I started this month with my story about Microcosm, and I’ve returned for my last zine review. Among the books I bought that day in September was Dick Ain’t Shit, a title that made me laugh.
The older I get, the less I tolerate cis-het white men, and to be honest, I didn’t tolerate them much when I was younger. I was a tomboy in high school. I had guy friends; I had no boyfriends. In university, a married friend of mine said to me, You’re not the kind of person who needs a boyfriend the way most men need a girlfriend. Single, childless women are happier than any other demographic group, and there’s science to prove it.
I didn’t particularly need this zine by Sarah Friedman to teach me how to have a great orgasm, either, but I support the cause. Yes, it’s funny, but it’s also important. It’s the kind of information many women didn’t have even 30 years ago.
This is the role zines have always played. When marginalised people couldn’t pass information in person, they could do it through stories, they could do it through art. The important stuff could hide underground, or sometimes even in plain sight, because the people who couldn’t know didn’t care enough to look. There are whole worlds thriving in the world of zines, even today, even beyond the internet.
Go look. You might find what you need.