The Right to What?

by Jean Roberta

When I reached puberty, my father began warning me about “girls” (which in his vocabulary could mean females of any age) who “asked for trouble.” This was the kind of thing I was never supposed to do, because, presumably, if I “asked” for trouble, it would show up.

“Asking for trouble” could take a wide variety of forms: wearing clothes that were “too tight” or too revealing (all subject to the viewpoint of the observer), drinking or doing dope of any kind, swearing or discussing unladylike subjects, such as sex.

“Trouble” was equally vague, but ominous. The word always implied the righteous use of force by someone who was entitled to use it. Presumably, if I did, said or wore the wrong thing, I would lose the right to be treated with any respect. I could be grabbed, beaten, held in place, groped or raped by someone who assumed I deserved it.

Since then, there has been much discussion about rights, boundaries, respect, communication, and consent. Various analogies have been used to persuade potential rapists (masculine people) that sex must always be based on clear consent, and that it must be given each time; there is no such thing as “the kind of girl” who can always be punished or used with impunity (aside from clearly-negotiated BDSM relationships). I sometimes wonder if educational material based on a feminist concept of consent has much effect on an age-old credibility gap between those who feel entitled to dish out “trouble” (only when it is “asked for,” of course) and those who have reason to fear being seen as trouble-magnets.

A sense of entitlement can lead to all sorts of coercive behaviour. Years ago, I noticed that certain students (most of them male) felt entitled to negotiate with me for higher grades on assignments, and not to accept no for an answer. In most cases, these guys had a certain charm, and they smiled a lot. I came to suspect that their approach to me was parallel to their approach to the girls they dated, except that in each case, they were pushing for a different outcome.

For some people, “no” doesn’t sound like the end of a discussion; it sounds like a challenge. The concept of assertiveness (and guidebooks with instructions in how to practice it) probably arose in response to the sense of entitlement that goes with unequal power. The reason why assertiveness is not universally accepted is because it prevents someone else from getting what they feel entitled to have.

No one I’ve ever met has claimed to be in favour of “abuse,” however described. Of course not. That goes without saying. However, I’ve heard cringe-worthy conversations among other people of a certain age and income-level about how Group X (especially service workers in restaurants, stores, hotels and planes) should never say no to a customer, no matter what. The diner got roaring drunk and demanded to know why Grilled Rhinoceros is not on the menu? The server should apologize, and if asked, should fetch the manager to apologize again. The customer ruined an item of clothing, then brought it back to the store for a free replacement? The salesclerk should provide it, instantly. The customer is always right.

The customer is often much older and whiter than the service-provider. What a coincidence.

This attitude reminds me of the traditional heterosexual dating game, in which the Alpha or host is expected to pay for everything that costs money. Presumably, he’s not really paying for sexual service, but if he doesn’t get it, he feels entitled to complain that he has been misled, scammed, taken for a fool. Or he feels entitled to take what he thinks he has earned.

I would like to believe that a sense of entitlement is dying out of the culture at large as a sense of empathy rises like a tide. That’s what I would like. Alas, it’s not what I’m entitled to.
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God’s Gift

By Annabeth Leong

(CN: Harassment, self-harm)

“You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift, cuz you ain’t.”

The voice is strong and cruel enough to cut through the fog of my self-loathing and tear-soaked worry. I glance up and realize this thing has been said to me, by a guy standing on the porch of his building, just to my left off the sidewalk.

I’m too broken today, too lost and fragile, to do anything but nod mutely and keep walking, a little faster now.

I think back, replaying the last few moments and focusing on my surroundings instead of the thoughts inside my head. “Hey, beautiful,” he’d said, and I guess that must also have been directed at me, though I didn’t notice at the time.

I can piece the narrative together now. He “complimented” me, and I “ignored” him, so then he lashed out and insulted me.

Today, the insult strikes me deep. You ain’t God’s gift. You ain’t. You can’t just walk around.

I know. The cruel voice confirms what my heart was already telling me. Tears slip down my cheeks. This isn’t supposed to be a big deal. I’m supposed to walk this sort of harassment off. Maybe not even see it as harassment.

Today, I can’t. I can’t just walk around.

***

I’ve been thinking about cutting myself for about three months, toying with the thought the way I sometimes press at a scab or a bruise. It hurts, but I also can’t seem to quit that imagery.

It’s been more than a decade since I actually cut myself. I trust myself not to turn thought into action. I go to therapy. I’m so much more aware of how my brain works and what I can do about it.

Still, the thoughts have been ever-present lately. They’re wearing me down. I barely have energy to do anything. It feels like a miracle that I get dressed, that I eat. I know that not everyone can when their brain is working this way. I tell myself I’m lucky I’m so functional, that I can still work a little even though I miss all my deadlines.

I’m fighting with someone dear to me. I don’t want to share the details here, but the fight has turned nasty and impossible and deep. Nothing I do is right, no matter how hard I try to come up with something helpful. I can’t do what this person wants of me. They are telling me how hurt they are, and I feel like a villain. A villain who ought to go away. Who ain’t God’s gift to anything or anyone. Who ought to die, or at least be physically maimed. It can hurt so much when it feels like your insides don’t match your outsides. I want to hurt this body so my pain can show. You can’t just walk around.

Today, I feel so delicate, like a page that’s so old it’ll crumble if you breathe on it. I need to do something good, something safe. I ask my partner if I can meet them at the train station. I put on clothes and let myself out the door and start to walk there, partly because I’ve cried so much lately that I don’t feel I can see well enough to be a safe driver.

I try to keep it together, to look around at the world. I know it’s important for me to remember that things exist outside my brain. The sun still shines. The grass still gets overgrown. Whenever my attention slips, though, I’m back to the old, evil treadmill: Why can’t I fix things with this person? Why can’t I just do what they want? Why can’t I just be good enough? I want to hurt, I want to hurt, I want to hurt. I see the razor blade in my mind. I remember how I used it, those handful of times I crossed the line. What was going on when I did that? Was I finding courage or losing courage?

“You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift, cuz you ain’t.”

I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I know.

***

I’ve written essays about harassment before. I’ve written about the ways it makes me feel unsafe and exhausted. I’ve tried to explain how it isn’t a compliment even when it uses words that overlap with compliments.

But this is the worst I’ve been hurt by harassment that I can recall. This is worse than the time a guy groped and harassed me at my favorite movie theater, leaving me nervous about returning there to this day, despite knowing that’s illogical. This is worse than the time a guy interrupted me while I was trying to comfort my crying girlfriend, so he could hit on us. This is worse than the time a guy followed me with his car while I tried to run away, and I had to plunge through overgrown bushes to escape him, and then when I called the police later they asked me what I was doing walking on that road at that time of day.

The reason it hurt so badly, I think, was entitlement. Right then, I didn’t feel entitled to live, to breathe, to be in the world without being hurt. I needed a little entitlement. I needed it to be okay that I couldn’t satisfy the person I was fighting with, to see that I still deserved to exist and be loved even if I wasn’t what someone else wanted me to be.

If I had been walking around like I was God’s gift, that would have been a huge victory for me.

That insult, though… What that guy said to me was an effort to take down someone he saw as entitled. “You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift, cuz you ain’t.” What was I doing that seemed so entitled to him? Walking down the sidewalk? Breathing? Having breasts? Not responding to his demand for my attention?

I felt guilty, even, when I realized the insult (and the “compliment”) were for me. Had I hurt his feelings by being so lost in my depression?

I’ve learned enough now to know better than that, at least. That guy felt entitled to my attention. That was the entitlement. He said, “Hey, beautiful,” and thought I owed him something for that. I was supposed to look at him, at least, or say thank you, or somehow respond.

How dare I think I can walk past him without paying that tax of attention? Who said I had any right to get so caught up in my own thoughts that I wound up walking down the street without being available to every person around me? Who gave me the right to have my own mind, my own private problems, my misery when someone else wants me to be sexual and fun.

And I can’t help thinking these things go together a bit. I want to believe it’s okay for me to breathe, to walk, to be, to not always do what someone else wants. But I go outside, desperate and hurting, running to my partner for comfort, and get told, “You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift. Cuz you ain’t.”

I know.

***

(About a week after this happened to me, I found out about the new National Street Harassment Hotline. From the website:

A growing body of research shows that street harassment negatively impacts women emotionally. It can be traumatic for them, especially for survivors of sexual abuse. “Mild” street harassment can escalate into physical harassment without warning and many women and some men have an underlying fear that verbal harassment will become physical.

I would add that people of all genders can feel this way, and trans and nonbinary people can also be particularly vulnerable.

Anyway, if I’d known about this then, I probably would have called the number that day. I thought I’d leave this link here in case anyone else needs it.)

Who, Me, Entitled?

Sacchi Green

I’ve been puzzling over the difference between entitlement and privilege. I’ll look up definitions shortly, but first I’ll just do a little freestyle noodling around. Because I can. I’m entitled to.

I’ve been assuming, when I thought anything about it, that entitlement originally meant the benefits of being, literally, titled. Titles signifying levels of nobility, in the sense of class, not character, carry with them certain specific entitlements, or at least they used to. Of course “Droit du Seigneur” (or, alternately, “the right of first night") springs first to mind, especially dirty minds like mine; the right of the feudal Lord to have first dibs on the brides of his underlings. While this particular entitlement may be mythical—apparently there are no firm records of it actually being done, just references to a past when it used to be done but was outlawed by one king or another. Pretty much a case of nostalgia for the good old bad old days.  

Then there’s privilege. We’re often told these days to check our privilege. I understand that what’s meant is that we should admit that our privilege gives us un unfair advantage, and not judge others who don’t have the privilege that goes with being white, heterosexual (if in fact that’s how one identifies), male (not my problem), and having grown up in moderately comfortable circumstances, with a good education (guilty.) People with an inflated sense of entitlement tend to be that way because the privilege they may not even admit to allows them to feel worthy of the best things in life.

Moving on to actual definitions of the terms, ones source defines entitlement as:

:the condition of having a right to have, do, or get something

: the feeling or belief that you deserve to be given something (such as special privileges)

: a type of financial help provided by the government for members of a particular group.

Another source says:

1. The act or process of entitling.
2. The state of being entitled.
3. A government program that guarantees and provides benefits to a particular group: “like the Medicaid entitlement for the poor".

Hmm. I’m familiar with the governmental context for entitlement, almost always used in a negative sense, and almost always referring to government programs that benefit a particular group that is not one’s own particular group, rather like “special interests” always referring to somebody else’s interests, not the perfectly acceptable and patently justifiable interests of one’s own.

Another source has a definition of “privilege” that comes close to “entitlement”:

Privilege is a special right or advantage available only to a particular person or group of people. The term is commonly used in the context of social inequality, particularly in regard to age, disability, ethnic or racial category, gender, sexual orientation, religion and/or social class.

Further Googling turns up examples of entitlements that most would not see as negative, such as the right of a someone charged with a crime to confer with a lawyer and to be considered innocent until proven guilty (although that last part seems to be largely ignored), or the right to a publicly provided education through high school (although not necessarily as good an education as someone in a wealthier community might have.) These, along with Medicaid, Medicare, and Social Security are rights codified in law, which seems to be the major difference between entitlements and privileges. It turns out that entitlement and titles of nobility are only connected in that both are written down in law, not derived from each other as I thought.

Still, “entitlement” tends to evoke a knee-jerk negative reaction, whether in a political context or a social one. Having a sense of entitlement is frowned on in others, but unrecognized in oneself. Privilege is much the same. Perspective is everything. It’s even been reported (which doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s true) that some people who rail against government in general and entitlements in particular will say, in almost the same breath, “the government better keep it’s hands off my Social Security!” What’s really disturbing is that those people may be voting for the very politicians that are hell bent on getting rid of Social Security.

What’s also disturbing is the sneaking suspicion that my feeling of superiority over those people is a sign of my unexamined privilege. But at least it’s not entitlement, right?

Please Respect the Grieving

by Giselle Renarde

I wish I'd written this post when I was in a bad mood, because writing it now is going to destroy my good mood and I thoroughly enjoy a good mood.

As I've mentioned before, I grew up in an impoverished neighbourhood. Now I live in an affluent neighbourhood. Does that mean I'm rich? HAHAHA no. It means I moved here when the rental market was in the crapper. I got lucky.

When you transition from an area populated by poor people to one that's populated by rich people (many of them "old money"), you notice a lot of behavioural differences. I've lived here 12 years and I'm still shocked, constantly, by the arrogance and entitlement I see around me. I hope I'll always be shocked by it, because the moment I don't notice it I've become ONE OF THEM, god help me.

It's one thing for me to say people around here don't think rules apply to them--that doesn't exactly paint a picture. Let me paint you a picture. Let me use the local cemetery as my canvas.

I'm not a religious person (I'm not even a person with a religion), but I do believe we have a social responsibility to preserve the sanctity of spaces that possess a spiritual importance to a great many people.

The cemetery in my neighbourhood has a history of being used as somewhat of a public space, so you're going to find people jogging, cycling, (unicycling, practicing the bagpipes) along the pathways. I'm usually there to walk, although I often stop and say hello to a family friend whose memorial plaque is there.

For the first 130 years of this cemetery's existence, no dogs were permitted on the property. I need to restrain myself because I could easily rant about the exasperatingly entitled nature of the dog owners in my neighbourhood (who truly believe leash laws don't apply to their dogs), but despite their socio-economic heft I never imagined they'd get the cemetery to back down and changed the dog policy. As it now stands, leashed dogs are permitted within the grounds on paved pathways only.

Do you think that stops people from letting their dogs loose like this is some giant off-leash paradise? Or leading their pooches directly to convenient headstones and ENCOURAGING their pets to piss and shit all over graves?

The first time I witnessed this, I almost threw up. I was scandalized by the sheer disregard for what a final resting place represents--not just to the spirit or soul of the departed (if applicable--I don't know what goes on after death), but to the spirit AND the soul of the cemetery itself, not to mention the memory of that individual and the regard their living friends and family members still hold for them.

Is it really too much to ask people not to allow (much less encourage!) their dogs to shit on people's graves? Really?

I'm describing only the beginnings of the bad behaviour I see. A couple weeks ago it was a pair of fancy-ass cyclists in fancy-ass cycling outfits that probably cost more than I pay in rent. We're not talking about kids, here. Teenagers get a bad rap, but I don't want you thinking these were young people. The were grown-ass adults.

Anyway, I guess they're ready for a break so they hop off their bikes, smoke some pot and crank the tunes to full-blast on their awful tinny radio--all while leaning against a sign that reads: QUIET ZONE. PLEASE RESPECT THE GRIEVING.

I could go on. I could tell you about the jogger who spotted the lush green grass on one grave and decided that was the perfect place to take off his shirt and do a bunch of sit-ups. Lord Almighty, I apologize profusely any time I'm forced to step anywhere near someone's grave. Yes, I apologize to their spirit or soul or whatever it may be--out of respect. I can't imagine being the kind of person who does a goddamn exercise routine on someone's grave. You're not at the gym, asshole! This is a fucking cemetery!

Now I feel really complainy. I just see so much entitlement every time I leave the house (or look out my window) and I have this policy of being non-confrontational at the cemetery. My sisters call me a New Yorker because I'm always yelling at people on the street (it's not as crazy as it sounds--they're usually trying to run me over with their cars). I get very argumentative when I see people who lack the fundamentals of respect, but NOT losing my shit on strangers is my way of respecting the grieving.

Trust me, it ain't easy.

Entitlement Can Be Sexy

As an erotica author, there's ample ground for sexy fun with a character who has a sense of entitlement. Quite often, us erotica authors take that entitled character and put them through some punishment -- usually in the form of a spanking (promptly followed by a fucking).

Sometimes, though, it can be fun to let the entitled character get what they want. After all, they've developed that entitlement somehow -- likely through lived experience of getting exactly what they want.

The only time I've really explored entitlement in a character is through Ken in my five-part series, Go-Go Boys of Club 21. Ken and his buddies are go-go dancers in a hot NYC gay club. The series follow their sexual exploits both on and off the job.

Ken has long been my most favourite character I've written -- yes, he's cock and entitled, but he's also surprisingly sweet and a bit of a ditz.  While he doesn't get the comeuppance that happens often in erotica (the spanking), he does have his sense of entitlement shattered over the course of the series, primarily through the process of falling in love.  He learns that life is more about just him and what makes his dick feel good.

I thought that today I'd share a short scene from the Go-Go Boys. This is Ken's first scene in the first story, Bump and Grind. He's on his first break of the evening, having just danced up a storm and, Ken being who he is, finds himself horny and in need of a quick release.

(Heads up, there's gay sex in this.)

- - - - -

Break time.

The washroom door clatters closed behind me. I admire the hot asses packed in tight denim, lined up along the urinal wall like grocery store merchandise. I saunter to the lone empty urinal at the end, admiring. I’ll have a lick of that, a bite of him, and good God, I’ll bury my face in that one!

As tempting as each ass is, I’m not here to rim or fuck. No time for that and no way to clean up before going back out to dance. All I’m here to do is guzzle some fucker’s hot, salty cum.

I swivel on a heel as I stop at the final urinal and steal a glance at the cock beside me. It’s thick, semi hard, and has a fat, delicious vein snaking up the shaft. It unleashes a golden stream that splatters against porcelain. I look up at him and take in the rest of his gorgeous body. He’s all muscles and body hair and sweat; he is one hundred percent man—exactly what I lust for...except for his douchey ball cap, but I’ll let that slide.

He notices my stare of seduction and gives me the nod that says, “Game’s on.”

I recognize him from the dance floor. He knows how to use his body, how to move it in all the right ways. I’ve had my eye on him for most of the evening.

Around us, a symphony of flushes and footsteps fill the air, but neither one of us moves until the washroom empties out. Alone. Mmm.

Ball Cap finishes pissing, shakes his cock until it’s dry—and hard. Wide, not too long to take in my mouth, this is gonna be good.

I hook my shorts under my balls. My sac sticks out and pushes my hard prick upward. Now my to-be cum-donor’s stroking his rod, entranced as I let out a stream of piss.

A golden arc like half a McDonald’s “M” lingers in the air, reminding me of a particularly exciting hookup. When I’m done pissing, I shake it too, hand hard around my cock, enough to make it tingle. Ball Cap wants to make a move, but he’s holding back.

“Touch it,” I command. I back up half a step, angling my protrusion toward him.

He looks over his shoulder, checking that we’re alone. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he reaches out and grasps my cock. Poor boy is probably stunned that he gets to touch one of the go-go boys. We’re the stuff of dreams. His hand is warm and soft on my dick.

“You’re really great out there,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You’re so hot when you dance. I’ve watched you so many times.”

I reach out to tug his dick. He moans, closes his eyes. This is his fantasy, I can tell. I bet he’s beat of fifty times thinking of this very moment.

Leaning in close, I lick his earlobe and whisper, “It’s your lucky day.” No more watching and fantasizing. Time for real stuff. “I’d love to get a taste of you. Do you think you can feed me?”

He shudders. I lick down his jaw line and nibble at the skin on his collarbone. This boy definitely has pleasure points; he gasps, his knees wobble.

I grab his bicep—fuck, he’s jacked—and push him into a stall. He stumbles backward, crashing through the stall door, wood rattling and echoing. He falls ass-first on the toilet and I fall to my knees in front of him, slamming the door shut behind us.

The moment I set my lips on his cock head and slide it into my mouth, Ball Cap groans now like the animal that he is. I use a hand to stroke the base as I slurp the chubby length in like an uncooked noodle. He’s delicious. I suck in my cheeks so that every bob of my head pulls the skin of his cock up and down, making him harder, making him louder. He bucks his hips, tickling my throat with his stubby cock head.

He puts his hand on my head, pushing me down more, but I swat his hand away, gripping his thigh hard in punishment; I don’t let no fucker tell me how it’s done.

I just want his cum, and I’m gonna get it. I suck deeper, harder, fiercer, swallowing, suctioning like an Electrolux. His head’s wedged now in the back of my throat and I’m kissing his bushy pubes.

Time to finish him off. I bob lightning-quick and he loses his shit. Moaning, panting, grating, wailing like a fucking seventies porn star. It’s like I’m torturing him or something.

I have three options—tell him to shut the fuck up, gag him somehow, or just get him off faster. The third option is my favorite; it’s something I’m particularly good at. I press my lips together tighter and bob faster, pulling everything out of my cocksucking bag of tricks. I massage his nuts, squeezing and tugging them.

“Oh, fuck, yeah. Keep doing that. Fuck! Fuuck! Fuuuck!!” So he does know how to talk when the pants come off. But he follows it up with more of that stupid moaning of his. I give his balls a sharp tug—the littlest passive aggressive part of me wishing I was wrenching them off, and if there was some way I could talk with my mouth full, I would have told him, “Come on buddy, feed me your seed and shut the fuck up.”

He’s close. From years of sucking hundreds of cocks, I know when a guy is about to shoot. Fuck, this is the hottest part, wailing banshee recipient or not. I put my free hand on my cock and start to beat it.

Beneath my grip, his balls rise and hug closer to his body. I clamp my lips harder, creating a cum-tight seal. Ball Cap shouts like this is the Inquisition, then a salty geyser blasts against the back of my throat.

Mmm. Cum. Fuck yeah, I swallow him, filling my stomach with his juice.

The flood, the taste, the knowledge—it pushes me over the edge for the third time today. I beat my meat harder. I grunt around a mouthful of cock and my sac empties in thick shots that spatter Ball Cap’s shoes.

“You’re good,” he says, after I’ve sucked him dry and let his stub flop against his thigh. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

I chuckle and stand up. His eyes follow my crotch until it hangs limp and spent in front of his face. Before he gets any ideas, I pull my shorts up.

He stands, bringing his face close to mine, like he’s gonna fucking kiss me or something. “Do you want to grab a drink sometime? Maybe after your shift? We could go to my place—”

“It’s just a blow job, buddy, it ain’t a date.”

I open the stall door and push him out. These boys are all the same, thinking us go-go dancers are looking for dates. We live for the heat of the moment, nothing more. I grab some toilet paper, wipe my lips, then clean the mess on the floor.

Back to work.

- - - - -

If you'd like to read more, you can find Bump and Grind here, or you can find Go-Go Boys of Club 21: The Complete Series here.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.