Jetta Rae DoubleCakes

Nail polish and straws put rape prevention squarely on the shoulders of women, a responsbility we've always borne.

Jane Lynch, Aubrey Plaza, Rosario Dawson, Laverne Cox . . . we're looking at you.

We deserve to be safe. We deserve to live—even at the cost of your flawed, incomplete grasp of lesbian identity.

Every now and then a “Mommy” would escape her lips and I would wipe it from my face, like mud or mosquitos on an otherwise idyllic summer’s drive.

Being a polyamorist has yet to afford me that “communal pride.” It’s not an identity that I associate with good politics. Yet.

When you openly deride poor/sick/incarcerated people who have access to nutritious and delicious food, you set us all up for failure.

I have an intense, irrational fear of amputation. I threw up trying to read Geek Love. I get light-headed, piss-pantsy in Halloween stores.

News that televangelist Angley forced congregants to have abortions shocked the nation. But his actions don't exist in a vacuum.

Visibility and respect, held with tired arms in a dire double headlock—this is the struggle of women in sports.

The apron was a birthday gift—to both of us, really. She was the first woman to ever call me 'Mommy.'