DoubleTap: Pink Bits

DoubleTap is an interview series highlighting creatives whose work explores sex, body, and identity.

The world of Australian artist Christine Yahya is a colorful cornucopia of different body types. With 62K Instagram followers, there’s something deeply endearing and approachable about her page, @pink_bits, which features a mix of hand-drawn portraits, doodles of things she loves, and a number of commissions. In a time where conversations about body positivity are rising and the movement is being increasingly co-opted by corporate entities, Yahya’s accounts acts as an authentic celebration of “the bits and shapes we’re told to hide,” honoring the bodies of people who have inspired her in addition to nameless characters she has created in her mind. What results are beautiful humans of all shapes, genders and sizes who embrace their differences, such as varicose veins, underarm hair, and keloid scars. Her work is almost like a visual record of our collective humanity, in which we can see ourselves shining back at us.

In this interview, we speak with Yahya about this body of work and her process for creating these illustrations.

What inspired you to launch this project?

Christine Yahya: I created the initial illustrations one night whilst drawing for leisure and took the pressure off myself to create something so serious. I’m often drawn to viewing and creating art that explores the human experience and human form. So, I took out some bootleg Copic markers I got from Armenia, and tried to find a reference photo to base my illustration and curved lines on. I ended up just wanting to see my own curves represented on paper, and actually drew from my own naked reference photos.

I quite liked what I had drawn—which for someone with a long and complicated history with their body was a wonderful feeling. So I wanted to share the illustrations, and created an Instagram page that night on a whim and continued to upload more illustrations in the [same] style. I continued sharing in the hopes other people would enjoy them, maybe see themselves in the pieces, or feel that same sense of representation I did.

How long have you been developing this body of work? How do you hope to grow this series in the future?

Pink Bits started around October of 2016, so close to 2 years now! It has gone by so fast. In future I’m hoping to quite simply create more and represent more people through my work! I’d love to develop and create more things for people to have and hold, that let them feel represented and understood by. I’m currently in the midst of setting up a new website and store, which will hopefully be up and running soon. I hope to collab with wonderful creatives, and work with people or companies who I admire and the respect the work that they do.

What is your process for creating these illustrations? Do you draw from real life? Do you make these digitally or by hand?

When approaching my sketchpad I come with a trusty pencil and eraser, and lay down the basic line work, and then apply color using Copic markers. I then scan these and add any details that need a digital touch, and prep the piece to share online—so a mix of by-hand and digital. I draw most from reference images, my own photos or experiences.

What has surprised you most about doing illustrations around body image and identity?

I’m surprised at just how much my perception, sense of self and self-love has shifted and grown whilst creating these illustrations. By creating illustrations to represent and celebrate as many people as I can, I’ve learned to celebrate myself too, and see things I once saw negatively on myself more lovingly. The way I view and approach my body and mind is completely different to the damaging place it was in just a few years ago. I also have a much stronger sense of self, self-understanding and appreciation that was definitely not there before.

How do you use your artwork to champion inclusion, diversity, body and sex positivity?

My illustrations at their core aim to champion each of these things. I do a little self-assessment of my feed regularly and try to consider who or what I haven’t represented yet, or haven’t represented in a while; I then approach my paper and get sketching, making sure I’m representing as many people and communities as I can.

I approached my followers at the beginning of 2018, and asked them who or what they’d like to see represented this year—I often refer to this list too. I also keep an eye out for wonderful people who I’d love to draw or are doing great work in various communities.

What do you hope viewers will take away from seeing your illustrations?

Representation and self-love are the key things I’d hope viewers would feel when seeing my illustrations. I hope they feel understood, seen and celebrated.

You can follow Christine Yahya on Instagram here.

What Gets Lost In Virtual Translation

If I could go back to reference the text history with the last guy I was interested in and point out all the instances where what I was trying to say was lost in translation, I couldn’t. Why? Because it’s not there! I deleted it. I was unsure about my responses, so I didn’t want to be reminded of it. There’s no evidence that we communicated, not even a trace.

When your identity is a little grey bubble, it’s easy to be whoever you want to be. You can take seconds, minutes, hours, or even days to come up with something to say. There’s an endless amount of silence at your disposal to choose the right words. If you don’t know what something means, you can mull it over, or get second opinions from your friends. Often, a text that is sent doesn’t capture the intent of the message. It adopts a myriad of identities: your best friend, the co-author, the self you think is most appealing—an exemplary and idyllic knight in shining armor.

The longer time ticks after a text is sent, the more the anticipation builds. The anxiety of a virtual ellipsis that appears and vanishes gives me heart palpitations every time I’m texting someone I’m romantically interested in. It usually leads me to powering off my phone, manically pressing the home button every two minutes, or hurling it across the room.

Read receipts are all the more confusing. When the message I’ve sent has been seen without a reply, I often feel dejected. Did they intend for their reader to see the message as read? Was it oblivion? Did they get sidetracked? It’s interesting that I feel this way about read receipts when I myself have them turned on. Personally, I keep mine on because it holds me accountable to respond right away. Otherwise, I’ll probably never get to it out of laziness. I know some other people keep them on as an antagonistic power move or to play games.

Last weekend, I asked my friends their opinions on what I should text the guy I’ve been talking to. I’d only spent the night with this guy a few times, and didn’t want the text to sound annoying or intrusive. I realize this was overly analytical, but I was stumped on what to say. There was “Hey” plain and simple, “Heeey” with three E’s, “Hey Hey”, “Hi”, and a number of other greetings. Then, the question of whether or not I ask him a follow-up question: “How was your weekend?” The majority ruled yes, and I sent it.

Although it should be normal to text someone you’ve been intimate with, I felt like the underdog. Maybe it was my own ego combusting, but it seemed like a wearisome attempt at holding a conversation. I do this thing where I label myself as the lesser one, rather than treating myself as an equal to my partner. In my head, I’m the clingy one if I initiate conversations. Of course, I understand this is a futile train of thought.

Evidently, so much is lost in translation when you’re using a keyboard alone to communicate. I’m cringing at the frivolity of the whole thing, but I can’t help but psychoanalyze my half of the conversation. Impressing someone I’m trying to woo via text message is quite literally an art form. Matching their syntax to the intended tone of voice can be a labyrinth, especially when the situation may already be a game of cat and mouse.

I’m only using the dating dynamic as an example because it’s an experience that’s most fresh in my mind. I’ve encountered similar issues in texting with friends: sounding cold or removed because I used lowercase, excluded emojis, or was active on social media without responding to a text message.

It’s not so much what gets lost in virtual translation, but the ambiguity of voiceless communication. To me, reading the text message of someone I’m getting to know is the equivalent of decoding something foreign.

Social Disconnect

In a society that has aggressively and rapidly normalized technology and social media, it’s heavily debated whether or not these newfound habits will have detrimental side effects on our mental health and sense of self. As we slowly accumulate facts and understand societal changes in behavior—the hours spent online, emotional reactions to content, pressures to be involved within inherently isolating platforms—the implications appear grim.

Take yourself for example. How many minutes (hours!) a day do you spend essentially living through the lens of someone else’s life? A 2015 Pew Research Center study finds that 92 percent of teens ages 13 to 17 use the internet every day, with 24 percent reporting they go online “almost constantly.” The Royal Society for Public Health (RSPH) reports that 91 percent of 16 to 24-year-olds use the internet for social media. About the rise in social media platforms and access to internet-centric technology, Shirley Cramer, chief executive of RSPH, stated: “Social media has been described as more addictive than cigarettes and alcohol, and is now so entrenched in the lives of young people that it is no longer possible to ignore it when talking about young people’s mental health issues.”

This excessive time online sparks risk for more than subconscious infatuation—it destroys the attention span, negatively affects our ability to measure self-worth, and increases levels of anxiety, depression, and sleep disorders. The more time we spend on social platforms, the more we take away from the activities in life that keep us mentally healthy and physically active; we narrow the window of potential time furthering our passions, education, and self-development.

Through endless advertisements that blur the distinction between organic and sponsored posts, selfies, five-star vacations, romantic relationships, new jobs, and expensive, materialistic things that we constantly flip through, the media has put us under a spell. Society is shifting into a reality less present with our interaction between friends, family, and significant others; these are conversations and connections becoming more and more interrupted by scrolling, recording, posting.

The most striking contrast in platform users is girls and boys. According to Pew, teenage girls use social media—particularly visually oriented sites—for sharing more than boys do. Instagram, Facebook, and Snapchat provide a vast opportunity for advertising organizations to directly influence the population, which affects social standards. Unrealistic body image standards, thinness and fitness ideals, and hyper-sexualized women have been prevalent in movies, television, and magazines for the past century and these pressures have seamlessly crept into the social universe accessible at our fingertips.

This constant stream of images and videos portraying a preconstructed ideal of beauty starts to become the expected norm for appearances and behaviors, a damaging pattern that occurs with enough influence to pit what’s real against the distorted, objectified women the media has created. Young girls who are exposed to cunning marketing tactics begin to internalize these images and set unrealistic expectations for themselves.

When apps like “Retouch Me: Body & Face Editor,” “Body Plastic Surgery,” and “Facetune” remain popular across all age groups, it’s no wonder we’re falling into an age of body image disorders. While the media is trying to expand representation of women of all shapes, sizes and colors, there’s no denying the pressures that continue to exist for both men and women to conform to specific body types. It is imperative that we filter the content we view online into realistic standards of the human body. Not only must we control our media consumption, we must also stray from portraying ourselves online as something that we’re not, physically or emotionally.

A study conducted by Florida State University found that a group of women who were asked to browse Facebook for 20 minutes experienced drastically greater body dissatisfaction than those who spent 20 minutes researching rainforest cats online. As award-winning expert on body image Claire Mysko explains in relation to the study, “While social media is not the cause of low self-esteem, it has all the right elements to contribute to it. Social media creates an environment where disordered thoughts and behaviors really thrive.” Mysko also warns that, while social media gives young people, especially girls, the feedback and validation they crave, it can also “serve as a catalyst for more insecurity.’’

Society has become trapped in harmful comparisons to others without any accurate method of measuring our peers’ capabilities beyond a perfectly lit, deceptively angled selfie. These comparisons can lead to unhealthy levels of jealousy and lowered self-esteem and self-worth. They also tend to drag users into portraying their lives as better than they really are in attempt to one-up perceived “competitors.” This mentality has become a catalyst for a post-more-feel-better-about-yourself behavior, where one seeks gratification in the instant and short-lived, endorphin-igniting surge of notifications from digital followers. Social media has become an entirely unnatural environment in which we envelop ourselves in these glorified lifestyles that slowly normalize the idea that they represent real life.

I think we’d all like to believe that we don’t experience insecurity related to the seemingly never-ending party happening on our phones; that this distorted view into celebrities’ and peers’ lives doesn’t make us feel like we’re missing out on something someone else appears to have. But while we waste away hours longing for these digitized lifestyles full of success, glamour, vacations, sex, partying, relationships, and friendships, we forget to remember how brief these bursts of perfection are compared to the monotony of the average human’s daily reality.

So why are our lives so deeply integrated with this culture that publicizes only our best features and accomplishments?

Maybe because the origin of its intention is really not so sinister. The ability to connect, to keep contact, to share pieces of yourself with the world—these are powerful and useful digital tools that keep humanity connected and informed. Unfortunately, the reality is that the influx of unrestrained time spent on our phones has carried much discontentment along with its benefits and increased our feeling of social isolation. A study conducted by researchers at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine suggests that adults in the U.S. who use social media more than their peers experience higher levels of social isolation. Of the surveyed adults, those who reported spending more than two hours per day on social media had twice the odds of experiencing social isolation than their peers who only spent a half hour per day on social media.

Between an underlying addiction to cell phones and social platforms that are proving to be anything but social, we have lost the value of face-to-face interaction and have, to some extent, replaced or supplemented this socialization with digital communication. This substitution offers an illusion of companionship between friends, peers, and family members without actually nurturing these relationships and can leave them in a state of ingenuity. This behavior creates room for loneliness that develops when the value of physical relationships is compared to their digital presence in our lives.

If we can avoid the use of social platforms as a means of quelling an insatiable, existential boredom or a search for personal fulfillment, we will ease the burden of a lot of unnecessary negative emotion about our own lives and lessen comparison between ourselves and others. We will likely find ourselves more present within our own reality and relationships, which is something that must be treasured to a higher degree than menial, temporary online connections. Only you control the content you choose to consume on a daily basis. Why not build that into an outlet that uplifts, educates, and inspires without taking from and skewing the reality you exist in?

There may not be an escape route in sight for the deep integration of humankind and the internet. So in the meantime, we must find a way to enjoy this connection in careful moderation. Because through conscientious interaction, uplifting intentions, and the disposal of unnecessary divisiveness, there is opportunity to share positivity and there is potential for beneficial and healthy interaction online.

Why I Shame Tops On Instagram

I have a meme account on Instagram where I shame tops. Yes, it sounds silly (even to me) but would it still sound silly if I told you my memes are a tool to confront sexual power dynamics, and stereotypes in the queer community? Maybe even that also sounds funny, but bear with me. You may like what you read.

Before I get into it I want to set up the two cultural pillars that drove me to shame tops. First, it is undeniable that each of our lives are dictated by our proximity to power. We are given things and things are taken away from us depending on our relative access to power. Secondly, queer men categorize their sexual desires. The classic image of queer male sexuality is a triptych comprised of:

Tops, people who prefer being the insertive partner during anal sex.
Bottoms, people who prefer being the receptive partner.
Verses (short for versatile), people who prefer both.

Why I shame tops.

Here’s what I’ve noticed… tops’ identities are wrapped up in conceits of power, masculinity, and desirability. Topping is conflated with dominance, which is rooted in heteronormativity and sexism. When someone tops or is the insertive partner, on the surface, they are the more dominant partner and thereby have more power. Inversely, bottoming can be viewed as a submission. Someone who bottoms relinquishes power, so they say.

And, yes, power bottoms (dominant-behaving bottoms) and sub tops are out here thriving, but the aforementioned more simplistic ideas about topping and bottoming are deeply embedded in gay culture. They exist in the things we tell each other every day through the apps and in the clubs. We uphold tops’ power through upholding their desirability (“Tops are scarce”) and their masculinity (“I only have sex with masculine tops”). We say verses are just ashamed bottoms. We propagate stigmas associated with bottoming. We don’t question total tops who’ve never tried bottoming. It is my belief that these attitudes so saturated in our community create power structures that value certain sexual positions and desires over others.

To turn the power structure on its head, I shame tops. There’s a concept called “punching up” that I use in my account. The idea is that when a group with less power shames or, in my case, makes fun of a group with more power—the group with less power gains more than the group with more power loses. Tops don’t lose much when I shame them for their behaviors because “gay culture” supports them.

Now, things can get tricky when shaming desire. I am aware of this. It should be said that desire can be deeply personal, and that shouldn’t be questioned; but desire can also be social, which should always be questioned.

It probably doesn’t come as a surprise that tops, mostly total tops (tops who never, under any circumstances, bottom), have left me worse off than when they found me. I mean, I created an entire Instagram account which primary function is to shame tops. It’s not just me though. I made @versfirst to not only lift myself up, but for others in my community who have been devalued by tops. I was actually surprised when I connected with people who felt the same way as I did. Other queer people really were experiencing the same things as I was. I get messages all the time from people commiserating with me, laughing with me, and being a part of a community within a community that validates their experiences with tops.

Beyond top shame.

When I made my Instagram account, I was so sick of tops’ reductive attitudes about sex. My account was an outlet to vent my anger at the tops who sexually coerced me, who pressured me into compromising my own desires, who viewed me as powerless and took power from me. My reaction was to use memes to critique their harmful behaviors and the culture that promoted those behaviors. Using this light-hearted, yet direct medium to channel my frustration has helped me cope without emotionally wearing myself out. Without having to confront every top I met in person, I could address my top-based traumas. At first, my anger was directed solely at tops, but in the process of dissecting my anger through memes, I realized that tops were just the surface of my frustration. Power inequalities within sexual position identities is only one symptom of a larger problem.

The bigger picture.

Queer sexuality is stifled. We are so bogged down by stereotypes, categories, and misaligned associations. Through the stories my account’s followers have shared, I’ve learned so much about how the LGBTQ+ community exists within similar frameworks, and that this discussion extends to and affects us all. Queer women use similar language for topping and bottoming. Some queer women use the term “switch” instead of “vers.” I loved hearing that. Transgender men are pigeonholed as bottoms by cis gay guys. I hated hearing that.

I’ve also begun to write about race. As a mestizo Latino, I know a bit about racial stereotyping in the bedroom. Black and brown people are expected to top, and Asians are often expected to bottom. In American politics, these stereotypes have an origin way before gay people were allowed to come out and define their sexuality. In our current political environment, where it is entirely impossible to separate power from race and almost impossible to separate power from sex, it makes total sense that racial power dynamics would seep into our sex lives.

Going back to my original grievance, gay men have never really viewed sexual positioning as a spectrum. We view it like the triptych above: tops, bottoms, and verses. We don’t allow desires to shift, expand, or contract. We say people with big dicks are wasting their assets if they don’t top. We say masculine people always top. We say younger guys should bottom for older partners, and we say—get ready for this one—every gay man wants to have anal sex.

What I hope to do with top shaming is encourage people to question the motivations at play. In questioning our sexual desires we figure out where our desires come from and what factors influence them. As queer people, we are more free today than ever before, but we have more work to do. We must stop simplifying our sex and start de-socializing our sex.

To that end, I shame tops.

*You can join Miles Oliva’s movement on Instagram at @versfirst.

Online/Offline

Growing up alongside a strong presence of social media, I’ve been aware of the contrast between people’s behavior online and in person for a long time, from watching Catfish to reading comments from keyboard warriors. The internet provides an escape from everyday life, desensitizing people to what it’s like to communicate face to face, and creating an incentive to say things that people may not have the courage to say to someone’s face. In addition to that, it’s so easy for words on a screen to get misinterpreted or lost in translation.

I’ve been especially conscious of this incongruity as I’ve started to explore the world of romantic relationships. Like many other young women and teenage girls, this behavior is pushed to its extreme in my Instagram DMs and on Tinder. I’ve never had a guy greet me in person with, “If I rearrange some of the letters in your name I can spell anal,” or “Wanna fuck?” But in online communication, it seems to be a regular thing. Most of these messages are from men who I’ve never met, so it’s easy for me to press the unmatch or block button and remove them from my life. What these men say can still bother me, but it’s easier for me to shake than in-person interactions because I know that I will never have to confront this person.

But not all unwanted messages online are from strangers. Throughout middle school, high school, and college, I’ve received unwanted messages from my male classmates that made me feel uncomfortable, violated, and unsafe. Blocking them online may stop the unwanted online communication, but that does nothing to prevent them from behaving inappropriately in person or alleviate the stress of having to see them every day. I wish I could gain back the class time I spent in fear—afraid of how they would treat me in person, how they might react if I blocked them, and of being misinterpreted if I rejected them.

In middle school, these comments were encouraged in a way by the popularity of a website called Ask.fm, where people could anonymously ask questions by posting a link to your Facebook page. I quickly realized that this platform welcomed inappropriate comments—giving 13 to 14 year old boys the ability to send you anonymous messages gets really perverse really fast. These messages affected the way I felt at school. I’d scan the hallways and classrooms, trying to pair anonymous messages to faces, always wondering who had said what. I was suddenly aware that my school environment was not as safe as I’d thought.

In high school, boys left anonymity behind and started to comment whatever they wanted on my Instagram and Facebook posts. For years, I deleted the comments and never talked about them in attempt to be the bigger person—but also out of fear, because I didn’t want to confront these guys, not knowing how they’d respond. I’d been told that boys will be boys, and I wasn’t even sure if I could convince people they were wrong. So instead I went about my days trying to avoid all contact with anyone who said negative things about me online.

It wasn’t until my senior year in high school that I changed the way I dealt with inappropriate messages. There was a person who continually left comments on my Instagram and sent me text messages, demeaning me physically and intellectually. He also attacked my friends, and got his friends to gang up against me. I was over it. I wouldn’t tolerate silently sitting across from someone in class who was extremely hostile to me online. Before I went to the administration, a teacher heard him threatening me in the lunchroom, starting the process of getting help in handling the situation. He got suspended for his online interactions with me. Getting one of the most “popular” boys suspended from school held unfortunate consequences for me, creating tension between me and people who were loyal to him. But it also had its benefits—I had to adjust who I spent time with, and by the end of high school, I felt like the people who I was friends with were not only loyal but shared the same values as me.

Before this point it seemed completely foreign to me to reach out for help regarding unwanted messages. I feared that I’d get in some sort of trouble, or I’d be told “boys will be boys” for the billionth time, so I kept it private. This helped me realize that it’s not only okay, but extremely important to hold people accountable for their actions online. There might always be a gap between the way people behave online and in person, but online actions have no less weight than their actions offline.

My most recent experience with unwanted messages was different from the rest. For most of my second semester at college, this guy in one of my lectures wasn’t even on my radar. He usually sat far behind me in the fifty-person lecture class and had never said a word to me. One day he friended me on Facebook and I accepted, just as I would anyone else who went to my college. Almost immediately, he messaged me asking about how the class was going and if I wanted to hang out sometime. It seemed like a perfectly friendly message on the surface, but something about it really freaked me out. I didn’t know him; what motivated him to suddenly reach out to me? I responded politely, telling him a bit about the paper I was writing and deflecting his invitation to hang out, saying maybe another time. I hoped he’d notice that I wasn’t interested and stop messaging me. Over the next few weeks, he continued to send me random messages and asking me to hang out. I was at a loss for how to deal with it.

I had a lot of anxiety about rejecting him over Facebook Messenger. It’s easy to misinterpret the tone and intention of words on a screen. I’ve had my fair share of rejection, and I didn’t want him to assume there was a personal reason that I rejected him, or that I rejected him because of his appearance. The lack of personal connection with him made me fear that he’d read my rejection as harsher than it actually was.

So instead, I stopped responding completely. I felt paralyzed, and even though this person seemed nonthreatening, I still feared going to class. I didn’t know how he interpreted my silence, and then the silence lasted so long that I was worried how he’d interpret a response from me and what it’d warrant. Sitting in a room with someone who had extensively reached out to me online but had never spoken to me in person felt mysterious and terrifying. The messages continued even after I returned home for summer, which finally motivated me to end the interaction. I wish I could say that I stood up for myself and explained what was wrong to him, but I ended it by letting him know that I was transferring schools and moving to another state.

I feel that it’s somewhat unfair that I ignored him and didn’t tell him clearly that I wasn’t interested right away, but I stand firm in my belief that the frequency of his communication crossed a line. His relentlessness was so shocking to me, mostly because it seemed to be the exact opposite of what I would do if I were in his position. I’ve taken the risk of being the first person to initiate a relationship, and I’ve faced rejection a few times and even no response. Either of those outcomes are enough cause me to hide under my bed for a week and never try to interact with them again. This classmate and I might be examples of two extremes, but I feel that the disparity between the way that men and women behave online and in person is extremely vast.
In these three very different experiences with my male classmates and social media, I notice a common theme of entitlement. Those 13 and 14 year-old boys thought it was their business to ask me what my breast size was, with no regard to how violated that made me feel. My high school classmate thought there was no problem with commenting horrible things about me on my own posts. My college classmate made it seem like he was entitled to my time, even after I showed no interest. The relevant platforms for communicating online have changed so much during my lifetime, and are evolving faster than I can comprehend. The freedom that social media gives you makes me really excited for the future, but also afraid, because I really have no idea what kinds of interactions I will have ahead of me as I continue to navigate my relationships.

DoubleTap: Eromatica

DoubleTap is a monthly interview series highlighting artists whose work explores sex, body, and identity.

You have probably seen some of Eromatica’s erotic illustrations on your feed — but never the same way.

The multi-medium artist is taking inclusivity to new heights by offering feature-flexible graphics of people in love and lust. With the apps Colormatica and Teematica, the viewer gets to play artist and alternate each subject’s gender identity, hair color/style, and skin tone. Not only does this ensure diversity, but it grants viewers the autonomy to reflect themselves in the artwork. Once you’ve curated a love scene that satisfies you, Eromatica gives you the option to print the graphics on pins, t-shirts, postcards, and more. Additionally, the artist/brand has launched a set of original Bluetooth vibrators with remote control settings, allowing a partner to operate the intensity of your session from any where in the world. Talk about upgrading your phone sex.

While Eromatica’s sexy illustrations can sometime feature alien or mystical individuals making love, their appeal is based not in fantasy, but in embracing the reality of love’s diversity.

We had the opportunity to chat with the coder, illustrator, and visionary.

What inspired you to create interactive illustrations which allow the viewer to change the subject’s skin tone, hair, etc.?

E: I believe art is only art when the viewer feels something for what they’re seeing. At first my illustrations were colorless, but I started [to] learn that these drawings would be more pleasant for the viewer if they’d resemble, in any way, the viewer. Art has to be done so the viewer feels connected to it, and this is the way I found to connect to them.

If a chef would cook only food that he likes, he probably wouldn’t have that many clients. But if he cooks personalized dishes, he’d probably have way more clients.

Your work often depicts people in intimate situations—are these fantasies or do you draw from your own experiences?

E: I combine fantasy with [my] own experiences. But mostly they are all fantasy and random scenarios made up for the drawing.

Have you ever felt pressure to censor your artwork?

E: More like, have I not felt pressure to censor my work? Instagram is an open platform, therefore anyone can access any account, no matter how old the person is. My main account had more explicit images, but Instagram kept censoring them and ended up disabling my account.

Since then, I opened a second account and started all over with a less explicit theme. Censoring body parts with clothes, hairs and hands. It’s hard to keep it “clean” when it’s such a subjective topic. I would think nipples and butts are okay to show, but Instagram thinks the other way around.

So, as long as I keep using Instagram as a platform to get to know my art, I’m keeping it within the rules of Instagram. Would be way better if I didn’t have this constrain, but Instagram is a really cool platform to work with so let’s keep it cool for them.

How has your work evolved over time?

E: It all started in March 7th, and it began with only simple lines and incomplete drawings. It was something new for me so I couldn’t go that complex. With time I started learning new techniques, getting better and getting lots of insight from my followers. And voilà, Eromatica started evolving and is still evolving. At the moment, all my posts have 10 variations of the illustration, some are turned into wallpaper format, some are uploaded to my Coloring Book app, and some are used for prints.

The biggest evolution of Eromatica has been the personalization of the illustrations, letting my followers customize the drawing so it looks more like them. I can tell right now Eromatica is starting a new phase of evolution, but cannot talk that much about it. Still a secret.

Most of your illustrations depict sexy and tender scenarios. Would you ever consider exploring the darker side of human sexuality in your work?

E: If by darker side of human sexuality you mean evil dark side… no, I don’t plan to go on that area. My account is about [a] couple’s love, sexual situations, healthy lust, self-love and inclusivity. One of my goals is to erase the gender gap and empower women in any possible way, and going to the “dark side” of human sexuality kinda goes against this. I’m here to empower and reach sex equality.

Your brand’s vibrator can be controlled through an iPhone at any distance (which, by the way, we think is a game changer for people in long-distance relationships). What gave you the idea to marry the virtual and physical realms for pleasure?

E: I’m actually a coder, not an illustrator, so my entire life has been dedicated to making software and hardware. I built my first websites and video games when I was 11 years old. I found a perfect mix of my techie-knowledge with my art project, and built this long-distance controlled vibrator.

It’s one of the multiple side projects that are starting to bloom from Eromatica. Still working on some more, and some are already out there on the site, like the Coloring Book app and the site to build your own T-Shirts with your own colors. I believe I can reach Eromatica’s goal easier if I take advantage of my techie skills, so here I am trying it.

In your wildest dreams, what does the future hold for Eromatica?

E: My very first goal is to make women feel powerful and confident enough to achieve anything in any aspect, either sexually speaking, or life-wise, job-wide, career-wise, etc. I’m sick and tired of having a world ruled mostly by men, we need powerful women doing powerful stuff. There is a lot of work to be done, and I hope I’m on the right path to do it.

What’s the future for Eromatica? Any future that leads to achieve my goals. What I’m doing right now [is] working on multiple apps for women, new illustrations, a blog/forum for women, networking with women in the industries, looking for collaborations, [developing] a clothing line, and doing research.

You can follow Eromatica on Instagram here, and buy their products at www.eromatica.com.

Oppose SESTA-FOSTA

Written with Annabelle Schwartz

This week, the Senate is expected to vote on FOSTA-SESTA, a bill-package that will put sex workers’ lives on the line- especially transgender sex workers. The bill is designed to prevent sex trafficking by making websites liable for their online speech. Online platforms are currently protected by a law referred to as Section 230. The proposed legislation would force sites to censor any posts that allude to sex work. The issue with this is that there will be no differentiation between sex trafficking and consensual sex work. If this bill passes, websites that help sex workers screen clients will be shut down increasing the danger for a job that already sees high rates of violence.

Due to the dire economic situations many trans individuals find themselves in because of discrimination in education and the workplace, many trans people engage in underground sex work as a necessary means of survival. According to The National Center for Transgender Equality, people who are transgender are more than twice as likely to be living in poverty than the general population. Despite the prevalence of poverty and low incomes, less than 13% of trans individuals who participate in sex work receive any public aid.

Transgender people who struggle to support themselves financially are often placed in harsh situations due to the stigma, discrimination, and violence they face on a day to day basis. Many turn to sex work to sustain themselves, where they can fall victim to violence and arrest. All sex workers participate in the trade for different reasons. However, every sex worker deserves to be safe from harassment and assault.

By defeating this bill, the transgender community, as well as all sex workers, will have the necessary tools to screen clients, report violence, and find safer employment within this industry. If online sex work communities are shut down, more sex workers will have to move onto the street. And to escape arrest, they often move into alleyways and cars where the rates of violence skyrocket. According to The National LGBTQ Task Force, 30% of U.S. sex workers homicide victims were transgender.

According to The National Coalition of Anti-Violence, the transgender community experiences the highest levels of harassment and violence, often at the hands of police. 72% of hate crimes against LGBTQ people were against trans women. And 90% of those were transgender women of color. Trans people are 3.7 times more likely to experience police violence compared to cisgender survivors, and transgender people of color are six times more likely to suffer physical abuse from the police. We need to call attention to the violence the transgender community faces and protect these internet spaces that allow for a vetting process and ultimately more safety within this line of work.

We’ve created a sample letter for you to sign and send to your senator, or you can use our list of senators (with their D.C addresses) who we believe are the best targets to reach out to about protecting these vulnerable communities. You can also use this letter as a script if you want to call or email your legislators to get in touch with them as soon as possible.

You can download our sample letter to Congress here:

You can also reach your senator by calling the senate switchboard 202-225-3121 and tell them who you want to be connected to.

Please find below a list of senators and their addresses. We chose a diverse list of senators, including eight Republicans, thirteen Democrats, and one Independent. They represent many states because we wanted to reach out to both those that we know already support trans rights and those we need to be working hard for their transgender constituents.

Elizabeth Warren – D – Massachusetts – 317 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Ron Wyden – D – Oregon – 221 Dirksen Senate Office Bldg. Washington, D.C., 20510

Bernie Sanders – IN – Vermont – Dirksen Senate Office Building, 332 2nd St NE, Washington, DC 20510

Patty Murray – D – Washington – 154 Russell Senate Office Building Washington, D.C. 20510

Ted Cruz – R – Texas – Russell Senate Office Bldg 404 Washington, DC 20510

Marco Rubio – R – Florida – Russell Senate Office Building, 2 Constitution Ave NE #284, Washington, DC 20002

Kamala Harris – D – California – 112 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, D.C. 20510

Cory Booker – D – New Jersey – 359 Dirksen Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Tammy Duckworth – D – Illinois – 524 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Doug Jones – D – Alabama – 326 Russell Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

John Kennedy – R – Louisiana – SR383, Russell Senate Building Washington, DC 20510

Catherine Cortez Masto – D – Nevada – 204 Russell Senate Office Building, Washington, DC 20510

Maggie Hassan – D – New Hampshire 330 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Todd Young – R – Indiana 400 Russell Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Chris Van Hollen – D – Maryland 110 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Kristen Gillibrand – D – New York – 478 Russell Washington, DC 20510

Mitch McConnell – R – Kentucky – 317 Russell Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Chuck Schumer – D – New York 322 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, D.C. 20510

Pat Toomey – R – Pennsylvania – 248 Russell Senate Office Building Washington, D.C. 20510

Lisa Murkowski – R – Alaska 522 Hart Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Susan Collins – R – Maine 413 Dirksen Senate Office Building Washington, DC 20510

Brian Schatz – D – Hawaii – 722 HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING Washington, DC 20510

Is Grindr A Subculture?

*The featured photos are selections from gaytona.beach, a project highlighting photographer Andrew Harper’s experience on Grindr in Daytona Beach from the age of 19.

In 1979, the British sociologist Dick Hebdige published an extra-thick wad of social science on similarities between subcultures in a book called Subculture: The Meaning of Style. Don’t worry, I read it for you.

If you want to know whether the crowd of people you’re looking at belongs to a subculture, look out for these things: inventive language, distinctive dress, a common favorite music genre, an exclusive media channel, and, most importantly, a bold philosophy that explains their opposition to mainstream culture. In most cases, the subcultures Dick Hebdige studied had at least one other thing in common: heterosexuality.

Mainstream culture has always been a very serious threat to gay men. Masculinity is the norm, heterosexuality is the law. Disobeying either can threaten your livelihood, if not your body. Years ago, you’d get beaten and/or killed. Today, the abuse is more often psychological than physical. And so, for gay men, repressing our identities has always been an act of self-preservation such that the only place gay men can find acceptance, free from the threat of the mainstream, is in an all-gay space.

At least for younger generations, those all-gay spaces are increasingly virtual – they’re supplements to the physical spaces gay subculture has long inhabited (i.e. clubs, bars, bathhouses, community centers).

Enter Grindr, “the world’s largest gay social network app.” Yes, it’s a media channel for gay subculture, but now it’s also a subculture of its own.

This makes perfect sense when you realize that not every gay man uses Grindr and not every Grindr user is a gay man. The ability to self-select into Grindr is part of what makes it a subculture. Those who choose to use it get to know their sexuality in a space that’s intentionally separate and safe from mainstream culture. Curiosity has a place there. Sexual-expressive freedom is Grindr subculture’s philosophy. And those who use the app quickly realize that its users have a language of their own.

On the platform some key terms were carried over from gay subculture – terms like “top,” “bottom,” and “versatile” that describe a gay man’s sexual preferences (the “top” likes to penetrate, the “bottom” likes to receive, and the “versatile” man likes both). But Grindr users often abbreviate them to single letters which are faster and easier to type: T, B, or V.

Among Grindr’s host of custom (sometimes NSFW) emoticons that have their own sub-textual meanings, there are bunk beds – one depicts a man on the top bunk (for the tops) and one depicts a man on the bottom bunk (for the bottoms).

Of course, that library contains a purple eggplant (an emoji that now cross-culturally represents a penis), but there’s also one that’s brown, one that’s white, one shown through a magnifying glass for the less-well-endowed, and one displayed in a polaroid (sent as a substitute for requesting nudes). There’s a peach and there’s a peach with a phone over it for a booty call. There’s a set of handcuffs, a man with a bear paw for the “bears” (those are hairy, bulky, older men), a man in leather chaps wearing aviators, and the lower half of a man wearing a jockstrap.

Grindr users message each other “looking?” or “DTF?” – shorthands that ask whether the person on the other end of the chat is looking for sex right now. Some users even change their profile name to a “looking eyes” (👀) emoji to reach a wider audience.

“Grindr tribes” offer an even deeper dive into a user’s identity and sexual preferences. Bear, Clean-Cut, Daddy, Discreet, Geek, Jock, Leather, Otter, Poz, Rugged, Trans, and Twink describe the physical and psychological categories a gay man identifies with and/or is looking for in a partner. After all, Grindr exists for sexual exploration.

So, Grindr is a subculture that is also its own exclusive media channel. As a subculture, it also has a philosophy and an original language.

To be sure, Grindr’s place and purpose are complicated by its neighbors – Scruff, Growlr, Hornet, etc. I suspect that technological shortcomings are not why the gay community loves to hate Grindr. I think it’s more about our relationship with shame and our relationships with one another. On some level, we love to hate ourselves. What we see in one another reminds us that mainstream culture taught us to hate homosexuality. If you need proof of that, consider the fact that there’s not a homo among us who hasn’t been asked, “Why are gay people obsessed with sex?” or wondered it themselves in a critical tone.

For gay men, the act and topic of sex is not just a rejection of the idea that we ought to hate our sexuality, it’s a rebellion against the idea that we ought to hate ourselves for it. And that’s why there’s hardly a Grindr user I’ve met who hasn’t deleted the app (often seeking out another) and returned to it because gay sex has never been so freely discussed between so many of us as it is there.

A Case For Social Accountability

The United States has a rape problem. Even those with the most limited understanding of the topic know that that perpetrators rarely face justice. Out of one thousand rape cases, only 57 reports lead to an arrest, and only 6 of those lead to incarcerations.

As a society, we have only just begun waking up to the issue of sexual assault, thanks in part to the advent of many female-led movements, both in public and private. One goal of these movements is to help people feel more confident in openly speaking out against sexual assault and breaking the “culture of silence” that survivors often find themselves in. As we are discovering new ways to deal with sexual assault, both preemptively and through supporting survivors, a strategy that comes up often involves the complete social alienation of predators. In lieu of a legal framework that truly supports survivors, could a strong-knit social system provide a reliable deterrence policy and a level of accountability for to-be predators?

Social circles of young adults, where such cases are prevalent, are an apt place to test this system. It would go like this: person A has been sexually assaulted by person B. A goes to their friends or other members of their community, and the community decides not to be associated with/include B in gathering spaces (i.e. concert venues, parties, study groups, etc.). It takes more than those closest to A to make this work, as it is the concept of herd immunity, meaning the majority of people must be on board to ensure spaces will be safe.
This strategy, however controversial, works for two reasons: it prevents the predator from being in a space where sexual assault is more likely to occur, and it validates the survivor’s emotions. The majority of assaults are committed by someone close to the survivor. Perpetrators gain access to potential victims through social circumstances. If a rapist is part of the social group, and the community does not discuss what they have done, a potential victim could be keeping a perpetrator close without knowing it. In colleges particularly, people are be sexually assaulted at parties — so you see the urgency in employing such a method.

Social situations are of particular danger when you consider that half of all rapes that occur involve alcohol consumption, by the perpetrator, victim, or both. Women should be allowed to drink and be in social settings without fear of assault, but perpetrators often take advantage of situations in which inhibitions are low and reasoning compromised, not to mention drinks can be spiked with date rape drugs. So assuring predators are not included in such scenarios is vital.

Another reason why we have to exclude predators from our watering holes is more obvious: we have to validate the survivor’s claim.

To allow someone who has sexually assaulted someone else to remain in your life is to say that you do not believe that perpetrator is dangerous, and what’s worse, your social convenience is more important than a survivor’s experience. We also have to consider that when we permit alleged rapists to hang around, we create a triggering environment for their victims, which stands for more than just hurt feelings. 94% of women who have been raped reported symptoms of PTSD two weeks after the attack happened, and many survivors report symptoms similar to those of PTSD for the rest of their lives. Survivors are also 10 times more likely to abuse hard drugs than non-survivors. Therefore, not distancing oneself from rapists means that survivors have to limit where they go in order to avoid their assailant.

This behavior would be difficult for local or federal governments to regulate, because it is solely based on choices by the parties involved. There is no registry that marks alleged rapists, but rather it is based on information traveling by word of mouth and/or social media. And considering data on how many sexual assaults go unreported, this technique can serve as a form of grassroots justice.

Naysayers of combating abusers by social alienation say such a strategy is too radical. But is it not a natural instinct to distance oneself from someone or something that may harm you or those close to you?

However, this strategy does require survivors to essentially “out” themselves to at least a small number of people, and this can be traumatic. In a more perfect world, where this strategy includes always responding to complaints of sexual assault by “cutting off” perpetrators, we are still putting the burden on survivors to begin the process. We have to question if there are ways of exacting these tactics without putting more pressure on survivors.

As we continue to search for a holistic approach to the issue of sexual assault and how to deal with rapists, we must consider how we can hold perpetrators accountable in our own social groups. Of course, the simplest way to lower the number of sexual assaults is to teach consent at an early age, but until this discussion is widely implemented, and until we have a complete overhaul of the way our justice system deals with rape, we have to consider possibilities that may start with the people we choose to include in our lives.

Decoding The Finsta

For many of us, checking social media has become the first and last thing we do in our day-to-day routine. On Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter we scroll endlessly to see what the rest of the world is up to. We check our accounts to see who’s liked our posts, who’s followed or unfollowed us, all while we were supposed to be living our actual lives we’re supposedly documenting. Social media has become a form of self-validation and entertainment all in one. And through this fascination, a new concept has emerged: the Finsta or “fake Instagram” account.

Although the Finsta account has been an online presence for a couple of years now, it remains a mysterious platform. For those who are not familiar, a Finsta is a second Instagram account that targets a smaller, more private audience. Almost like a diary of images in a sense — or rather one filled with unapologetic selfies, trashy memes, and tell-all posts.

The first time I heard of a Finsta I thought my friend was joking. “Why would you post about something embarrassing, like a screenshot of a conversation you’re having on Tinder or a confession that you’d hooked up with an ex ?” I vowed I would never get one. But I did not object to following the Finstas of my friends. Their accounts opened a world of intimacy and entertainment. They posted memes and selfies with long-winded paragraphs about their most personal moments. No longer did I have to wait for a weekly dinner to get the tea on their sex life, I could just open up Instagram and scroll. Then, everything changed.

In the early days of summer, I ran into a guy I had my eye on all semester from school. We were at a rooftop party held by a mutual friend. We both bonded over a mutual love for rolled joints, and mutual distaste in the party’s playlist. We hung out together the whole night. Needless to say, we hit it off.

The next morning a wave of anxiety hit me. I hadn’t liked someone in a while. Dating in a generation whose eyes and attention are fixated on their phones is hard enough, but add living in New York City to the mix and it’s nearly impossible to find someone who fits perfectly within your ridiculously busy schedule. I felt weird, like I had a bad case of romantic FOMO. I didn’t want to mess this up. I felt like I needed to disclose my emotions, but was scared I might come off too strong. I needed an outlet.

So I logged onto Instagram, started to scroll, and realized maybe it was time to invest in a Finsta. It would be the perfect arena to disclose, confide, and release the intense emotions I had for someone I barely knew. And so my “fake Instagram” account was born.

I started following my friends and posting memes that coincided with my emotions. When I asked for advice, my Finsta following gave it. When I needed support, my following sent positive comments and emojis. And then it hit me: social media apps have become so integral that they’re now a normal outlet for disclosing our emotions. In 2018 it seems almost natural that we would resort to creating Finstas to document the most intimate parts of our lives.

For me, creating a Finsta account helped channel the anxiety I had about liking someone. That release of dopamine I got from posting and having a support system of faithful followers made me feel at ease with my feelings. Soon my feed became littered with astrology memes and embarrassing anecdotes of my day, and of course, an occasional post about the anxiety I got from a romantic pursuit.

The romance between the guy from the rooftop quickly fizzled, but through our interaction, I realized our generation’s fascination with Finsta accounts. There is something about Finstas that reveal a more real, unfiltered reality we often don’t see when we unlock our phones. I teeter back and forth on what to make of Finstas, honestly. On the one hand, it is a platform that has opened up a realm of privacy between friends never experienced before. While it can be used to check up on a friend’s mental health, a crowd-source for sexual advice, an arena of support for the tense times we live in today, at the end of the day we must remember, like a regular Instagram account, it is just another illusion — made out of signals and thousands of tiny pixels we can receive and send. Nothing more.