The Feminist Press at CUNY

It brings together academics, activists, and porn entrepreneurs who have a startling array of interactions with pornography as an experience, a business, and a field of inquiry.

“This thrilling anthology brings together scholars, producers, and fans of feminist pornography to define an emerging movement of gender and sexual visionaries, working at the radically inclusive and egalitarian edges of sexual representation.

I hate her, I want to hate her. I would feel better if I hated her more.

Men involved in fundamentalist movements see feminism as a threat. Feminism is simply the belief that women are human beings with human rights. Human rights are not radical claims, but merely basic rights—the right to walk around in the world at will, to breathe the air and drink water and eat food sufficient to maintain life, to speak at will and control one’s own body and its movements, including its sexuality.

Misogyny is not an adequate term for this behavior. It is rooted not in hatred of women, but in a belief that women are not human beings, but animals designed to serve men and men’s ends, with no other purpose in life. Men in such cultures see women who resist such service as perverse, godless creatures who deny the purpose for which they were created.

ending up with quoting Dr. Aggrey.
So this evening too, I was delayed: but it was as well, for when I arrived at the hut, Maami Ama had just arrived from the farm. The door opened, facing the village, and so I could see her. Oh, that picture is still vivid in my mind. She was sitting on a low stool with her load before her. Like all the loads the other women would bring from the farms into their homes, it was colourful with miscellaneous articles. At the very bottom of the wide wooden tray were the cassava and yam tubers, rich muddy brown, the colour of the earth. Next were the plantain, of the green colour of the woods from which they came. Then there were the gay vegetables, the scarlet pepper, garden eggs, golden pawpaw and crimson tomatoes. Over this riot of colours the little woman’s eyes were fixed, absorbed, while the tiny hands delicately picked the pepper. I made a scratchy noise at the door. She looked up and smiled. Her smile was a wonderful flashing whiteness.
‘Oh Chicha, I have just arrived.’
‘So I see. Ayekoo.’
‘Yaa, my own. And how are you, my child?’
‘Very well, Mother. And you?’
‘Tanchiw. Do sit down, there’s a stool in that corner. Sit down. Mmmm. . . . Life is a battle. What can we do? We are just trying, my daughter.’
‘Why were you longer at the farm today?’
‘After weeding that plot I told you about last week, I thought I would go for one or two yams.’
‘Ah!’ I cried.
‘You know tomorrow is Ahobaa. Even if one does not feel happy, one must have some yam for old Ahor.’
‘Yes. So I understand. The old saviour de