It's rude to keep a girl waiting

Stop giving me fictional white female characters and telling me “these are the fictional women to admire, the ones that break the mold, the feminist icons, the representation you’ve been longing for.” 

Stop asking me to squint to see myself represented on screen. Stop telling me to “wait my turn”, to support shows with white female leads as though this was a rare occurrence, as though there haven’t been thousands of them through the years. As though white women haven’t been held as the pinnacle of progress and feminism on TV since Lucille Ball.

Stop telling me that a white woman playing a spy, is innovative and feminist when you’ve had Wonder Woman, Charlie’s Angels, Scarecrow & Mrs. King and Alias before Agent Carter.

Stop telling me that seeing Jessica Jones, a white female character with PTSD, on screen is a long time coming, a revolutionary feminist act, when Joss Carter, Abbie Mills, Olivia Pope, Sasha Williams and Michonne aren’t afforded the same treatment regarding theirs from writers, media and fandom alike.

Stop telling me that “romance is not part of the show” when said show is built on the loss of the White Male Lead’s love interest. Stop labeling black female characters as one half of a “brotp”, as the supportive friend, a mammy that does everything but wipe the white man’s ass or tuck him into bed, only to prop up the Random White Woman In The Background as the obvious choice for a new, better suited love interest.

Stop giving me Trojan Horses, those black female characters I’ve longed for, the ones I finally can see myself in, the ones that you’re praised for creating and writing, the ones you make money off of only to kill them later, once they’ve served their purpose.

We are not your first step towards success, we aren’t a tool to be used to avoid criticism, or appease higher ups afraid of losing money because of the lack of diversity and representation in their shows.

We are not either women or black, we are both and we deserve to be spies, the fated love interest, the damsel in distress, the selfish one, the vulnerable one, the pinnacle of feminism and progress, the one who’s turn has come, the one who was a long time coming.

Logging off for a single day isn’t of interest to tumblr. I’m not saying y’all shouldn’t protest in any way you can or want, but logging off the site for just one day isn’t going to bother tumblr because tumblr doesn’t CARE about your symbolic protest. Tumblr has proven time and again that it doesn’t CARE about its userbase. We’re still using the site and we won’t stop using the site any time soon because there’s no alternative. But that’s what we’d have to do to hopefully force tumblr to change anything. And they still won’t do it because their policy change isn’t about family values or what the userbase allegedly wants. It’s about money.

So, unless you stop using the site and app permanently, or for a long period of time, this isn’t going to matter to tumblr. And when you do, you need to do it in big numbers.

Champagne/Like No One Else

For once, it’s Matt’s idea. “I know how much you like playing dress-up,” he says, and Elektra smiles in spite of herself, in spite of the crappy day she’s been having, in spite of everything. She does like playing dress-up, and she can’t wait to get on the phone with her tailor. In hurried French, she orders an outfit, and then obviously adds something for him. Matt can feel her eyes on him as she speaks, her heart thrumming against the blush rising in his neck.  

              The dress and suit arrive. Matt gets his clothes on so quickly so that he can put his hands on her. Elektra guides his fingers to the many features of her outfit: the tautness of the bodice, the elaborate beading on the neck and bust, the way the skirt falls away from her legs. “It’s see-through,” she tells him with a smile, smacking him on ass on her way past. Matt snatches her by the wrist before she gets too far, twirling her back for a kiss on their way out the door.

              He gives a false name and title at the door of the party. They aren’t on the list. Elektra stomps a heel and feigns a tantrum en francais; Matt reassures her, pulling out his phone and threatening to get on the phone with someone-or-other. The doorperson starts to dismiss them but enters into a hushed conversation over a headset that finally gets them into the party with a grudgingly-delivered apology.

              Elektra grabs glasses of champagne. She finishes one in a flourish, sips at the other while she scopes out a Scotch for him. Matt draws an arm around Elektra’s lower back, pulling her to him. “No, I want champagne tonight. It feels like a champagne night.”

              She scoops him another glass from a passing tray. “What are we celebrating?”               “Whatever the hell you want,” Matt says, clinking his glass with hers. “What should we celebrate?”               Elektra’s smile warms him. She presses her glass hard into his, presses herself hard into him. “This,” she says, “I want to celebrate this. You, me –“

              “Us.”               “Us,” Elektra agrees.

              They toss back their drinks. Matt grabs the empty glasses together in one hand before she can throw them aside. He puts them on a passing tray as Elektra plucks up two more glasses.

              They mix, they mingle, they wreck havoc. Matt spills a drink on a gentleman getting handsy with a woman at the bar. Elektra lifts a wallet from an aging CEO well-known for underpaying his employees. They steal a bottle of bubbly and abscond to an office, leaving the door unlocked, playing chicken with another couple looking for their own private room or a security guard on patrol.

              “There’s a window,” Elektra says, her heartbeat tearing off and running at the thought. She clears the desk with a sweep of her arms, items clattering to the floor. Matt dodges the chaos and steps to her, ending up between her legs as she sits on the newly cleared surface. One of her fingers hooks through his tie, and she draws him over her, laying back in front of the cityscape. The other hand uncaps the champagne. The pop sends her into peels of laughter. Matt kisses her quiet. Elektra pauses, drinking some into her mouth before kissing him back, pushing the liquor between his lips. They end up laughing, bubbles spilling from their lips.

              Elektra laps it up from Matt’s cheeks, wrapping her legs around his waist, riding their hips together. “You said this was see-through?” he asks, and Elektra scoots till the shorter, tighter skirt underneath comes up and over her ass.

              “And I’m not wearing underwear,” she adds.

              “You didn’t mention that.”               “Didn’t I?’

              “No,” Matt says, kissing her on the lips. On the chin. The neck. Her chest. Elektra draws a hand through his hair, guiding him down. With her other hand, she takes the bottle, and she pours a small amount of the champagne onto the edge of the desk, between her legs.

              “To us,” she says, tapping the bottle against his cheek.