For many survivors of sexual trauma, there is a clear before and after — and there is no going back. But that doesn’t mean healing isn’t possible.
Sally Elhennawy is a writer who explores themes of Queer love and desire in her poetry.
I grew up in Calgary, in a fairly fundamentalist religious household. I struggled to find balance between the ‘Western’ ideals of my friends and school, and the traditional teachings around purity and gender relations that were part and parcel of my family’s cultural belief system.
On our first beach day of the year, ceremoniously marking the beginning of summer in Vancouver, my best friend Aya and I made a celibacy pact.
Our world puts great emphasis on labels.
Hookups can feel like a minefield of potential awkward situations — do you head home at 2 a.m., or stick around for breakfast in the morning? Were they staring deep into your eyes out of basic courtesy, or is it… true love? Is it weird to ask to borrow their deodorant?
How to lean into your dark feminine energy. Don’t chase, attract.
A staggering number of you are having sex to The Weeknd, or at least claiming to enjoy having sex to The Weeknd.
It was a swelteringly hot day in 2009, and I was visiting Hotan, my mother’s hometown where I spent a great deal of my childhood.
One of my first hookups post-breakup was with a man recalled in my carnal canon only as Peanut Butter Guy, because of the unexplained jar of peanut butter he had on his bedroom floor.
For almost the entirety of my university career, the only constant in my love life — aside from proclaiming “I’m never downloading a dating app again!” and then doing exactly that — has been heartbreak.
Like many Gen-Z Queer masc people, Grindr has distorted my understanding of romance.
