dolores666's photos with the keyword: SexualPolitics

Belated greetings card for International Women’s Day. Go for it, girls. Give ‘em hell!

Here be another of those noli me tangere lasses that erupt in my graphic world with comforting regularity. This one is particularly not to be messed with. You can debate with her, though. If your disputation is good & proper she’ll be well pleased and she’ll treat you to Belgian chocolates and one of the little wandering stars that dwell inside her cloak. On the other hand, if your arguing is of the “Russia done it because the Guardian says so” variety... well, good luck to your sorry ass, that’s all I can say; her hounds are relentless -they are terriers and nebulously related to the Cagnolitos of Tindalos, don’t you know. Please note that she’s not the kind of girl who shaves that which should not be shaved, but to make up for such defiant shamelessness (not to mention the fashion heresy) she has nothing else to hide, except for what she has in her hands, which she keeps well under wraps. A girl must have a secret or two, innit?

As I never tire of saying, good news are few and far between. So when there is some, we get inordinately excited and happy and we feel like having a picnic. This week’s good news is that after nearly three years of faffing about, that infamous epitome of dribbling evil, that paradigm of rancid misogynistic “masculinity” wot calls itself La Manada are finally in prison. Also, the offence has been upgraded from “sexual assault” to what it really was, a rape of the most vicious, revolting and unthinking kind. The sentence, too, has been upped from a measly 9 years to a merely insufficient 15 years. Call themselves The Pack? Animals don’t do to their females what these … things did to that poor girl. May they rot in jail and may they get served by some Neanderthalish fellow inmate as they did to her. Certain things are not to be forgiven. In fact, to forgive them is almost akin to condoning them. And that goes for you too, Mr. Bolton, Mr. Bannon, Mr. Johnson. Plague take you all!

This is for my nieces, the Terrible Twins, know at home as the morochas, which is what you call girl twins in Venezuela, where they were born. May they stay as groovy as ever and give the male species a good ticking off. Or an in-depth dressing down, whichever they fancy best.

Transgression is the new law. Edgy is the new norm. Submission is the new rebellion. Internalized masochism rules supreme. The New Doormat is the new heroine. McSex is best. All is topsy-turvy and “we’re loving it”. A recent(ish) survey on relationships in Spain amongst the 15/29 year olds revealed that a staggering average of 35% of women saw as perfectly normal/legit to have their boyfriends control their phones and social media. The ration of young males was even higher. I have no reason to expect that the picture this exposes is much better in our “enlightened” latitudes. Make of this what you will. Meanwhile, as a pre-anti-Valentine card & rant, here’s a modest offering to all the women out there who still refuse to bow down to the new orthodoxies. Keep the two insolent fingers at the ready, girls, lest you find yourselves, in a not-too-distant future, living in a reality that will make The Handmaid’s Tale look like a romantic picnic. Pregnant, barefoot and in the kitchen will be the least of your worries. elpais.com/politica/2015/01/27/actualidad/1422363044_535263.html elpais.com/diario/2008/06/16/sociedad/1213567206_850215.html www.girlguiding.org.uk/social-action-advocacy-and-campaigns/research/girls-attitudes-survey

Birds wrapped in a bubble of solipsistic love, in a Love Garden, observed with forensic amazement by another couple of birdies. Totally unrelated and certainly not intentionally, I nevertheless dedicate this ‘ere doodle to all the Spanish girls who have taken to the streets, blocked roads, disrupted public life and made a wonderful nuisance of themselves, today, 8th of March 2018, on International Women's Day. Thus I break a personal tradition of never doing "Days". Rules are made to be broken. Go for it, quillas! Tell ‘em what’s what! And remember the old song: A kick in the groin Can be quite detrimental Karate is a girl’s best friend. Didactic-pedantic note. Quillas. Plural of quilla, diminutive of chiquilla. Spanish for wee lass.

Here’s a lass who will never-everever need to add her name to any “#TimesApp” or “#MeToo!MeToo!” mob. She has her own interesting little ways of dealing with assholes. The baby Kraken keeps its musings to itself, unlike the philosophically inclined Black Sole, who is experiencing a fleeting spell of Noventayochismo*. (It’ll pass.) en.wiktionary.org/wiki/noventayochismo PS. The Baby Kraken is borrowed from some site with loads of free stuff. Just in case...:-) PPS. And so is the skull, btw.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue; never mind the sixpence in my shoe –for one thing, they don’t make them anymore. This is for Ursula K. Le Guin, who died peacefully in her bed a few days ago, aged 88, after a long life of dreaming and dreaming damned well. Ah, yes, the girl could dream like nobody’s business. So here is my tribute wot contains all the four ingredients for an alchemical marriage that happened a while back, when I was young and foolish and good Sci-Fi-starved. Borges said once that nobody likes owing anything to their contemporaries. This is, if it is at all, rubbish. We all owe lots of things to lots of people so it’s a waste of time liking the fact or not. Personally I rather owe to of my age group (or near-age group) that to some centuries old geezer whose ideas were dodgy to begin with but yet linger, and linger, and liiiiiiinger (oy vey!), instead of laying quietly in the intellectual elephant’s graveyard where they belong. In fact, for this modest loving homage, I’ve borrowed from myself, look, you! Bye bye, Ursy. Fare thee well, give my regards to the sub-atomic particles and see you soon(ish).

Young Oolaloo is introducing her latest offspring to its sisters (the Winged Worm is adopted). The kids are delighted but somewhat puzzled as to the nature of the new arrival, as is Oolaloo herself. She conjectures that the father might, just might, mind you, be that good-looking merman she met at a very nice party at the GorgoMormo’s; or perhaps that brilliant and forensically clever Deep One with whom she spend a grand weekend at the Mother Hydra B&B last time she visited her friends in Y'ha-nthlei. She’s not bothered, really. Determined to emulate the Shub-Niggurath in the family unplanning department and equally firm on the eugenics aspect of her endeavour, she chooses as different fathers for her children as she can, if always within the limits of her rather fussy and elitist taste in men, naturally. But as long as they are healthy, of good stock, bright and good looking and not totally psychotic, as far as she’s concerned they’ll do

This is a slightly less personal version of my very first wedding postcard, wot I did for a darling friend who's just got hitched. The Shoggies offer their version of this most bizarre of institutions, and we all wish the couple well.

Met Adelita, a young mother of the Bufo Truncatus, or Truncated Toad species, a variety of alien mutant amphibian that never develops beyond the last tadpole stage. The babies grow a pair of arms early in the life cycle although they remain, for many-many-many moons, very small –but by no means fragile, highly dependent on the mother, fiercely competitive for her attentions and ergo exceedingly quarrelsome. The females of this genus tend to avoid breeding like the plague and have emphatically and unequivocally declared that they intend to stick to that policy until the males of the species start taking on some of the burdens of parenthood. Quite. They also think that motherhood, irritating though it may be, at least they generally produce no more than half a dozen offspring at a time. Whereas the poor old Shub-Niggurath bread only once but got instantly stuck with a thousand Young. The abridged toadettes think that they have it comparatively easy, really. As they do, indeed