My Short Dress

October 6, 2016 — 99 Comments



My short dress is not an invitation. It’s not a political statement. it’s not feminist; it’s not slutty.

I’m not even sure it’s fashionable.

My short dress is one of the only dresses I own. I’m not a ‘dresses’ kind of girl. I prefer jeans and rock tees and clothes that align my outside with my inside. My clothes are wearable art.

My short dress is perfectly comfy. It’s made of the softest fabric ever. It’s loose and flowy and billows out in a way that allows me to eat and drink whatever I want and never feel constricted. My short dress feels like FREEDOM.

My short dress is black, like most of my clothing. It’s not body conscious enough to be considered sexy nor frou frou enough to be considered a sundress. It’s kind of rock and roll and kind of funky and hard to categorize. Like me.

My short dress has a black lace trim all around the bottom. I love wearing it with combat boots; the juxtaposition of the lacy hem with rugged boots. Feminine and tough, all at the same time. Rarely do I get to be both simultaneously.

My short dress shows off my legs. They’re almost always covered up in jeans. So it’s an occasion when I show them in a dress – “THERE they are!”


My short dress does not say “come fuck me.” The clothes I wear in public do not communicate a desire for sex. Or a reason for you to expect it from me. It doesn’t mean I am “asking for it.” My short dress is not the reason why women get raped.

While we’re on the subject, women don’t get raped because of clothing. Or lack of it. Or flirtatious behavior. Or alcohol.




My short dress is not meant to stir uncontrollable lust in a man, creating in him an overpowering urge to yank it up and slam me against a wall. To suggest that is demeaning to men.

It’s also a flaw-ridden concept. How can we possess this inescapable power over men, wielded primarily through our bodies, and yet find ourselves subjugated through most of history?


My short dress was not worn to flaunt my body in a sexual way. I have moved beyond the desire to show you my tits and ass.

It’s easy to show you my tits and ass. I want to show you my intelligence, my wit, my courage, my compassion, my vulnerability. I am worth infinitely more than the sum of my body parts.

My short dress is not worn in the hopes that you will find me desirable. I won’t self-objectify, simply because the media has lied to me about what TRUE beauty is. I will not spend my days fixating on how sexually attractive I am. This leaves me with far less mental and physical energy to pursue what really brings me happiness.

My short dress is not an easier way to reach my pussy, although you said that while you pawed at me. You groped at my crotch through my tights and told me that was why I REALLY wore that dress, wasn’t it?


My short dress was not a reason for you to slut-shame me on Facebook, although you most certainly did.



My short dress is not a means to an end, but an end in itself. It’s a choice I make.

My short dress is not attention seeking. My short dress is about comfort, visual appeal, mobility, my emotional state, the fabric, the cut. It’s an homage to my icons and an expression of whatever I was feeling when I reached into my closet.

My short dress does NOT say, “I’ll wear what I want, whenever I want, where I want.” That’s as extreme a viewpoint as “she was dressed provocatively, and that’s why she was attacked.” Both ends of the spectrum oversimplify a complicated issue.

My short dress was not meant to weigh in on that issue. It’s just a dress I feel good in.


My short dress does show my body, but it should not lead to judgement, pain or dehumanization.

It shows the line of my calves and the strength of my shoulders and the soft skin of my chest, but don’t overcomplicate my motives.

My short dress is a simple celebration; a reminder that I was blessed with one life, and in that life, a perfectly functioning body.

My short dress is not for YOU. It is for ME.


Have you ever been shamed because of what you were wearing?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 


Come hang out with me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. 

The Phone Call

September 23, 2016 — 67 Comments



“So, basically you just said anything so you could fuck me, is that it?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Yes. Of course!”

His blunt honesty dumbfounded me momentarily, the way an oncoming headlight blinds you. Disoriented by his unabashed admission, I blurted out a rhetorical, “But why?”

“Why do you think?” he said. “Because that’s what men DO. We tell you what we want to hear so we can have sex with you.”

I wanted this to not be true, despite the fact that I believed it was. I should have hung up on him right then. But now I felt like I had stumbled upon a tunnel into a secret room where All The Questions would finally be answered truthfully. And I am a truth seeker.

“All men, all the time? Or just you, because seriously, you were relentless!”

“Oh, you were definitely work,” he said, “but I knew if I kept feeding you what you wanted to hear, I’d get you eventually. But yeah, all men, all the time. Married, single, whatever. We say what we have to say so we can get laid. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work.”

I needed air.

I cracked my car window open and the cry of cicadas suddenly filled my car in surround-sound. They were louder than usual, and harsher, as if their haunting vibrato was the audio manifestation of my inner despair.

I was in my car driving home from open school night when I had called him to tell him that no, we weren’t going to be seeing each other anymore and that I didn’t like the way his behavior had changed. That he had gone from months of constant dogged attention to a more disinterested and sporadic communication.

After we had sex, that is.

Now I was pulled over on an unknown street, my car idling in the dark. Up ahead, I could see the lights of the stores still open on Route 9, and I fought the intense urge to drive to a nearby 7-Eleven and buy cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in years, but suddenly I really, really needed one.

“So that whole first conversation we had, when we were on the phone for hours – was everything you said designed to get in my pants? I wasn’t even going to meet you, but you convinced me to have dinner with you that first night with all the shit you laid on me, about how women are emotional and sensitive and men need to be strong and supportive for them.”

“Yep. I knew that’s what you wanted to hear, so I said it. We had a great dinner didn’t we? We must have, because look where it led. I thought of it as an investment.”

“Dude, that is fucking cold! I mean, I’m jaded as fuck, but really?”


Fuck cigarettes. I needed tequila and opiates.

I said to him, “I don’t even want a relationship! Not a romantic relationship, but just friendship. So when I told you that I couldn’t commit to a relationship, but that I did want a man who would be there for me as a friend, you said you wanted to be that man just to fuck me?”

“Yep!” He laughed. “Why does this surprise you?’

I hated the way he sounded. Cold. Detached. The cruelty tingeing his voice gave him a hardness that didn’t even sound like the man I had spent time with.

“It doesn’t surprise me, ” I answered. “It’s just disappointing. Despite the fact that I think most people suck, I still want to believe that there might be a few decent human beings left. But this is exactly why I don’t get involved. This.”

“I thought you said you wanted to have this discussion in person,” he said. “Why don’t you come over?”

“Come over??!” I was aghast at his inane suggestion. “Because my kid is waiting for me at home, and also, I’d punch you in your face now if I came over!”

He chuckled. “I doubt that. How tall are you? I’m 6’4.”

“Are you drunk? You’re just shy of six feet! What, did you suddenly grow four-”

I stopped.
“Who is this??” I demanded.

“This is Michael. Who is this?”

I looked down at my phone.

I had dialed the wrong number.


Did you ever dial a wrong number and have a wake-up call?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 


Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. For real, I am NOT leaving my house!

missing-person-1 Continue Reading…


I grew up white in a black world, and my childhood was rife with turmoil.

I was an outcast, taunted and beat up. I was vilified because I dared to love the black boy upstairs. By the time I was 11, white people called me “nigger lover” and black people ostracized me.

I belonged nowhere.

We were together for years – until that one day in junior high school, white boys chased us down deserted train tracks. My screams for help echoed sharply off the metal rails, as they beat on his arms with a crow bar. Until one broke.

We were never together again.

We have kept track of each other our whole lives. The scar tissue around our hearts preserves a wary distance between us.

Still, I dream of being reunited with him someday.


The great love of my life before I got married was a dark brown man I spent many years with.

He was undeniably gorgeous. Far better looking than I was or will ever be. One evening, on an overcrowded D train, a young black woman screamed at me for daring to be with this beautiful man, ugly fucking white bitch that I was.

Trapped in that subway car, I had no escape. He tried to subdue her, but she only screamed louder, said uglier things. I folded into myself, rendered mute by her attack. I was ashamed of my skin color. Again.

I stared down, hot tears dripping into my lap.

We broke up soon after that.


My childhood in a black NYC housing project has left me with a paradoxical mix of emotions and loyalties.

Although I grew up fearful of being persecuted because of my white skin, I also developed a fierce allegiance towards African-Americans, an allegiance that informs how I live my life today.

I loathe racism.

When I drive into Newark for my community service project, and people remark, “I wouldn’t even park my car there,” I SEETHE.  They are not saying that based on statistical data on street crime in Newark, which may even indicate that car jackings happen frequently there.

They just mean, “Newark is full of black people.”


I was sexually assaulted twice in my life. Once at a college frat party, and once in a seedy New York shooting gallery. My personal mythology tells me that heroes and villains come in ALL colors; that an Ivy League white boy is just as likely to rape me as a black drug dealer, and you will NEVER convince me otherwise.


My painful memories are valid. But I have not spent my entire adulthood fearful that I will die for the color of my skin.

I have had several skirmishes with police over the years, more than I care to think about. Yet, I never had to worry THAT I MIGHT NOT MAKE IT HOME ALIVE.


Recent events have left me completely paralyzed in my ability to write anything.

This is not writer’s block. I have lost my belief in the power of the written word.

I’m plagued by the thought that not just my work, but all creative expression, is in vain when the world suffers such tragedy.

What do my stories even matter, in the face of these larger, horrific events?


I am an inner city project girl at heart. I have the fear, rage, defiance and survival instincts of a project girl, and always will.

And yet, I am undeniably WHITE. To even suggest that I understand what it means to live life in black skin is offensive. I was able to shed my project girl past.

And I am alive, largely due to the color of my skin, whereas most of the people I grew up with are dead today.


For weeks I have walked around uneasily, with a cold knot of fear in my stomach.

Everyone is ranting on, and no one is listening. People are quoting statistics as if it matters whether one, or one million, dead bodies lie on slabs.

The Civil War was caused by racism. And I know it’s going to happen again. Right here, on American soil, we will be a nation divided, and make no mistake about it –

There will be blood.


I’M SO ANGRY listening to self-aggrandizing politicians drone on about change.


I want to don army fatigues, dash into the fray like a warrior, and physically put my body in between black men and bullets; between policeman and bullets.

But I am a coward, just as I was 35 years ago, when I stopped loving the black boy upstairs.




The music of my childhood was 70’s R&B. I have loved and lived with dark skinned men. My first true love was black. My first best friend was black. The first house parties I attended were all black.

Black culture feels like home to me.

I’m going to get CRUCIFIED for saying that, because of my white privilege. How DARE I appreciate the positive aspects of a culture without suffering from oppression? If I talk about my love for rap music, dark-skinned men, soul food, cornrow braids – I’m appropriating a culture.

The world has become so divisive on the issue of race, I’m afraid of expressing my love of black culture. I feel shame, again, because of my white skin.

I am not entitled to love Black America because I am not willing to die for her.

Yet try as I might to deconstruct this, to make it more politically palatable, I cannot. I cannot stop loving black culture anymore than I can stop loving my son. It’s embedded in me on a cellular level.

No matter how angry it makes you, you can’t take that from me.


And so now I am finally AWAKE. And I will fight.

My weapons will be to speak out against anyone who says something racist and ignorant. I will forbid adults to spew their racist rhetoric in front of my child, ever.

I will speak out on social media, instead of hiding in desperate avoidance.

And I am moving my family out of this white washed, homogenous suburban neighborhood. I will raise my child in a culturally diverse neighborhood, because he deserves better than this.



I wrote this despite my overarching belief that right now, creative expression is useless.

I wrote this because until I did, I could write nothing else.

I wrote this because although I am afraid, I must do SOMETHING. And this is all I have.

I wrote this because I KNOW that fear is built into the racist society in which we live, and used to control ALL of us.

I wrote this because although I may not be racist, I enable racism EVERY DAY by participating in a racist society. 

I wrote this because maybe, MAYBE, someone else who has been asleep will awaken now, like I finally have.

I wrote this because despite all my fear, inaction and shame,

there is a speck of hope

for the possibility of change.


Click below if you’d like to hear my spoken word piece, “White Girl.”


Talk to me.
We all need desperately to start talking, and I’m REALLY listening. 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter

Samara In Tinderland

June 24, 2016 — 90 Comments

alice in tinderland

Tinder – lowering sexual standards since 2012.

Tinder is the fast food of online dating – quick, cheap, and temporarily curbs your hunger. Although I’m sure people have met their significant others on Tinder –  just given the sheer quantity using it – it has an undeniably sleazy quality to it.

No judgments here. I like the sleaze.

Tinder combines everything that is wrong with society – hook up culture, chatting with people without real interaction, the desire for instant gratification, making snap judgments, rejecting people solely upon their looks – into one convenient online shopping-type app!

A veritable smorgasbord of single (ha!) people! Swipe and go!


In a recent article that I made up, the CEO of Tinder argued that Tinder is a progressive social construct which gives legitimacy to the online dating phenomenon.

They left out the part where you don’t need to have even $5 in your pocket to leave the house and purchase a beer somewhere. Or the ability to hold even the most rudimentary of real-life conversations.

And yet, people everywhere are getting laid off this app. It’s the cyber version of grunting, clubbing a woman over the head, and dragging her back to your cave for hot troglodyte sex.

It’s also free. That gives you an idea of the financial status of many Tinderonis. I’m not saying it’s teeming with broke-ass motherfuckers, but apparently, I appeal to a great many of them.

Perhaps because I look kinda funky in my profile pics, and am holding a guitar in one, I attract a lot of artist-writer-musician types. No one should give up his dream. However, if you’re approaching 50 and your artsy dream doesn’t include being able to afford a studio apartment, perhaps it’s time to modify your dream? To one that includes a steady paycheck, and perhaps a dental plan because OMG are you kidding with those teeth?


There are men who actually open with gross sexual overtures, like “Hi! Spit, or swallow?” Oh, WOW, it’s like Sophie’s Choice, how can I make that decision?! I will probably want to do both, you suave devil, you!

Some men are either trying desperately to be quirky, or English is not their first language. I don’t want to meet “I’m half a camel, I once tipped a stripper in McNuggets.”

There are quite a few men with that “restraining order” look in their eyes. Their profiles tend to go something like, “BOOM! YOU BITCHES CAN’T HANDLE THIS. THE PARTY’S ALL UP IN HERE. POW!” (And other cartoon fight sounds. Kapow!)

I don’t understand what motivates someone to pose shirtless in a club, guzzling a bottle of vodka, with his arm around another chick. The 1995 rave called, it wants its sweaty chest picture back.

Some men put up only picture of their face, then FIVE pictures of random objects. Like, 5 car pics. Their profiles say things like “Love cars, weed, partying.” Fabulous! Let’s get stoned and DRIVE AROUND, SHALL WE? I would love to court death with a guy who describes himself as a “SWAGASAURUS.”


I may need to join a different online dating service, one that costs actual money to join and requires that you have reasonable proficiency with the use of your opposable thumbs.

I did meet a handsome, sweet, funny guy. He made me laugh, which is always a plus. I was about to give him my number when he asked me if he could tell me about a certain “fetish” he has.
I’m pretty open, so I was curious.

He has a “crush” fetish. DON’T GOOGLE THIS. YOU CANNOT UNSEE THIS.

There are two levels. Level 1 is getting turned on by insects and other invertebrates being crushed. Level 2 is getting sexually turned by small vertebrates, like kittens or bunny rabbits, getting crushed to death.

WTF? Is this Tinder, or an episode of Criminal Minds? That night I wept for humanity and slept with a Bible under my pillow.


There are so many bizarre encounters on Tinder…

…people MUST be using it for the entertainment. I know I do.

This dude is one of my favorites. His picture is from a Purina Puppy Chow ad. He loves to hold conversations with me that make ZERO sense. He rarely responds to anything I say, so I’ve just begun saying random things – to see if he’s even reading what I wrote.

I’m pretty sure he’s a bot.

tinder 3

Another man rambled on and on about what we would do, once we were a “couple,” despite the fact that we hadn’t even MET yet. Here’s an excerpt:

tinder 2

What a fun-filled night! Perhaps I’ll even get to squeeze a few of his blackheads!


Despite the fact that Tinder is yet another nail in the coffin of Western civilization,

it’s a fun app and I’m keeping it because hey – I’M on there, right? So it can’t be ALL bad.

Now I just need to find the male version of myself. Although, some might argue I’m already the male version of myself.

It might be the fast food of online dating, but I won’t deny that even I crave some Micky D’s once in a while.

Of course, McDonald’s won’t give you herpes…


Have you been on Tinder? Or other online dating services?
Did you meet your significant other that way? IS THERE HOPE? 

Talk to me. I’m listening. 


Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house.