I did a thing in ES Magazine about my poly life.
P.S. Yes, they got my name wrong. I’m not too fussed. I rather like being Stavvers.
After a half-assed tweet, they’be put it under my actual name, which umis also ace, as I rather like my IRL name. As a bonus, now when you google Zoe Stavri, you’ll probably get “five-in-a-bed romps”, which means I have a decent lawsuit against any potential employers who won’t interview me 
Remember how last week I begged you to vote for me in the RWL Awards in a rather undignified fashion? Well, you lot granted my wish and I actually won.
I’ll admit I’m shocked. My category was strong as fuck, and I never expected someone like me to win. I’m aware I’m scary and weird and basically blog about why everyone else is wrong except me, so I’m massively surprised that people are OK with that. That people actually agree with me, and appreciate what I’m doing. I honestly didn’t think that was the case. I expect what I do to make me unpopular, a lone howl of rage into the abyss.
I started blogging for me, and for me alone. To get the fury I feel at the world off my chest; to cathartically spit fire to save me from punching things that oughtn’t to be punched; to shout, however ineffectually, against the dominant narrative. I’ve never really expected anyone to be even moderately interested.
That you are, and that you support me means a lot to me. I can’t quite believe that anyone cares what I have to think, but I appreciate that you do. It’s been fucking bizarre for me, seeing this level of support, seeing what I can do to help in the tiny little way I can, shouting ever-so-slightly louder against the dominant narrative. I never expected this, and I couldn’t have done it without you listening to me.
So thank you. Thank you for listening and supporting, no matter how quietly. Thank you for making me feel like I’m not alone in my foul-mouthed anger. I’ll keep doing what I do no matter what, but it makes things so much easier knowing I have you all by my side.
Hello lovely readers. You’re ace, you are. Well, most of you. The ones who don’t hate-read it to get a creaking rage-boner, anyway.
Today, I’d like you all to do me a tiny weeny little favour that will take about five minutes. I’ve found myself nominated for an RWL Award, which is very exciting as I never get nominated for anything usually.
I’m in awesome company in my category, and probably wouldn’t mind if any of them won, but I’ve never won anything in my life, so obviously I’d really like it to be me.
Can you take two seconds to vote for me?
Pretty please?
Pretty please with an improbably large pile of dessert toppings on the top?
Voting closes at midday tomorrow, Tuesday 19th March.
Make me feel happy inside and toss me a vote!
<3 xoxoxo Zoe
ETA: How very rude of me not to give you a little something to sweeten the deal. As a thank-you, here is a high-res stream of some kittens. You’re welcome.
I’m on The Circled A show talking about sex and hierarchy with Donnacha DeLong and Laurie Penny. If you want to hear what my voice sounds like, now’s your chance.
I wrote a thing about Savile for the Indy, and how there’s nothing particularly remarkable about the case. Unfortunately, the mainstream media are a bit jumpy about putting certain things in, so there’s a paragraph missing. It provides some examples of rape apologism, and goes above the one about how silencing doesn’t come from speaking ill of the dead:
It’s hardly surprising, then, that information about Savile only came to light after his death: experience of rape is something that society trains people out of talking about. Take, for example, senior BBC executives explaining why they spiked the Newsnight episode detailing allegations against Savile saying “it was not the worst kind of sexual offences” or it was based on evidence from “just the women”. The former falls into a similar vein as Congressman Todd Akin’s comments about “legitimate rape”or Ken Clarke’s controversial “serious rape” comments. It suggests that some cases of sexual violence are less important, less pressing, and less important to be dealt with. The latter suggests that the word of the survivor is not to be believed, and contributes strongly to a culture which silences people from speaking up.
Also taken out was a reference to police officer Ryan Coleman-Farrow, who was imprisoned for actively foiling rape investigations.
Maria Miller’s abortion stance means she’s no friend to women
Not featured: fire.
Today is the last day of Armpits4August, where women grow their armpit hair throughout the month to raise money for Verity, a charity for people with polycystic ovary syndrome.
Before I continue, let me provide the obligatory link so you can donate.
As the month draws to a close, I’ve decided not to bother shaving it off again. I rather like it.
I always found it strange how leaving one’s armpits in their natural state could possibly be a political act. Thanks to patriarchal beauty standards, though, it is. Patriarchy and capitalism got drunk together one night and found a really good way of oppressing women while forcing them to shell out money on thoroughly unnecessary products. After that, they hugged, expressed their glee at being on the same page, then ended up awkwardly snogging until capitalism passed out snoring. The next morning, avoiding eye contact, they decided to pretend that the tonsil-hockey hadn’t happened, but the getting women to remove hair from their armpits was Definitely A Good Idea and they should totally do it. Unlike most drunken plans, they totally did it.
Growing up under this system, I started shaving my armpits the second hair started growing there. Maybe even a bit before, just because I thought I should. When the light went on and I realised how preposterous this was, I didn’t stop shaving, even though I knew I didn’t have to. It would always get to That Awful In Between Stage, like growing out a fringe. It was stubbly and awful, and it itched like fuck. So I’d shave it off again.
Armpits4August gave me the opportunity to finally force myself through that barrier. After a month of growth, I now have about half an inch of lovely fluff. I’d never even been able to gauge what it would look like, given my history of shaving. It turns out it’s soft and dark, with a little patch left bare where the joint is. You can see a photo here, and while you’re on the page you might as well sponsor me.
It’s no more or less trouble than shaving it off. It doesn’t smell, and it’s kind of fun to wash because you can shampoo it. When I sit in front of a fan, the breeze gently tickles the hair. But perhaps best of all, it’s a really good filter to identify arseholes.
Most people have been fairly positive about the whole armpit-hair growth. The majority of those who are less than enthusiastic are, at least, completely neutral to the whole thing, because it really is no big deal what anyone else does with their body. Nobody I’ve had sex with has run away screaming; it’s been greeted largely with, at best, an “I like that” and at worse complete indifference. This is because I tend to have sex with cool people.
I’ve only received a tiny bit of negative feedback. Some of it comes from trolls, who would still find reason to attack me if I lived their dreams and got married to Julian Assange at an EDL rally. The rest comes from sexist men, who are probably rather menaced by women not existing solely for their entertainment and amusement. In short, the negativity comes from people I don’t care much to know anyway.
And so I’m keeping my fluffy pits and it will be exciting to see what happens next. I’ll finish by saying DONATE DONATE! IT’S ALL FOR CHARITY!
