making its way up to the Supreme Court— Kavanaugh could be the key vote in overturning Roe v. Wade (the landmark case in which the Supreme Court ruling made abortion a constitutional right in the U.S.). It’s also highly possible that, if Roe v. Wade is not completely overturned, there could still be partial changes made that would make seeking an abortion much more difficult.

Additionally, if confirmed and assuming he is guilty of sexual assault, a message will be sent to survivors that their attackers will not be held accountable.

Would abortion become illegal if Roe v. Wade was overturned?

It depends on the state. According to an analysis done by the Center for Reproductive Rights, 22 states are at high risk of abortion being completely banned if Roe v. Wade is overturned. Another 8 states are at moderate risk, while 21 states seem to have additional laws in place that will protect the right to abortion regardless of the Roe v. Wade ruling.

Does the public have any say in Kavanaugh’s confirmation?

Ultimately, the Senate will be voting to confirm/deny Kavanaugh’s place on the Supreme Court Justice. A specific date for this vote is yet to be set, but it’s rumored to be taking place this fall. If you want to weigh in, call your state Senators and let them know why you think Kavanaugh is fit/unfit to serve on the most powerful court in the country.

*Roni Bowen is an editorial intern for Killer And A Sweet Thang.