By : I grew up in a predominantly female family, more women than men. I’m Black and Puerto Rican (PR) and was raised by the PR side of my family. The women in my family were very intense—loving in their own way but intense. While I lived with my mother, she told me pretty much every single day: “Men are evil, never trust them,” which always felt wrong to me and fell hard in the pit of my stomach, making me upset. Eventually I grew old enough to finally stand up to her and say, “No, they are not,” and explain why. But that was many years later.
The women in my family were generous but militant; some more militant than others. I was raised to take no shit from anyone, ever, especially men. I was raised not to cry, as that was a sign of weakness: never let anyone see you cry or flinch. Someone meets you with a challenge, you meet them head on—whether you’re going to win or not doesn’t matter—just make sure you do as much damage as you can if you’re on your way down.
One aunt in particular, whom I ended up living with until adult legal age, molded my views on life and men the most. I was raised to clean the five-level home for white-glove inspection; I was put on the pill at 16 even though I wasn’t sexually active because “just in case”; I was taught to be ready in five minutes at her whim if she wanted to go somewhere. You get hit, you don’t block the hits; otherwise, you get hit harder—I’m sure this is not a new story for many readers. The women in my family were the enforcers of discipline, cold and hard towards feelings. The only acceptable feeling to share was anger. The consensus among the women in my family was never get too close to a man, never let him into your heart because that meant danger. They also taught us to never get too close to women, as they are backstabbers. So, trust no one. Stand alone and you’ll survive.
Then there were the men in my family. They brought the calm. They brought the fun, the relaxation, the “it’s okay to cry, everything is going to be all right.”
They broke the intensity with nurturing and play and adventure. I was in awe of them, totally fascinated with everything they had to say. They joked around, they weren’t always serious, they told stories that brought you into a world of wonder, they were relaxed and knew things would get done without cracking the whip. If they had to be stern, they were so without yelling or being verbally or physically abusive. When they were serious, you listened, and if they raised their voice even a little, you got to it.
It was a very conflicting way to be raised. I always knew that when my mom and other women talked badly about men, it wasn’t right. But then, with this negativity being so consistent over time, a part of me started to believe it. I hated being called a princess. I finally told someone who called me their princess that “I’m not a princess, I’m a warrior.” The women in my family were raised to be warriors, and they passed that way of being down to their girls. We would listen to their stories: they had the reputation of never being fucked with; everyone learned not to mess with them. They told us how they prepared for fighting. Some of you, if you were raised in Black or Latino families, already know the drill: Vaseline on the face, earrings off, hair braided back, or if you left your hair unbraided, you slid razor blades through it for the unlucky woman who tried to grab you by the hair. They grew up in the tough neighborhoods of Manhattan; it was do or die. So to them, they were just preparing us to survive.
They had grown out of the fighting long ago, however, and worked hard to become successful, always carrying themselves with class and self-respect. I look back and do not blame them; they had very tough lives and what they shared was better than what they knew. They made sure we had everything we needed and wanted. (My generation has to remember not to blame our parents/guardians; they did their best and they were teaching us how to survive. Now we need to remember that it’s time to teach our children beyond how to survive. Survival is essential, as is moving into a society of co-operation instead of survival-based tactics. I share my family story not to condemn them but to show where my feminism sprouted from.) I share my history to show my own process and learning, not to shame my family; they did their best to always support and love me and they’ve softened a lot over the years. I’m just pointing out who the disciplinarians were in my family—the women—and they were really strict.
What I found confusing as I grew older and took on the title of “feminist” was when we would all gather as a family. The women would cook and clean up at these gatherings while the men would relax and be catered to. I noticed it in other areas too. The women would do the household laundry, iron their husbands’ shirts, etc. These women who taught me war were kowtowing to their men—what was this? They agreed that the man was the head of the household; the woman had her say and would plan and create many things, but the man had the final say. This started to piss me off. For now I was a feminist, and how dare a woman do things for a man, ever! It’s not like they were housewives (this was my mentality), they were college graduates, teachers, business owners—so what the hell? They taught us girls to treat men like kings but never let them close to our hearts. What a jumbled cluster-fuck.
I entered the dating world and sex. Wow, how delicious! I started to explore and found myself to be quite the dominatrix. I started to research more about it: the toys, the experience, the expression, the fun. Then came college. Then I became a stripper and professional dominatrix. After my short and very expensive college adventure, I became an escort.
In these jobs, I had deep interactions with men on many levels. In the strip club, in the bedroom, in the dungeon, men would open up to me with such deep levels of trust. They would share things with me they did not feel comfortable sharing with their wives/girlfriends or even friends. As a Dom, I had men coming to explore their fantasies with me that otherwise would jeopardize their lives and families if expressed to their wives. Businessmen who had to be the boss all the damn time came to surrender and let someone else do the work. Coming to a Dom, you surrender to the pleasure and just relax and trust. (Of course, you have to be safe and pick a true Dom, but that’s another article.)
As a stripper, I would entertain men who had come to party, but also to vent. Men would talk to me and just share. I’ve had many men shed tears on my shoulder and tell me their pain, their stress. Men would come in with their buddy, trying to cheer him up after a heartbreak. When we saw a guy really torn up, a couple of other dancers and I would give him a free dance or two and buy him a drink or a shot and bash the crap out of the girl who had just broken his heart. It would put us in a rage to see these guys so hurt, and we did our best to cheer them up with lots of boobs in the face. Men being silly, fun, hilarious, partying. Having fun with us and being a hot mess with us, getting drunk, puking and drinking some more, knowing we, the strippers, would never judge. Some would get turned on and take that energy home to their girlfriends and wives, and some would come in with their girlfriend(s) and wives.
As an escort, I experienced men who were always amazing with me, always gentle, and we talked a lot. Again, so much sharing and they always wished me well. I never had bad experiences as an escort or a Dom. But I was also very clear that it’s what I wanted to do, not what I had to do.
As a Dom, I learned from men about how they hired women online who were masquerading as dominatrices but were really just abusive, shitty women trying to make a quick buck who left these men with either physical or emotional scars, or both. This enraged me so much, these abusers running around hurting men (and women) and calling it BDSM, making the rest of us look bad. A true Dom does not hate men.
During my years as a stripper, it was quite a roller coaster relating with men. My awe of men turned into a total excitement of men. I remember my first club in Vegas, The Library. You could do a shower show behind the bar topless and you would be able to work for free that night and walk around for tips. One of the first lap dances I did there was with a businessman. Now, I had been dancing for a couple of years by then, and the businessmen never seemed to break their personae. I remember watching TV and always seeing these businessmen in suits being promoted as the ultimate man and the serious man, very stoic. I would see them walking around and just thought, “Whoa, those guys are intense, so serious.” So, I’m dancing for this guy and I start standing up and turn around and he has this big smile on his face and his cock in his hand. Ha! Now, to paint this scenario, his smile was so adorable, mischievous, and playful, as if to say, “Ta da!” that I just smiled and said, “You’re going to get me in trouble, plus you don’t want to get caught by a bouncer.” He shrugged, smiled, and put his cock in his pants. I gave him a good lap dance and we had a good laugh about. I remember going into the dressing room and laughing, I was so amused! How freakin’ cool! I’m not the only horndog in the world! Wow, businessmen aren’t so unapproachable after all, men are pretty damn fun and not so serious, and sexual expression really is okay. I had been feeling for so long as if something was wrong with me because I was so sexual. I had finally found a place where my sexuality was not abnormal, where I could share my sexual expression and not be treated like a freak or be given dirty looks by women.
The world of sex work became a safe place for me to be sexual, and men helped to support it. Thank fucking goodness! Meanwhile, women were grabbing their pitchforks and couldn’t stand strippers and sex workers, but why? Strippers would encourage men to go out, have fun, have sex, party. When men came in complaining about the woman they were dating, we gave them advice and let them know when it was time to run from the situation. What these girlfriends didn’t know is that men also came in for advice on how to work through a tough spot in a relationship. On more than one occasion, a guy would come back and say thank you because something that I had shared with him helped. Oh, but evil strippers! How dare men be told they have options!
Feminists were going back and forth between hating us and loving us. The only way they could wrap their minds around what we did was by claiming that we were taking advantage of men. Which, to us, was bullshit. We’re entertainers, so thank you, feminists, for saying our form of entertainment is so invaluable!! You pay for theater? This is naked small-time theater, and many of us work hard on our dancing, pole work, and walking around in eight-inch heels. We paid the club each night anywhere from $25 to $75 to work. Our jobs are so worthless? Okay, fembots, you come out and do it then. You wouldn’t make it. Not to mention the extremely territorial ways of the strippers we worked with: the cat fights, the vindictive head games, the stealing. We had some good times among us, but more often than not it was cut-throat. Who sat on another stripper’s regular customer, who stole someone’s makeup, who spilled someone’s drink—fights were frequent. Then we would occasionally get the girls in for amateur night—what a mess that was. One would always get too drunk, say something demeaning to a stripper, and weaves would go flying. Or there was always the “cry baby” who came in thinking she would become a big girl by showing her who-ha or tits and then realize what she was doing and realize that she was not okay with it and then would run off crying … but I digress.
There were years in which, through my own unconscious actions, I co-created messed-up relationships with men, but I was not ready to own my part in it. It turned from pain to hatred. I became the stereotypical “bitter stripper.” I worked for seven years with Greg Ehmka doing intention work and emotional clearing, which greatly helped me raise my levels of self-responsibility. I recognized that the higher my levels of self-responsibility climbed, the happier I was! Minimizing victim, maximizing happiness! I was able to see how my own plunge into chaos pulled people into my life to help me learn and be present with my own growth and how each relationship really was a gift. I was able to heal the hatred I had projected onto men, experience the pain that was present, and get to the real love I had for men. I had thought before that I loved men but realized I had put men on a broken pedestal. Damned if they did, damned if they didn’t, and how dare they be human and not perfect.
As a sex worker, I saw the difference between the way men acted with me—free, happy, relaxed—and how they walked around in daily life. To me, men seemed so caged, walking around so restricted by those who wouldn’t let men just be men; men not being allowed to be. But I wasn’t fully aware of who was supporting it. Society, sure, but it was still lost on me as to who was actually responsible for upholding this.
After my healing experience, I started to think about writing a book to “empower” men. It was to be a book on men’s cocks and bodies—we never see men’s cocks and they are always expressed as a weapon, as if having a penis made a man dangerous. My friend came up with the title “Cock Consciousness.” And so the concept was born.
When I was in San Diego a couple of years back, I was researching some more and came across the NCFM-National Coalition For Men website. I called up and Harry answered, and I told him about “Cock Consciousness.” He graciously met up with me and was so very kind. I remember he was amused by the fact that I was a dominatrix looking to write a book about men, lol. He gave me reading material and the book Loving Men, Respecting Women by Tim Goldich (which I’m restarting to read now that I’m not a feminist and it is amazing!!). I told him that my book was about empowering men. He questioned what exactly I meant by this, as the word “empowering” doesn’t mean what it sounds like it means. I can’t remember his exact wording, but I think the concept was that people use that word a lot to say they are “helping” men when they really aren’t. The meeting was great and helped me think more about what my goal was for the book.
I started a survey and a website to enlist male volunteers to anonymously share photos of their bodies and cocks, which meant a photo from the neck down. The survey was a ridiculous 100-plus questions long. Destin Gerek (The Erotic Rockstar) was generously in conversation with me at the time. He suggested that about 10 questions maximum or less was best and then recommended reading as well. He also mentioned how he would do the photo but preferred not to have his head lopped off. This made me think some more too. Why just make it about men’s bodies? It should be the full-expression face as well.
I took a few years away from the book, just at a total loss as to what its purpose was. I realized to “empower men” was just another way of telling men what to do, and I didn’t want to do that. I was upset because I kept hearing of men’s experiences and feeling so at a loss that if I could just get this damn book together, maybe I could help somewhat. But I couldn’t figure it out.
I had issues with feminism in my early twenties (I’m 31) and was about to walk away from it after an online discussion that was just pure man-hating when another feminist said, “No, we’re not all like that, don’t give up.” For over a decade I held on to that, hoping I would somehow change feminism by holding on to that mantra.
Still, with the book on my mind but feeling clueless as how to start, I joined some online groups and discussions. I started to realize that with my experience, I could teach people how to embrace their authentic sexuality. With over 13 years of experience with sexuality and spirituality (and learning self-responsibility), it was time to teach people this and focus on sharing my life coaching (enter shameless self-promo).
Well, the world of life coaching and spirituality is soaked in the shaming of men. It’s all “goddess bullshit this” and “goddess bullshit that” and “women who want to be treated like a goddess.” (I’m very much aligned with goddess beliefs; HOWEVER, I am ALSO very much aligned with god beliefs.) These circles talk about the Divine Feminine but ignore the Divine Masculine. (I loved listening to the Honey Badger Brigade talk about this!) So, when I was in one of the groups listening to these women talking about men’s penises and making shaming remarks, I couldn’t take the stupidity anymore and realized I couldn’t wait until I wrote the book to stand up and say something.
So I created the Facebook page “Cock Consciousness.” Now I just had to fill it … derp. I googled “loving men,” but all the links were how men could love women! I searched “supporting men,” and the results were all still about what men could do to support women. There was nothing geared towards what men needed. I kept digging. Not sure how, but I came across A Voice for Men. Now, mind you, I was still very much a feminist. I was wanting to step away from feminism but just wasn’t sure where to put my energy—equalism? humanism? When I found AVfM, I was still very much entitled. I called myself a feminist, and oh boy, shit hit the fan. I shared my “Cock Consciousness” link. At AVfM, I met some commenters who wanted to give me the benefit of the doubt but were skeptical and others who were just not having it at all. I was confronted with “How can you say you love men and call yourself a feminist?” There was much lashing out between us. I joined a men’s group but was shortly after kicked out—no surprise, again, still a feminist and had all the feminist armoring that came with it.
I took what these men said into account: Why was I still hanging on to feminism? Did I really think my own words would change the truth of what feminism actually was and what it had done to men and continues to do to men?
So I stopped calling myself a feminist and started calling myself a human rights activist. Meanwhile, this process was all terrifying as shit. I had finally denounced feminism and started to share some articles I had encountered online, and feminists were pretty pissed and lashed out. Meanwhile, I created a “Cock Consciousness” group online for men to share their bodies and voices uncensored. There, a feminist came in with sneaky hatred until she erupted, and I was told by a few feminists what a traitor I was and how I knew nothing of the goddess and how fucked up and delusional I was. The men in the group, so sweet, were concerned that I was too harsh with her. I assured them I wasn’t and that she was being devious and sneaky.
This was a really intense process. All that I understood to be real was very intensely placed in my face as total and utter horseshit. I was so shaken by all of this that I was sick to my stomach pretty much every day, and my insomnia kicked in because I was so shocked. In life coaching, we call this a “death process,” death of identity. And, holy shit, did my identity get kicked in the face! A terrifying experience, but that is growth and that’s how you wake up. More terrifying than identity death process are the horrors you support by staying asleep. I had no idea how asleep I really had been, and it scared the shit out of me. Here I was thinking I had taken such a stand for equality—what a deep lie that was; I was completely oblivious to how deep this attack on men went.
Meanwhile, back at the same thread on AVfM that I had shared “Cock Consciousness,” another commenter had said, “We’re not just our cocks.” Which made me think about the title I was using. Another commenter said I had rage-quited. I came back with “I’m not going anywhere! I came here to get information on how to help men and damn it I’m going anywhere without it” … again, more fem armoring. I kept asking for help and clarification on what patriarchy meant or didn’t mean; I was completely confused. However, how entitled was that? Just more of me saying, “Men, do the work for me” and not digging myself. As I was commenting on AVfM, the site became a sanctuary for me after every debate I had with a feminist; it became a well of sanity, as did NCFM, even though at first I was still very unconscious with my comments.
This process was roughly two very intense weeks. I had started to shift my view on society and misunderstandings about society quite a bit. A Honey Badger said that I, too, was a Honey Badger, but I was in no way going to support a movement that was called a Men’s Rights Movement. I had spent my life being duped by the so-called Women’s Rights Movement and had lost all trust in any gender-specific group. I would only call myself a Human Rights Activist. She shared how she, too, was a Human Rights Activist and that was exactly why she was a part of the Men’s Rights Movement. I wasn’t at the point where I could understand what she meant.
I started to research the Human’s Rights Movement but found they, too, were just an extension of feminism. Domestic violence was fixed solely under the “women” section. What the hell? So, I turned my attention back to the Men’s Rights Movement. I was listening intently to what the men and women were sharing, but I still wasn’t sure. And I really was still confused on the patriarchy not being real. What world am I in? Everything I thought was real was revealing itself to be … not real and, worse, intentional lies.
So I began to dig. I read many articles on AVfM and finally came across Karen Straughan. This is the video that gave me the final push to wake the fuck up: “Feminism and the Disposable Male.”
There was no turning back from that information, and with everything that I had been researching and reading and the small glimpses I had had throughout my life, this was it, this is what I was looking for. Holy shit. I started to watch more MRA videos and get involved with more debates with feminists who were just downright nasty. I’ll never forget the first time I was called a misogynist. It was as if my voice was choked in my throat. The fembot had completely shut out every statistic I presented, every logical discussion I had brought forth with “You’re a misogynist.” I said, “I’m a woman.” “Well, women can be misogynists too.” Holy fuck. This is what men feel when their voices are silenced. I had just entered the world of “Your voice is shit.” I was sad that these women I had spent my life standing by, my so-called sisters, would not hear my voice or my call for them to wake up. But the sadness didn’t last very long; it was replaced with a deep rage. Oh yeah? I’m a “misogynist”? Well, now I’m going to be the loudest “misogynist” you’ve ever fucking heard. I started calling them every foul thing I could think of. Poking them every chance I got. You don’t want to hear me? I’ll make you listen. And this is why I have so very much space for the anger of men. At the time, I had only just experienced this feeling of my voice being shut up—how the fuck did men deal with this shit their whole lives? Yes, very much me waking up to my privilege as a woman and my entitlement.
I started to see that I didn’t live in a world filled with “misogynists.” The world suddenly felt safer. I really did live in fear of rape all the damn time as a feminist. I feared travel, I feared every damn thing! I lived in a terrifying world that I had no idea I had subscribed to! I remember reading a comment on AVfM about a man proposing to get rid of the “women and children first” policy aboard ships and instead make it “children and pregnant women first, then everyone else, first-come first-serve” and that would then be equality, when women were not treated as children. I let that sink in … it scared the shit out of me! The fact that it scared me shocked me even more, holy fucking entitlement! Whoa, I was being opened to the levels of my deep-seated feeling of superiority that I had thought I had rid myself of. I wouldn’t be put first? I would have to face the fact of my child living without me? Of course, yes, this is all very hypothetical, but it brought a very powerful awareness to me to the point of terrifying me that whole damn day. I felt sick to my stomach again. Holy shit, I would face the possibility of death? I was always against the draft and I don’t think it should exist, but then I started to think about how men must feel to HAVE to sign up for this. What it would feel like to leave my child behind; there are fathers who have no choice but to leave their children behind, men who are not fathers who barely lived their life but have to go face death to save their country. Or sign up with the promise of help for school. These men with no help from the government to pay for college because they are men have to look death in the face for the chance of an education if they live? WHAT THE FUCK?! And how privileged is that, I experienced this horror for a day! Men GROW UP with this! Fuck, the world is shitty to men. I guarantee that if the draft were necessary for all genders, we would not have a draft! Women treated as disposable? Don’t think they would like the taste of that very much, as they never have had to know the feeling. But men do; men are raised with that horror story.
From there on, I was very clear that I was a Honey Badger—an endearing term for female MRAs. I do all I can as an MRA to spread the word of the Men’s Rights Movement.
I have a vlog on YouTube, a blog, and I also have an article published on NCFM: “Feminism Is Responsible for the Rape of Women” under the name Vivica Liqueur, which I used until recently.
Feminism has created a system of superiority that brought nothing but damage after the first wave (which emulated the women’s rights movement before it), one that is so engrained in women that many are clueless and unconscious as to how deeply infected they are with the epidemic of female entitlement and superiority. The female victim is the most dangerous perpetrator alive, and feminism does all in its power to hide her. Enough. You want equality? Then grow up, princess, and prove it.
Once in a while I’ll toss around a “debate” with a fembot; however, I’m working on focusing more on men’s rights issues that need to be acknowledged. Our society treats men as if they are inherently dangerous criminals just for being born male; this is the misandry that boys are raised with, and sadly they begin to believe they have no worth and their voices don’t matter. Men are told to shut up and be “polite” if they want to be heard. Men can say speak whenever the hell they damn well please; they don’t need my permission or any other woman’s permission to do so. We’ve listened to the voice of women for so long, completely uncensored, and men must be heard equally uncensored for us to move forward.
The MRM is the voice that is missing in our society. To deny the voice of men as vital, to shame men, to treat men as disposable, to treat a boy as if he is less than the girl sitting next to him is pure hatred, and any movement that supports that—feminism—is a hate movement.
A lot of my rage was self-anger for allowing myself to be so unconscious towards men for so long. Awful. But I’m awake now, red pill swallowed.
As for “Cock Consciousness,” I changed the name to “Loving & Celebrating Men” after listening to men feel uncomfortable with the original title. And indeed the original title did not express my intention clearly. How can I write a book including men if I don’t listen to their feedback? So, although I struggled with letting go of the original title, I’m glad I did.
I’m currently researching and reading to write the book itself, since I finally know what it’s about. Men don’t need to change, they are just fine, amazing, and beautiful just the way they are. The world stopped loving men a long time ago and definitely stopped celebrating men; it’s not men who need to change, it’s how the world views and treats men that needs to evolve.
In order to really love men, you must stand up for their rights; otherwise, you’re just telling yourself a lie, like I did for so long. You can’t be a feminist and love men—it’s not possible unless you lie to yourself. I, for one, will take the face-slapping truth over a sugar-coated mirage any damn day.
You hungry for truth? Dine on the red pill.
Source
The women in my family were generous but militant; some more militant than others. I was raised to take no shit from anyone, ever, especially men. I was raised not to cry, as that was a sign of weakness: never let anyone see you cry or flinch. Someone meets you with a challenge, you meet them head on—whether you’re going to win or not doesn’t matter—just make sure you do as much damage as you can if you’re on your way down.One aunt in particular, whom I ended up living with until adult legal age, molded my views on life and men the most. I was raised to clean the five-level home for white-glove inspection; I was put on the pill at 16 even though I wasn’t sexually active because “just in case”; I was taught to be ready in five minutes at her whim if she wanted to go somewhere. You get hit, you don’t block the hits; otherwise, you get hit harder—I’m sure this is not a new story for many readers. The women in my family were the enforcers of discipline, cold and hard towards feelings. The only acceptable feeling to share was anger. The consensus among the women in my family was never get too close to a man, never let him into your heart because that meant danger. They also taught us to never get too close to women, as they are backstabbers. So, trust no one. Stand alone and you’ll survive.
Then there were the men in my family. They brought the calm. They brought the fun, the relaxation, the “it’s okay to cry, everything is going to be all right.”
They broke the intensity with nurturing and play and adventure. I was in awe of them, totally fascinated with everything they had to say. They joked around, they weren’t always serious, they told stories that brought you into a world of wonder, they were relaxed and knew things would get done without cracking the whip. If they had to be stern, they were so without yelling or being verbally or physically abusive. When they were serious, you listened, and if they raised their voice even a little, you got to it.
It was a very conflicting way to be raised. I always knew that when my mom and other women talked badly about men, it wasn’t right. But then, with this negativity being so consistent over time, a part of me started to believe it. I hated being called a princess. I finally told someone who called me their princess that “I’m not a princess, I’m a warrior.” The women in my family were raised to be warriors, and they passed that way of being down to their girls. We would listen to their stories: they had the reputation of never being fucked with; everyone learned not to mess with them. They told us how they prepared for fighting. Some of you, if you were raised in Black or Latino families, already know the drill: Vaseline on the face, earrings off, hair braided back, or if you left your hair unbraided, you slid razor blades through it for the unlucky woman who tried to grab you by the hair. They grew up in the tough neighborhoods of Manhattan; it was do or die. So to them, they were just preparing us to survive.
They had grown out of the fighting long ago, however, and worked hard to become successful, always carrying themselves with class and self-respect. I look back and do not blame them; they had very tough lives and what they shared was better than what they knew. They made sure we had everything we needed and wanted. (My generation has to remember not to blame our parents/guardians; they did their best and they were teaching us how to survive. Now we need to remember that it’s time to teach our children beyond how to survive. Survival is essential, as is moving into a society of co-operation instead of survival-based tactics. I share my family story not to condemn them but to show where my feminism sprouted from.) I share my history to show my own process and learning, not to shame my family; they did their best to always support and love me and they’ve softened a lot over the years. I’m just pointing out who the disciplinarians were in my family—the women—and they were really strict.
What I found confusing as I grew older and took on the title of “feminist” was when we would all gather as a family. The women would cook and clean up at these gatherings while the men would relax and be catered to. I noticed it in other areas too. The women would do the household laundry, iron their husbands’ shirts, etc. These women who taught me war were kowtowing to their men—what was this? They agreed that the man was the head of the household; the woman had her say and would plan and create many things, but the man had the final say. This started to piss me off. For now I was a feminist, and how dare a woman do things for a man, ever! It’s not like they were housewives (this was my mentality), they were college graduates, teachers, business owners—so what the hell? They taught us girls to treat men like kings but never let them close to our hearts. What a jumbled cluster-fuck.
I entered the dating world and sex. Wow, how delicious! I started to explore and found myself to be quite the dominatrix. I started to research more about it: the toys, the experience, the expression, the fun. Then came college. Then I became a stripper and professional dominatrix. After my short and very expensive college adventure, I became an escort.
In these jobs, I had deep interactions with men on many levels. In the strip club, in the bedroom, in the dungeon, men would open up to me with such deep levels of trust. They would share things with me they did not feel comfortable sharing with their wives/girlfriends or even friends. As a Dom, I had men coming to explore their fantasies with me that otherwise would jeopardize their lives and families if expressed to their wives. Businessmen who had to be the boss all the damn time came to surrender and let someone else do the work. Coming to a Dom, you surrender to the pleasure and just relax and trust. (Of course, you have to be safe and pick a true Dom, but that’s another article.)
As a stripper, I would entertain men who had come to party, but also to vent. Men would talk to me and just share. I’ve had many men shed tears on my shoulder and tell me their pain, their stress. Men would come in with their buddy, trying to cheer him up after a heartbreak. When we saw a guy really torn up, a couple of other dancers and I would give him a free dance or two and buy him a drink or a shot and bash the crap out of the girl who had just broken his heart. It would put us in a rage to see these guys so hurt, and we did our best to cheer them up with lots of boobs in the face. Men being silly, fun, hilarious, partying. Having fun with us and being a hot mess with us, getting drunk, puking and drinking some more, knowing we, the strippers, would never judge. Some would get turned on and take that energy home to their girlfriends and wives, and some would come in with their girlfriend(s) and wives.
As an escort, I experienced men who were always amazing with me, always gentle, and we talked a lot. Again, so much sharing and they always wished me well. I never had bad experiences as an escort or a Dom. But I was also very clear that it’s what I wanted to do, not what I had to do.
As a Dom, I learned from men about how they hired women online who were masquerading as dominatrices but were really just abusive, shitty women trying to make a quick buck who left these men with either physical or emotional scars, or both. This enraged me so much, these abusers running around hurting men (and women) and calling it BDSM, making the rest of us look bad. A true Dom does not hate men.
During my years as a stripper, it was quite a roller coaster relating with men. My awe of men turned into a total excitement of men. I remember my first club in Vegas, The Library. You could do a shower show behind the bar topless and you would be able to work for free that night and walk around for tips. One of the first lap dances I did there was with a businessman. Now, I had been dancing for a couple of years by then, and the businessmen never seemed to break their personae. I remember watching TV and always seeing these businessmen in suits being promoted as the ultimate man and the serious man, very stoic. I would see them walking around and just thought, “Whoa, those guys are intense, so serious.” So, I’m dancing for this guy and I start standing up and turn around and he has this big smile on his face and his cock in his hand. Ha! Now, to paint this scenario, his smile was so adorable, mischievous, and playful, as if to say, “Ta da!” that I just smiled and said, “You’re going to get me in trouble, plus you don’t want to get caught by a bouncer.” He shrugged, smiled, and put his cock in his pants. I gave him a good lap dance and we had a good laugh about. I remember going into the dressing room and laughing, I was so amused! How freakin’ cool! I’m not the only horndog in the world! Wow, businessmen aren’t so unapproachable after all, men are pretty damn fun and not so serious, and sexual expression really is okay. I had been feeling for so long as if something was wrong with me because I was so sexual. I had finally found a place where my sexuality was not abnormal, where I could share my sexual expression and not be treated like a freak or be given dirty looks by women.
The world of sex work became a safe place for me to be sexual, and men helped to support it. Thank fucking goodness! Meanwhile, women were grabbing their pitchforks and couldn’t stand strippers and sex workers, but why? Strippers would encourage men to go out, have fun, have sex, party. When men came in complaining about the woman they were dating, we gave them advice and let them know when it was time to run from the situation. What these girlfriends didn’t know is that men also came in for advice on how to work through a tough spot in a relationship. On more than one occasion, a guy would come back and say thank you because something that I had shared with him helped. Oh, but evil strippers! How dare men be told they have options!
Feminists were going back and forth between hating us and loving us. The only way they could wrap their minds around what we did was by claiming that we were taking advantage of men. Which, to us, was bullshit. We’re entertainers, so thank you, feminists, for saying our form of entertainment is so invaluable!! You pay for theater? This is naked small-time theater, and many of us work hard on our dancing, pole work, and walking around in eight-inch heels. We paid the club each night anywhere from $25 to $75 to work. Our jobs are so worthless? Okay, fembots, you come out and do it then. You wouldn’t make it. Not to mention the extremely territorial ways of the strippers we worked with: the cat fights, the vindictive head games, the stealing. We had some good times among us, but more often than not it was cut-throat. Who sat on another stripper’s regular customer, who stole someone’s makeup, who spilled someone’s drink—fights were frequent. Then we would occasionally get the girls in for amateur night—what a mess that was. One would always get too drunk, say something demeaning to a stripper, and weaves would go flying. Or there was always the “cry baby” who came in thinking she would become a big girl by showing her who-ha or tits and then realize what she was doing and realize that she was not okay with it and then would run off crying … but I digress.
There were years in which, through my own unconscious actions, I co-created messed-up relationships with men, but I was not ready to own my part in it. It turned from pain to hatred. I became the stereotypical “bitter stripper.” I worked for seven years with Greg Ehmka doing intention work and emotional clearing, which greatly helped me raise my levels of self-responsibility. I recognized that the higher my levels of self-responsibility climbed, the happier I was! Minimizing victim, maximizing happiness! I was able to see how my own plunge into chaos pulled people into my life to help me learn and be present with my own growth and how each relationship really was a gift. I was able to heal the hatred I had projected onto men, experience the pain that was present, and get to the real love I had for men. I had thought before that I loved men but realized I had put men on a broken pedestal. Damned if they did, damned if they didn’t, and how dare they be human and not perfect.
As a sex worker, I saw the difference between the way men acted with me—free, happy, relaxed—and how they walked around in daily life. To me, men seemed so caged, walking around so restricted by those who wouldn’t let men just be men; men not being allowed to be. But I wasn’t fully aware of who was supporting it. Society, sure, but it was still lost on me as to who was actually responsible for upholding this.
After my healing experience, I started to think about writing a book to “empower” men. It was to be a book on men’s cocks and bodies—we never see men’s cocks and they are always expressed as a weapon, as if having a penis made a man dangerous. My friend came up with the title “Cock Consciousness.” And so the concept was born.
When I was in San Diego a couple of years back, I was researching some more and came across the NCFM-National Coalition For Men website. I called up and Harry answered, and I told him about “Cock Consciousness.” He graciously met up with me and was so very kind. I remember he was amused by the fact that I was a dominatrix looking to write a book about men, lol. He gave me reading material and the book Loving Men, Respecting Women by Tim Goldich (which I’m restarting to read now that I’m not a feminist and it is amazing!!). I told him that my book was about empowering men. He questioned what exactly I meant by this, as the word “empowering” doesn’t mean what it sounds like it means. I can’t remember his exact wording, but I think the concept was that people use that word a lot to say they are “helping” men when they really aren’t. The meeting was great and helped me think more about what my goal was for the book.
I started a survey and a website to enlist male volunteers to anonymously share photos of their bodies and cocks, which meant a photo from the neck down. The survey was a ridiculous 100-plus questions long. Destin Gerek (The Erotic Rockstar) was generously in conversation with me at the time. He suggested that about 10 questions maximum or less was best and then recommended reading as well. He also mentioned how he would do the photo but preferred not to have his head lopped off. This made me think some more too. Why just make it about men’s bodies? It should be the full-expression face as well.
I took a few years away from the book, just at a total loss as to what its purpose was. I realized to “empower men” was just another way of telling men what to do, and I didn’t want to do that. I was upset because I kept hearing of men’s experiences and feeling so at a loss that if I could just get this damn book together, maybe I could help somewhat. But I couldn’t figure it out.
I had issues with feminism in my early twenties (I’m 31) and was about to walk away from it after an online discussion that was just pure man-hating when another feminist said, “No, we’re not all like that, don’t give up.” For over a decade I held on to that, hoping I would somehow change feminism by holding on to that mantra.
Still, with the book on my mind but feeling clueless as how to start, I joined some online groups and discussions. I started to realize that with my experience, I could teach people how to embrace their authentic sexuality. With over 13 years of experience with sexuality and spirituality (and learning self-responsibility), it was time to teach people this and focus on sharing my life coaching (enter shameless self-promo).
Well, the world of life coaching and spirituality is soaked in the shaming of men. It’s all “goddess bullshit this” and “goddess bullshit that” and “women who want to be treated like a goddess.” (I’m very much aligned with goddess beliefs; HOWEVER, I am ALSO very much aligned with god beliefs.) These circles talk about the Divine Feminine but ignore the Divine Masculine. (I loved listening to the Honey Badger Brigade talk about this!) So, when I was in one of the groups listening to these women talking about men’s penises and making shaming remarks, I couldn’t take the stupidity anymore and realized I couldn’t wait until I wrote the book to stand up and say something.
So I created the Facebook page “Cock Consciousness.” Now I just had to fill it … derp. I googled “loving men,” but all the links were how men could love women! I searched “supporting men,” and the results were all still about what men could do to support women. There was nothing geared towards what men needed. I kept digging. Not sure how, but I came across A Voice for Men. Now, mind you, I was still very much a feminist. I was wanting to step away from feminism but just wasn’t sure where to put my energy—equalism? humanism? When I found AVfM, I was still very much entitled. I called myself a feminist, and oh boy, shit hit the fan. I shared my “Cock Consciousness” link. At AVfM, I met some commenters who wanted to give me the benefit of the doubt but were skeptical and others who were just not having it at all. I was confronted with “How can you say you love men and call yourself a feminist?” There was much lashing out between us. I joined a men’s group but was shortly after kicked out—no surprise, again, still a feminist and had all the feminist armoring that came with it.
I took what these men said into account: Why was I still hanging on to feminism? Did I really think my own words would change the truth of what feminism actually was and what it had done to men and continues to do to men?
So I stopped calling myself a feminist and started calling myself a human rights activist. Meanwhile, this process was all terrifying as shit. I had finally denounced feminism and started to share some articles I had encountered online, and feminists were pretty pissed and lashed out. Meanwhile, I created a “Cock Consciousness” group online for men to share their bodies and voices uncensored. There, a feminist came in with sneaky hatred until she erupted, and I was told by a few feminists what a traitor I was and how I knew nothing of the goddess and how fucked up and delusional I was. The men in the group, so sweet, were concerned that I was too harsh with her. I assured them I wasn’t and that she was being devious and sneaky.
This was a really intense process. All that I understood to be real was very intensely placed in my face as total and utter horseshit. I was so shaken by all of this that I was sick to my stomach pretty much every day, and my insomnia kicked in because I was so shocked. In life coaching, we call this a “death process,” death of identity. And, holy shit, did my identity get kicked in the face! A terrifying experience, but that is growth and that’s how you wake up. More terrifying than identity death process are the horrors you support by staying asleep. I had no idea how asleep I really had been, and it scared the shit out of me. Here I was thinking I had taken such a stand for equality—what a deep lie that was; I was completely oblivious to how deep this attack on men went.
Meanwhile, back at the same thread on AVfM that I had shared “Cock Consciousness,” another commenter had said, “We’re not just our cocks.” Which made me think about the title I was using. Another commenter said I had rage-quited. I came back with “I’m not going anywhere! I came here to get information on how to help men and damn it I’m going anywhere without it” … again, more fem armoring. I kept asking for help and clarification on what patriarchy meant or didn’t mean; I was completely confused. However, how entitled was that? Just more of me saying, “Men, do the work for me” and not digging myself. As I was commenting on AVfM, the site became a sanctuary for me after every debate I had with a feminist; it became a well of sanity, as did NCFM, even though at first I was still very unconscious with my comments.
This process was roughly two very intense weeks. I had started to shift my view on society and misunderstandings about society quite a bit. A Honey Badger said that I, too, was a Honey Badger, but I was in no way going to support a movement that was called a Men’s Rights Movement. I had spent my life being duped by the so-called Women’s Rights Movement and had lost all trust in any gender-specific group. I would only call myself a Human Rights Activist. She shared how she, too, was a Human Rights Activist and that was exactly why she was a part of the Men’s Rights Movement. I wasn’t at the point where I could understand what she meant.
I started to research the Human’s Rights Movement but found they, too, were just an extension of feminism. Domestic violence was fixed solely under the “women” section. What the hell? So, I turned my attention back to the Men’s Rights Movement. I was listening intently to what the men and women were sharing, but I still wasn’t sure. And I really was still confused on the patriarchy not being real. What world am I in? Everything I thought was real was revealing itself to be … not real and, worse, intentional lies.
So I began to dig. I read many articles on AVfM and finally came across Karen Straughan. This is the video that gave me the final push to wake the fuck up: “Feminism and the Disposable Male.”
There was no turning back from that information, and with everything that I had been researching and reading and the small glimpses I had had throughout my life, this was it, this is what I was looking for. Holy shit. I started to watch more MRA videos and get involved with more debates with feminists who were just downright nasty. I’ll never forget the first time I was called a misogynist. It was as if my voice was choked in my throat. The fembot had completely shut out every statistic I presented, every logical discussion I had brought forth with “You’re a misogynist.” I said, “I’m a woman.” “Well, women can be misogynists too.” Holy fuck. This is what men feel when their voices are silenced. I had just entered the world of “Your voice is shit.” I was sad that these women I had spent my life standing by, my so-called sisters, would not hear my voice or my call for them to wake up. But the sadness didn’t last very long; it was replaced with a deep rage. Oh yeah? I’m a “misogynist”? Well, now I’m going to be the loudest “misogynist” you’ve ever fucking heard. I started calling them every foul thing I could think of. Poking them every chance I got. You don’t want to hear me? I’ll make you listen. And this is why I have so very much space for the anger of men. At the time, I had only just experienced this feeling of my voice being shut up—how the fuck did men deal with this shit their whole lives? Yes, very much me waking up to my privilege as a woman and my entitlement.
I started to see that I didn’t live in a world filled with “misogynists.” The world suddenly felt safer. I really did live in fear of rape all the damn time as a feminist. I feared travel, I feared every damn thing! I lived in a terrifying world that I had no idea I had subscribed to! I remember reading a comment on AVfM about a man proposing to get rid of the “women and children first” policy aboard ships and instead make it “children and pregnant women first, then everyone else, first-come first-serve” and that would then be equality, when women were not treated as children. I let that sink in … it scared the shit out of me! The fact that it scared me shocked me even more, holy fucking entitlement! Whoa, I was being opened to the levels of my deep-seated feeling of superiority that I had thought I had rid myself of. I wouldn’t be put first? I would have to face the fact of my child living without me? Of course, yes, this is all very hypothetical, but it brought a very powerful awareness to me to the point of terrifying me that whole damn day. I felt sick to my stomach again. Holy shit, I would face the possibility of death? I was always against the draft and I don’t think it should exist, but then I started to think about how men must feel to HAVE to sign up for this. What it would feel like to leave my child behind; there are fathers who have no choice but to leave their children behind, men who are not fathers who barely lived their life but have to go face death to save their country. Or sign up with the promise of help for school. These men with no help from the government to pay for college because they are men have to look death in the face for the chance of an education if they live? WHAT THE FUCK?! And how privileged is that, I experienced this horror for a day! Men GROW UP with this! Fuck, the world is shitty to men. I guarantee that if the draft were necessary for all genders, we would not have a draft! Women treated as disposable? Don’t think they would like the taste of that very much, as they never have had to know the feeling. But men do; men are raised with that horror story.
From there on, I was very clear that I was a Honey Badger—an endearing term for female MRAs. I do all I can as an MRA to spread the word of the Men’s Rights Movement.
I have a vlog on YouTube, a blog, and I also have an article published on NCFM: “Feminism Is Responsible for the Rape of Women” under the name Vivica Liqueur, which I used until recently.
Feminism has created a system of superiority that brought nothing but damage after the first wave (which emulated the women’s rights movement before it), one that is so engrained in women that many are clueless and unconscious as to how deeply infected they are with the epidemic of female entitlement and superiority. The female victim is the most dangerous perpetrator alive, and feminism does all in its power to hide her. Enough. You want equality? Then grow up, princess, and prove it.
Once in a while I’ll toss around a “debate” with a fembot; however, I’m working on focusing more on men’s rights issues that need to be acknowledged. Our society treats men as if they are inherently dangerous criminals just for being born male; this is the misandry that boys are raised with, and sadly they begin to believe they have no worth and their voices don’t matter. Men are told to shut up and be “polite” if they want to be heard. Men can say speak whenever the hell they damn well please; they don’t need my permission or any other woman’s permission to do so. We’ve listened to the voice of women for so long, completely uncensored, and men must be heard equally uncensored for us to move forward.
The MRM is the voice that is missing in our society. To deny the voice of men as vital, to shame men, to treat men as disposable, to treat a boy as if he is less than the girl sitting next to him is pure hatred, and any movement that supports that—feminism—is a hate movement.
A lot of my rage was self-anger for allowing myself to be so unconscious towards men for so long. Awful. But I’m awake now, red pill swallowed.
As for “Cock Consciousness,” I changed the name to “Loving & Celebrating Men” after listening to men feel uncomfortable with the original title. And indeed the original title did not express my intention clearly. How can I write a book including men if I don’t listen to their feedback? So, although I struggled with letting go of the original title, I’m glad I did.
I’m currently researching and reading to write the book itself, since I finally know what it’s about. Men don’t need to change, they are just fine, amazing, and beautiful just the way they are. The world stopped loving men a long time ago and definitely stopped celebrating men; it’s not men who need to change, it’s how the world views and treats men that needs to evolve.
In order to really love men, you must stand up for their rights; otherwise, you’re just telling yourself a lie, like I did for so long. You can’t be a feminist and love men—it’s not possible unless you lie to yourself. I, for one, will take the face-slapping truth over a sugar-coated mirage any damn day.
You hungry for truth? Dine on the red pill.
Source
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HONEY BADGERS
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