Study after study has shown that when women make more than men, women generally don’t want to marry them. And maybe they should want to marry them, but they don’t. Over big populations this causes a drop in marriage, a spike in out-of-wedlock births and all the familiar disasters that inevitably follow. More drug and alcohol abuse, higher incarceration rates, fewer families formed in the next generation.

– Tucker Carlson

My first thought when I saw this quote pop up on Twitter was “Tucker Carlson said something shitty, that tracks.” That’s Tucker Carlson’s job; to say nonsense in a way that sounds reasonable. I don’t give Carlson too much thought. He’s a conspiracy grifter who learned how to tie a Windsor knot after losing his job at CNN on account of being intellectually bested by a puppet. But, because he can string sentences together with grammatical (if not factual) clarity, he gets to be on TV and treated as a “serious thinker.” His recent series “War on Men” a vapid monument to meninist insecurity of which he is an architect, has mostly been laughed off, and rightly so. But part of his remarks last week sent a chill down my spine: he tied the rise of women in power to the socioeconomic fear around population drops. And I thought to myself “it’s coming.”

How do you know when a lie is going to get traction? If you told me at the beginning of Barack Obama’s presidency that three years later there would still be media coverage about whether or not he was born in the United States, I wouldn’t have believed you. Why? Because it was a stupid, racist, theory devoid of fact. I was naive to social pendulum swings that follow a shift in power ownership, and the lies that drive them.

This has been a pretty good year for women, insomuch that life in a hellscape can be good. There are more women in positions of power than ever before. Conversations are happening between women and between men and women, realistic conversations about what a society built on the pillars of patriarchy and white supremacy does to a culture. And while it’s been uplifting and encouraging, I’ve kept my eye out for the pendulum swing, nervous about missing it before it hits me squarely in the jaw.

How do you know when a lie is going to get traction?
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It hasn’t been easy for those looking for a way to push back against women (well at least not as easy as it has traditionally been). Yes, Brett Kavanaugh was confirmed to the Supreme Court, but the support for Dr. Blasey Ford and outrage surrounding his confirmation was overwhelming. The amplification of angry voices from women across the country, united in their exasperation with patriarchal dictates, was visceral. Collective anger begets organized and energized movements, and action follows.

Attempts to pit Rep. “Don’t hate me cause you ain’t me”, Ocasio-Cortez against House Speaker, “Do not characterize the strength I bring to this meeting” Pelosi have largely failed because both women refused to take the bait and instead focused on issues. Calls for civility after the Red Hen incident were met with an annoyed eye roll from anyone seeing children in cages on the nightly news. Even the recent faux pearl-clutching about Rep. Rashida Tlaib use of the word “motherfucker” faced a ton backlash and garnered almost no censuring from Democrats, except Sen. Joe Manchin (also the only Democrat to vote yes for Kavanaugh’s confirmation) and who the fuck cares what he thinks.  

With what seems like a strong female army at the helm of the resistance, and a smart social media presence pushing back against antiquated stereotypes, what is the response going to be? I tried to filter out any nonsense and focus only on things that I believed would have traction. Late in 2017, I filed something away in my brain that sounded so close to the justification for a quick march towards Gilead I was surprised someone said it out loud:

“This is going to be the new economic challenge for America: people. Baby boomers are retiring — I did my part, but we need to have higher birth rates in this country” – Paul Ryan, Former Speaker of the House

That’s right, ladies. The newest economic downfall is going to be all your selfish fault for not reproducing. (Sorry, I meant white ladies — but more on that in a moment). The problem with Ryan’s statement is that it’s not technically incorrect. Birthrates in the United States are the lowest they have been in three decades, according to the latest numbers from the Center for Disease Control. It’s also well below the replacement population rate. With elderly dependents outnumbering people in the workforce, the financial system will take a hit, and the structure of the economy currently has not adapted to social changes in the last several decades.

Also a “serious thinker,” but one with legislative power, Paul Ryan could helped the economy adapt. Instead, Ryan suggested he “did [his] part” because his wife had four children, putting their family above the national average in terms of birthrate. Because Paul Ryan doesn’t want to use the many tools at his disposal to address realities of parenthood and why cost is a preventative factor in having children, he wants to blame people not having babies for a weak economy.

And that, I believe, is the angle from which the weight of the pendulum will be pushed back. It has everything. It takes a complicated issue and boils the solution down to three words: Have More Babies. It places the blame squarely on a certain type of woman. You know, those ambitious bitches who don’t value family, who insist on having jobs or not getting married or using contraception. Now not being pregnant isn’t just a rejection of the duties of being a woman, it’s a rejection of civic duty. Suddenly, all these women in Congress would be better serving their country if they shut up and got pregnant. It has a nice socio-economic nativist ring to it. Have more babies! For America! Well, not all of you.

It takes a complicated issue and boils the solution down to three words: Have More Babies.
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Make absolutely no mistake, when Paul Ryan, Tucker Carlson, and every other conservative pundit talk about women needing to have more babies they mean white women having white babies. The maternal mortality rate for Black women is over thirty percent higher than it is for white women, and yet there is no War on Pregnant Black Women chyron on any Fox News Broadcast. The birth rate for first-generation Americans is higher than the generations that follow, but the White House insists that the crisis at the border is all of the brown families that want to become citizens.

Let’s take a look at why people may not be having babies. We don’t have policies to that to ease the financial burden of having children, like federal paid maternity leave, or policies that require large corporations to make childcare available to their employees. The cost of decent education is a preventative factor for people looking to expand their families, and people of birthing age are drowning in student debt. And the wage gap means women fear further financial punishment for choosing to have children. There also isn’t a smart pathway to citizenship, considering first-generation Americans are likely to have higher birth rates than second or third. Though we know how these pundits feel about immigrant children.

There’s also the issue of choice. Many people just don’t want kids, whether it’s because of their carbon footprint or their other priorities or just because parenthood has never appealed to them. Access to abortion is precarious, but it exists. Women can use contraception. The social stigmas around being child-free are beginning to be challenged. But instead of devoting resources to the issues facing those who want to have children, or working to create an economy that doesn’t rely on an ever-increasing birth rate, conservatives can conveniently blame it all on women.

Not everyone has the luxury of Rep. Steve King, using the world’s least funhouse mirror to mimic the credo of white nationalist David Lane. Or the overtly racist platform of family separation architect and (alleged) childhood glue eater Stephen Miller. No, some will need to take a more thoughtful approach when pushing back on a progressive movement.

Take a kernel of data, create a crisis around it, and make someone responsible for it. And if you’re smart, lay some groundwork first. Target the person you want to be held responsible and ask if they’re “likable” or “genuine.” Chip away first at their credibility and then at their intentions, while slowly introducing the crisis. Wait for others to start parroting your concerns about your target. And then, at the right moment, release the manufactured hysteria and watch the pendulum swing.

I walked through the door with you
The air was cold
But something ‘bout it felt like home, somehow

I’m not entirely sure why, but as I entered the party I had Taylor Swift’s song “All Too Well” in my head. Considering I had never been to this location or one of these events and I wasn’t arriving with anyone, the lyrics had no relationship to what I was actually doing; attending a members-only intimate party via an anonymous erotica club. Not quite a sex party, although that was certainly available to anyone interested in partaking. It was more of a hyper-flirtatious gathering for adults; consenting, eager adults.

Each party begins with some icebreaker games for the newer members, accompanied by music and live burlesque or acrobatic performances. There are tables with snacks set out, encouraging the seventy or so members to meet and mingle. Behind some doors are the actual “playrooms” where guests can engage in sex, erotic play, or just sit and watch. Ever mindful of my journalistic integrity, and crippling social anxiety, I remained an observer.

It was fascinating to watch the playroom, a room of maybe fifteen people, some in pairs, some in trios or more, all in different positions and various states of undress. As I stood holding up the wall as though it would crumble behind me, I was approached by a beautiful woman in ripped jeans and a crop top with her hair natural and teased out.

“First time here?”

“Yes.” I was certain she could hear the T-Swift refrains repeating in my head.

“Cool. I mostly just watched when I first started coming here. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Oh, do you work for the club?”

“Nope, just know it can be intimidating at first.”  

She smiled warmly and walked away, the goal not to out me as a newbie but to offer some support in an intimidating scene. I breathed a sigh of embarrassed relief and moved on to the next track from Red, pressing down my skirt as I had decided my inspiration for the night was Kathleen Turner from “Romancing the Stone.”

This type of friendly interaction is not a perk of parties like this, it’s the point. The atmosphere is designed to be a communal, artistic, space. Sex is available if you want it, but it’s not necessarily the end goal, and it’s certainly not the only thing available. It was my maiden foray into a private play party, but certainly not the first event I had attended where enthusiastic consent was a selling point. And that’s becoming far more common for clubs that host these kinds of events.

One of the most popular spots in the Brooklyn scene is House of Yes, a dance club and performance space located in Bushwick that has gained notoriety for its themed parties as well as its guidelines regarding club behavior. The rules are listed on the website, when purchasing a ticket, and are visible on walls throughout the club:

Behave with beauty, connect with intention. We are obsessed with Consent. Always ASK before touching anyone in our House. If someone is violating your boundaries or harassing you, please speak to a security guard or any staff member. We have a zero tolerance policy for harassment. If you feel something, say something, and we will help.

Each night at House of Yes is different to accommodate the different interests of the attendees. A Tuesday night may feature amateur burlesque, followed the next day by an aerial circus and DJ, and an early no-booze-on-the-dance-floor dance party for the nine to fivers. The website is clear that this is a space for anyone wanting to try something different from the norm. Imagine Studio 54 but without a crabby owner outside telling you that you’re not cool enough to come in.

And while clubs like House of Yes put a premium on safety, they are also careful about how they promote consent policies and lay out expectations to clientele. I spoke with Katie Rex, creator of the queer fetish party BOUND, who this year moved her events from exclusively underground to public spaces like Elsewhere.

“I don’t know of any club that markets itself as a safe space. To call a space a ‘safe space’ you would have to screen every single person entering the door and evaluate their behavior while intoxicated before entry. The only proposed safe spaces are completely underground. Clubs are certainly upping the ante when it comes to the priority of safety and how to manage unsafe people, but it would be completely irresponsible for a space to say they can promise none of their patrons will act out of line.”

The application process to the private party I attended is detailed. Currently the club encourages female members who may bring male dates, but has recently opened up selective spots for men who have displayed appropriate behavior at previous parties to attend events by themselves. While the club does not have language directly addressing submissions from prospective non-binary members, it makes clear in the questionnaire that the goal when vetting members is mostly about your vibe.

The questionnaire I filled out had the standard questions, “Age,” “Zip Code,“ “How did you hear about us?” then followed with more thoughtful inquiries like “What made you interested in us,” “Describe your current relationship and what you think [Party Name] can bring to it,” “Do you trust your partner?,” “Do you feel comfortable communicating your needs and desires with your current partner or other intimate partners?”.

This was the first of many surprises when researching this scene; how deliberately it draws a line around what type of members they’re looking for, establishing from the outset that this wouldn’t be an unsupervised fuckfest, but a community of like-minded adults who wanted a place to comfortably explore and experience different parts of themselves, either sexually or creatively.

The atmosphere is designed to be a communal, artistic, space. Sex is available if you want it, but it’s not necessarily the end goal, and it’s certainly not the only thing available.
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This type of vetting is inherent to private parties, and bringing it to a public space like has not been as simple as posting rules on a website as Jacqui Rabkin, Marketing Director, and Consent Co-Director at House of Yes, and I discussed.

“A lot of it is very straightforward. You make a policy, you make it visible, you make a system for reporting,” she says. “You have to know your limits, and know what your knowledge base is and what your capabilities are and if you want to have a safer space … you should build a team, you should talk to other members of the community who are also doing this.”

The other Consent Co-Director is consultant Emma Kaywin, a sexual health writer and activist who works with clubs, private parties, and music festivals, training staff how to manage public play spaces. It’s become a vital part of the House of Yes program, specifically for their House of Love events, which mirror private parties, but with more limits on what can take place.

“The Consent Team and program we have in place is modeled after real play parties. We have active guardians; people walking around the club kind of monitoring,” says Rabkin. “We call them ‘Consenticorns’…[they] have been trained by Emma in de-escalation techniques and bystander intervention, just the basics of how to approach people so you can step in and offer people help without causing a scene or a complication but also they have these light up beacons so someone can find them easily if they need help.”

The queer community has been managing the “safer space” movement for far longer than their more cis-hetero counterparts. The inclusivity and safety of many queer clubs and roaming parties underscore the nuanced language around sex that many marginalized communities developed because of the very real threat of violence that hangs over the head of anyone considered other. Safer spaces needed to exist where people could express the very basic desire to represent themselves honestly, without harassment or judgment.

It’s not surprising then that straight women were attracted to these spaces. When fear polices your daily life, regardless of exactly why you are being targeted, anywhere you are able to simply breathe comfortably is a welcome relief. Moreover, those communities were often required to police themselves to avoid bringing unwanted attention from anyone on the outside.

Safer spaces needed to exist where people could express the very basic desire to represent themselves honestly, without harassment or judgment.
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Self-policing is also a part of the kink community that, while not an apparent physical presentation, labors under a societal stigma that pushes it underground. Kink works only when lines and boundaries are drawn very clearly before physical interaction. Fantasy scenarios are outlined over text or email, safe words are established early, and aftercare is often essential before a play session can be considered “complete.”

These rules are not only important for physical safety, but they also acknowledge that sex and intimacy can be emotionally challenging for any number of reasons. In the current #MeToo era where predominantly cis-hetero men and women are still grappling with dangerous societal gaps in sexual communication, this type of prior consent was bound to find its way into the mainstream.

While these spaces were not and are not free from any form of harassment or problematic behavior, their emphasis on community safety and clarity of purpose is a welcome jolt of change into more public spaces where people have not yet figured out how to communicate desires or boundaries. As House of Yes became more popular and saw its audience expand, they had to make changes to how they approached and enforced their policies.

“When we became really really popular we got this tsunami tide of people who maybe don’t have the best etiquette on the dance floor and the vibe started to change,” Rabkin tells me.

“Too many people, more spectators, they’re not dressed up, they’re not overly friendly and they’re not participating. They just show up to see what crazy shit is happening. If you’re going to survive that you need to be very proactive about trying to orient and educate your new clientele.”

The club initially attempted to combat the changing crowd by instituting a mandatory costume policy, but realized shortly thereafter that such policy was excluding lower-income patrons who may find the need to spend money on a costume prohibitive, as well as tourists who want to attend but may not have packed a feather crown in their suitcase. They relaxed the policy to greatly encourage people to express themselves through their look, as well as providing a costume box for guests to get their make up done, restyle their outfit, or pick up some accessories to signal that they’re excited to participate in the night ahead.   

Combining the inclusivity and artistic expression of many LGBTQ clubs with the rules of consent in Kink culture is a powerful bulwark against sexual inequality, a pervasive and harmful construct that thrives on fear and silence. The only way to combat it is consent and communication, but also to remember that communities are not static. Reimagining and reinforcing rules to meet changing tides is just as important as establishing them in the first place.

Boundaries are there to make sure guests feel at ease, that they know what is expected of one another and how to behave. It’s not just about being safe, it’s not just about saying “yes,” it’s about allowing people the space to express themselves in ways they have been conditioned not to. You can do something, or nothing, and no one is entitled to pressure you either way. Once the threat of violence or coercion is removed, once a true sexual equality is established, the possibilities when exploring that physical and mental space become exciting rather than intimidating.

I got my first tattoo when I was nineteen. A small pink and white lotus on my left hip that represented purity, spontaneous generation, my new found independence and, above all, that I was hopelessly in love with a heavily tattooed Buddhist who I wanted to take me seriously. I don’t see him anymore when I look at the tattoo. Instead, I see myself at nineteen, fresh to New York and so overwhelmed with so many new feelings and emotions that I needed something to permanently remember them. It’s nice to think of it that way.

I also think of the experience getting the tattoo. It was done at a small shop in the East Village by a man who lived in Vermont most of the time, who rolled his own cigarettes and could not have been less interested in chatting with the young woman on the table under his needle. The only time Vermont spoke to me directly once we started was to yell at me to stop moving; because of the location of the tattoo it tickled intensely, and I was stifling a laugh but my body wasn’t quite cooperating. Pretty quickly the friend with me noticed I was on the verge of tears and asked Vermont to give us a minute. We went outside so I could take a few deep breaths while holding my pants up with my hands because I couldn’t button them over the partially tattooed skin. I went in, my girlfriend leveled Vermont with her eyes and he completed the tattoo, all of it in silence.

“I hear so many stories like this. If not once a day at least a few times a week,” says Jessica Dwyer, tattoo artist and co-owner of Nice Tattoo, a woman- owned tattoo shop in Brooklyn. ”People will be happy with the tattoos but not the experience and it’s basically just a permanent reminder of that.”

This isn’t a new phenomenon. Women have played a huge role in the history of body art, but remain underrepresented in the culture. In the early 19th century tattoos became a way for women to take part in circuses and freak shows. Billed as “The Tattooed Lady,” these women were able to assert a financial autonomy not otherwise available to them at the time. In her book, Bodies of Subversion, The Secret History of Women and Tattoo, Margot Mifflin catalogs many of these forgotten stories. Women are so intertwined in the history of body art, Mifflin argues, the Women’s Movement of the mid 20th century is what revived the declining tattoo industry, while removing some of the stigmas of tattoo culture as hyper-masculine and delinquent.

In the ‘70s, women coming from the art school world would teach themselves how to tattoo as a way to make a living and expand the idea of what makes a true canvas, adding new styles and aesthetics to an otherwise stagnant industry. Tattoos also served as a form of protest, with women looking to distinguish themselves from mainstream society or, as famed artist Ruth Marten recalls, recently divorced women who wanted to commemorate their new freedom.

The Women’s Movement of the mid 20th century is what revived the declining tattoo industry
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However, Vyvyn Lagonza, still considered one of the early design innovators in the industry, noted how once the novelty of having a young woman in the parlors wore off, her colleagues became increasingly dismissive of her work and watched as less experienced male artists moved ahead of her in the field. Shop owner Danny Danzl “couldn’t be bothered to fix Lagonza’s broken machines,” Mifflin writes “but he did find time to lovingly inlay them with fake glittering jewels.” Women in the tattoo parlor were one of two things: an adornment, or a nuisance.

It was thirteen years before I got my next tattoo. Throughout that time I had several themes that piqued my interest (some of which I am forever grateful I didn’t get) and would bring my ideas to different shops. Each parlor I walked into the artists, always men, gave me the same response: If I wanted all of the lines I would be committing to a much larger piece, the small delicate lines I envisioned were impossible and if I really wanted this tattoo, I would have to get it done their way. It was a choice between getting a tattoo I wanted but not the way I wanted it, or not getting it at all.

“A lot of tattoo artists do have that holier-than-thou arrogance. And at the end of the day, we’re in a service industry. Yah, you’re an artist but you’re doing art for somebody,” Dwyer says when I relay the story to her. “A lot of times it feels like a club, and you’re made to feel like you don’t belong in it. People will say something can’t be done because they don’t want to do it.”

Last year, I found myself working with several women with the exact style of tattoos I had been told were basically impossible. Clean, thin lines, negative space, pointillism instead of shading. When I asked they were all going to the same studio, Welcome.Home. Located in Greenpoint, Brooklyn the shop, I was told, was run by women who gained a following through word of mouth and Instagram. By the end of summer, I had three new tattoos.

Based on a 2012 Reuters poll women made up 59% of people getting tattoos. Instagram and Pinterest have certainly cracked the club open a bit, but the industry as a whole still has an air of hypermasculinity and exclusivity. That has a lot of women, and others, heading to places like Welcome.Home and Nice Tattoo for a more inclusive and relaxing experience. Both studios have a living room feel. There’s no front desk so consultations take place on couches, and plants and minimalist art hang on the walls instead of tattoo flash art. The music is usually more soothing and at a lower volume, and artists book out extra time per session so that clients don’t feel rushed and can take breaks if needed.

Instagram and Pinterest have certainly cracked the club open a bit, but the industry as a whole still has an air of hypermasculinity and exclusivity.
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One of the through lines I found when researching different women owned shops was that this sense of community and comfort was front and center in their mission statements. San Francisco’s Black + Blue, which was founded by Idexa Stern in 1995, started as a safe space for women in what was a predominantly straight white male-dominated industry. Originally employing only lesbian artists, in 2005 as the constraints of gender and orientation became looser in the public discourse, Idexa began to change the shop’s original mission. “We didn’t need a ‘women’s space’ we needed an inclusive space,” she says on the studio’s website.

In Minnesota, Jackalope Tattoo, a women and queer-identifying run studio, echoes the same sentiment in their mission statement. “To empower others to be their very best, brightest, most creative selves. To try that one thing you’ve always wanted to try, reach for that huge goal because you know you can, and do it all with a fabulous smile and sense of self that radiates confidence. Jackalope Tattoo is more than a tattoo shop, it’s a family, and a way of living.”

It’s not just a better way to treat clients, it’s also a better business model in the current political and cultural climate. Since the 2016 election and prevalence of the #MeToo movement, many are going back to the idea of body art as a form of protest. In early 2017 over 100 women and men lined up to receive tattoos outside of Brass Knuckle Tattoo in Minneapolis. They were all there to get Mitch McConnell’s now infamous dismissive comment about Elizabeth Warren, “Nevertheless, she persisted” permanently etched on their body, with the days proceeds going to a local organization that supports pro-choice women in politics. Most of the shops I researched were booked for months ahead of time, with either return clients or new clients who were compelled to come in because they heard the spaces weren’t intimidating, and the artists were as interested in the experience as much as the art itself.

While I would rather cut off my arm than have to think about Mitch McConnell daily, I understand the reasoning. Few, if any, women and queer people get through life without carrying the scars of societies projection about our bodies. Tattoos represent a choice, something we can put on ourselves that express our own ideas about who we are. Even if you’re getting a quick tattoo, the ability to assert control over what you see, and society sees, is an act reclamation and exertion of body autonomy.

“I want to have a safe space for everyone,” Dwyer says towards the end of our interview, “I get a lot of straight people and gay people and trans people. Tattoos are not for one type of person anymore across the board. Everyone’s got tattoos, everyone.”

Tattoos represent a choice, something we can put on ourselves that express our own ideas about who we are.
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Before opening Nice Tattoo, Dwyer liked the shop she was working at and had no plans to leave. When approached about opening a new shop she wasn’t convinced until her business partners talked about the kind of inclusive, women run, comfortable studio they wanted, and she realized that she couldn’t pass the opportunity up.

“I want people to know when they come to my shop they’re getting a safe experience, a pleasant experience, and a comfortable experience. I want them to have the experience I wish I had had.”

Compared to this type of welcoming, all-embracing mentality, the notion of the tattoo industry as an exclusive club feels antiquated. Exclusivity as a pillar for any business model has always baffled me; what do you actually gain by leaving money on the table? And when it comes to something as personal and permanent as body art, what value is there in making clients feel more vulnerable than they already do? It’s that distance and vulnerability so many new shop owners understand, either through their own experience or from hearing stories from their friends and clients. The rise in women owned tattoo shops isn’t just an extension of the industry, it’s a reaction to it; creating a new space instead of fighting for what is offered. A club with open membership that people are lining up to be a part of.