When Jess came to the University of Washington as a freshman, she was a feminist economics major whose postcollege goal was to land a position at an organization dedicated to social entrepreneurship. Now in her early 20s and just a few years out of college, she is married, looking forward to a life as a homemaker, and involved full-time at the Seattle-based Mars Hill Church, one of the hippest, fastest-growing, and most conservative evangelical churches in the nation.
On April 25, the online edition of the Journal of Sexual Medicine ran an article by cosmetic gynecologist Adam Ostrzenski, MD, who reported that he had teased a “blue grape-like” sac out of a dead woman’s vagina. This was proof, he claimed, of the “anatomic existence” of the G-spot, the elusive (but much-heralded) erotogenic area that can be stimulated through the vaginal wall.
Late in 2011, a song from a virtually unknown 20-year-old rapper from Harlem knocked the Internet on its ass. Azealia Banks's "212" was a wildly original debut single that found the rapper dribbling a steady stream of elastic wordplay and oh-no-she-didn't raunch over a skronky beat from producer Lazy Jay. And then there was the song's hook, a repeated provocation to a male rival for the affections of another woman: "I guess that cunt gettin' eaten."
"212" was voted Pitchfork's no. 9 track of 2011, propelling Banks to the top spot on NME's 2011 "Cool List" and earning her a coveted endorsement from Kanye West—all before she even landed a record deal. But some listeners just couldn't get past that C-word. In a December 2011 cover story for self-titled magazine, the interviewer asked Banks a question that no one would have asked, say, Lil Wayne, who was three years younger than Banks when his debut album dropped: "Is it weird to play these songs for your mother?" When she responded in the negative, he pushed on: "It's jarring hearing a young girl say 'cunt' so often." Banks brushed him off with pointed flippancy. "Sex is fucking sex," she said. "We wouldn't be sitting here if it wasn't for sex."
In February 2012, PBS host Tavis Smiley interviewed Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer about their Oscar nominations for their roles as Aibileen and Minny, Jim Crow–era domestic workers in The Help. "I'm pulling for both of you to win on Academy Award night," Smiley ventured. "But there's something that sticks in my craw about celebrating Hattie McDaniel so many years ago for playing a maid"—a reference to the actor who won for her role as Mammy in 1939's Gone with the Wind. "I want you to win," Smiley concluded, "but I'm ambivalent about what you're winning for."
Davis countered that it is hard for black actresses to find multifaceted roles in Hollywood, and that pressure from the black community to eschew portrayals that are not heroic makes it even harder: "That very mind-set that you have, and that a lot of African-Americans have, is absolutely destroying the black artist…. If your criticism is that you just don't want to see the maid...then I have an issue with that. Do I always have to be noble?"
Little serious thought has been devoted to the trophy wife, that caricature permanently relegated to being an adornment on the arm of a spouse defined by his wealth and power, the May to her husband’s December.
“Reports of my boobs and fists have been greatly exaggerated,” says Laura Hudson, staring at a webcomic that depicts her with enormous versions of both, under the headline, “What I’m Offended About This Week!”