For Sale: One Intact Hymen (MIB*)

For Sale: One Intact Hymen (MIB*), by Bree Russell

I want to sell my virgin­ity. For the sake of this article, I will refer to female virginity, specifically my virginity. This is in part due to experience; I can only confidently speak for my specific relationship to virgin­ity. While I could theorize about society’s value of male virginity, what could I tell you about it that American Pie hasn’t already? And while I rec­ognize that in this part of the country prosti­tution is illegal, it doesn’t mean that it’s not a viable and finan­cially lucrative option. But what am I really selling?

A How-to Guide on Dropping Verbal Bombs on Internet ‘Douchebags’

A How-to Guide on Dropping Verbal Bombs on Internet ‘Douchebags,’ by Katie Murphy

Once upon a time, in a not-so-far-away kingdom, a coven of technological wizards gazed upon the information su­perhighway and foretold a day when the anonymity of World Wide Web would bring equal­ity to the land, and the peasants would frolic ’round a maypole in the middle of this vast mul­ticultural cyberspace… This day has yet to come. Instead of an Internet where people can in­teract without prejudice, there grew an Internet where -isms were copy-pasted directly from the real world. In fact, the very anonymity that was supposed to end prejudice by obscuring difference actually worked to embolden people to post incred­ibly offensive things online. The Internet has become just as trau­matic—if not more so—than the real world. Don’t believe me? Take a look around. The com­ments section on every Yahoo! article is littered with comments blaming anything and every­thing on President Obama, who is referred to as a monkey or a terrorist. (Seriously, this hap­pens on every article whether its topic is knitting, Rhianna’s new tattoo, or a kitten riding a vacu­um cleaner. Every article.) If you make your way to certain gam­ing message boards, you can see woman posters being told, “tits or gtfo,” which in American Eng­lish translates to “Post pictures of your tits, or get the fuck out.” Mosey on over to a form named 4chan and watch new members be called “newfag.”

Something had to be done to counteract this—pardon the Internet parlance—douche­baggery. So, the very people tar­geted by the throng of privileged anonymous users struck back with a new vocabulary that was sure to sting just a little. Now, you can read the victims of on­line hate speech fire back with words like…

Curves and Catcalls

Curves and Catcalls, by Shaymaa Mahmoud

“Da-yumm, girl! Repre­sent Berkeley, baby!”

I dread Telegraph. Tele­graph becomes something of a dark alleyway for me—see the above statement. I go light on my makeup. I stay conservative with the clothes, so even dresses with tights underneath are out of the question.

TRANSposition

TRANSposition, by Amber Lamps

Like most polyamorous couples, my partner and I real­ized the spark died long ago. Now we’re content to simply ex­change pleasantries on the rare occasion we pass each other on the way to our many dates with people attractive enough to maintain our attention, yet va­pid enough to win our inevitable disinterest. Exciting as this was we felt something was missing in our relationship of conve­nience.

Pitcher/Catcher

Pitcher/Catcher, by Sam Wineman

You ask me when we’re at coffee and I’ve just had the first bite of my marshmallow square. When we’re in the hallway wait­ing for the professor to get there and I’m digging through my bag for the homework that’s due in about two minutes. At our friend’s graduation ceremony because it’s more interesting than comparing this year’s D-lister to Merced’s Michelle Obama. You speak in a hushed voice like it’s our little secret. And you smile. It’s the smile that really pushes me over the edge. So casual. Like we’re talking about baseball instead of anal sex. And I hate baseball.

The Way Color Works

ISM will be posting articles in plain text as blog posts, as well as in PDF format. Our first article is from the latest issue.

The Way Color Works, by Pooja Chaudhuri

The first time I stepped into the United States was the first time I felt colored. Com­ing out of the narrow jetway passage and into the airport, I saw white on the walls and on the tiles and on the toilets. The very first people my eyes latched onto were colored white. The air­port was my gallery seat. People experienced the airport in so many different ways—running, sleeping, laughing, crying and waiting. People were transient. They came and went, but their emotions lingered so that the place swelled with it, just burst with it. With my ma and baba at my side, I became one of those people who would leave behind my silouhette in the airport as an imprint of my first coming into color. I knew that beyond those automatic doors, was what my people had called Amreeca. That plane was a carrier of bodies and a carrier of consciousness—my consciousness.

ism issue #4

Hey! ism’s back with some summer reading.

Get your copy here!