As a child, I knew I would never marry. Even before I realised, at a tender young age, that I was a lesbian, I knew it wasn't for me. I knew that weddings happened in churches, weddings involved kissing a man, weddings involved a sea of quiet eyes focussed on you, weddings involved kissing a man in front of a sea of quiet eyes focused on you, weddings made you a boring grown
The late Middle Ages was a wonderful time for misandry in literature. Morgan le Fay tried to fuck shit up on many an occasion for her brother Arthur and his Round Table of dudebros; a devout laywoman named Margery Kempe went around graciously forgiving archbishops for being wrong and recorded this for future generations. We would all do well to follow their example. But novice misandrists need look no further than Geoffrey Chaucer’s
The Toast's previous coverage of trans* issues can be found here. Author's note: My husband has read, corrected, commented on, and supported this piece. I can't write his story, only my experiences. My husband and I didn't have a honeymoon. The closest we got was a trip to the southwest, ten months after our wedding, to a rented condo and a private hospital where he would have his second round of female-to-male surgery: hysterectomy, oophorectomy,…
"Oh, hello, Myrtle -- gosh, but it's been so long. It's lovely to see you again. What have y--" "Bitch, I got mine." "Myrtle?" "BITCH. I. GOT. MINE." "Oh, hello. I suppose you must have noticed that the three of us have got ours."…
