#68: ‘She Dares To Say’ will be going on hiatus
Lyrical essay, taking a break and readers’ poll
This content is not behind a paywall, but since it takes time to create and upload each piece, do please consider becoming a paid subscriber of ‘She Dares to Say’ (especially if this project is something that you value, and you have the means to do so). A paid subscription gets you bonus posts each month and unrestricted access to the full archive of this newsletter. A paid subscription is either billed monthly at £3.79 or annually at £34.99.
If you would prefer to make a one-off donation, feel free to send a contribution via PayPal.
You can also show your enjoyment without spending £££, by liking, commenting, restacking via Notes or just generally sharing 😃
[Image description: Text ‘She Dares To Say will be going on hiatus’ on a lilac background]
I’ve been running this project for more than four years now – the longest I’ve ever managed to maintain such a level of consistency for any personal writing endeavour. Sometimes, when I think about this streak, it surprises me. Because I find writing hard. The distance between what I feel, what I really want to say can be vast – like trying to cup water in my hands only to watch it slip away through my fingers.
So these days, I do a lot of my processing out loud with my voice. I narrate and describe my thoughts and feelings out loud into my phone and then run the audio files through my transcription software, which spits out a text file for me afterwards. When I’m well-slept, grounded and in a thoughtful mood, the ideas that come out of my mouth are formed in long, grammatically correct, multi-clause sentences. But when I’m tired, or over-stimulated, my thoughts are choppy, with lots of filler words and un-finished sentences. Kinda incoherent, really.
But there’s often something there, still. I listen back for the rhythm beneath the chaos. The cadence and tone, the rise and fall of my pacing, trying to re-situate myself in the mood and emotion of it all.
For those of you who’ve been receiving these ‘She Dares To Say’ mailouts from the beginning, you might remember that this project replaced the monthly Kayleigh Daniels Dated emails. Those mailouts were the place where I was promoting my KDD project and linking to all my wider sexuality, intimacy and pleasure work that I was doing for various outlets and brands.
And during 2020, I also had a ‘Blog’ content strand on my old almazohene.com site where I was posting various pieces of prose. Long before that, there were the numerous WordPress blog and Live Journal sites I set up and then abandoned. Basic templates, broken links, unfinished sentences; I loved the charm of the blogging heyday, before everyone had to build their ‘personal brand’, and create ‘content’, and post continuously on social media.
I’d write essays and short stories and poems, mainly about sex and desire. They were raw and unrefined, but I remember the rush of seeing my words take shape there. My hands on the keyboard, the faint hum of the laptop fan, the strange kind of vulnerability that comes with pressing the “publish” button.
Going back even further, I blogged for a very early version of The Sheffield Star’s online site when I was 18 and on my Gap Year. I recently found a scan of a print newspaper cutting about its launch and I was featured in the corner.
[Image description: grainy newspaper cutting of Almaz at aged 18, typing on a computer. She is turned towards the camera and smiling broadly]
I remember I was going into The Sheffield Star’s offices from time to time to write my little blogs and get a feel for what the vibe in a local paper’s newsroom was like.
When I see that photo now, I’m struck by how much younger Almaz resembles current Almaz. My hairstyles haven’t really changed, and neither has the way I carry myself in front of a camera. It’s not just about the face or the hair, though; it’s the energy and the vibe. I compare it to one of the outtakes from a shoot I did last summer, and it’s uncanny.
[Image description: Left: 18-year-old Almaz in 2007; Right: 35-year-old Almaz stands in front of a golden yellow background, turned towards the camera, smiling broadly]
Almaz note: And I suppose I need to add a disclaimer here. I’ve been told I have “good skin for my age”, and people sometimes ask me what I “do”. And I can see the flicker of disbelief when I tell them I don’t really do much. No invasive cosmetic procedures or anything.
I wash my face with whatever shower gel I have on the go (I should probably upgrade to a fancy face wash), swipe some micellar water back and forth with a cotton pad, then moisturise with Nivea cream. My brows are threaded, my lashes occasionally treated with an ‘LVL’ perm, but that’s it.
I’ve been thinking about what it means to recognise yourself across time. Not in the superficial way of “Oh, I haven’t aged much,” but in the sense of continuity. Of knowing there are strong threads that connect the version of me blogging for The Sheffield Star at 18 (and also going back even earlier to the 16-year-old me, throwing up blogs on my MySpace page), to the version of me sitting here now, typing this.
There’s an intimacy to seeing yourself through the years, a visceral familiarity that’s both comforting and unnerving. Like catching your reflection in a window and realising, suddenly, that you’re being watched by yourself. The younger Almaz knew less, of course, but she was also freer in ways that it’s harder to be now I’m in my mid-thirties.
Back then, I felt frustrated by the smallness of my life, living in a quiet suburb, where no-one would properly flirt with me, or ask me out on a date. I was dying to spend time rubbing myself against other bodies. See, my teens were spent hanging out with friends – who were well-off enough to have a Sky box at home – flipping through music channels like MTV, Scuzz, Kerrang and The Box, for hours on end, gorging ourselves on the sexualised bodies of Pop, Rock and Hip-hop stars.
Like most people of my Millennial generation, I’d become transfixed by a cohort of female pop singers that included Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Shakira, Beyoncé, J-Lo, Pussycat Dolls, Mis-Teeq, and Rihanna. From hours and hours watching them prance around on TV, I’d absorbed a visual vocabulary of low-cut crop tops sitting far above the waistbands of low-rise jeans, slinky dresses that clung to every curve, and stiletto heels that demanded a confident strut.
Then came the kinetic vocabulary. The power-stomp of Beyoncé, the undulating hip rolls of Shakira, the slowly winin’ waist of Rihanna.
We practiced these moves obsessively, mimicking every isolating pop of the chest and slow, sinuous grind of the hips. In the music videos, the singers were more than just sexy; their choreography acted like spells that could summon attention and desire from all of the men on screen who were cast as their love interests / foils.
We saved up the money we made at our little evening or Saturday jobs and spent our cash on cheap clothes from the market, and dolled ourselves up with make-up shop-lifted from Superdrug. We were ready to start hitting up the clubs.
On sticky dance floors, my friends and I brought them to life, transforming ourselves into reflections of the stars we idolised. I was in my element, dipping low into a slutdrop, thighs trembling as I hovered there for a beat before snapping upright again. I nailed the Crazy-in-Love booty twerk, so that each bounce synced perfectly to the beat. And I just loved winin’ my waist, moving in slow, hypnotic circles that pulled eyes to me like moths to a flame.
I revelled in the energy of a crowded, sweaty dancefloor. The lights strobed, making every movement feel jagged and urgent. I saw how people responded to the way I moved. The flicker of a smirk, the spark of something like desire. I learned to read the language of bodies in motion, to interpret the subtle cues of interest, hesitance, or indifference.
Whenever I pulled an introverted guy onto the dance floor, I adjusted my energy to meet his. If he stood awkwardly, unsure how to mirror me, I’d sway gently, coaxing him with a softer rhythm. If he didn’t take the bait and made no attempt to close the space between us, I’d smile, suggest heading to the bar, and let him buy me a drink instead. But if he stepped into my space, hands tentative on my waist, I’d melt into him, letting my movements guide his.
Grinding was an art form, a delicate balance of push and pull, where bodies spoke in syncopated pulses. It really was the vertical expression of a horizontal desire.
I loved it. The heat, the proximity, the way a bassline could dissolve the boundaries between strangers. But still, after all the friction, all the sweat, none of these random dance partners wanted my number. None of them looked at me with the hunger that promised a connection beyond the dance floor. I felt desirable and sexy, but there was an ache that came with it, a frustration that this electric physicality never translated into something more.
Fast-forward to the 36-year-old Almaz of today…
There’s something surreal about seeing myself unchanged in certain ways. I still love to dance in that highly sexualised way. I still feel a thrill in the way my body moves, how it can communicate so much without having to utter a word. But social dynamics are different now and people don’t dance like that in public anymore. The post-#MeToo era has rewritten the politics of touch, and the dance floor isn’t the same arena of bold, unspoken intimacy it once was.
Now, when I dance, it’s mostly for myself; rolling my hips in lazy circles, letting my shoulders ripple like waves, throwing my head back and feeling the beat travel through me.
I also still love to pour my thoughts and feelings out onto the page, as I’m sure you guys can all tell. It’s a joy and a release, a way of connecting that feels authentic and meaningful. But I’m going to have to make changes to the way I run this newsletter to make it more viable for me time- and energy-wise.
At the top of each mailout, I have a little note about how it takes time to create and upload each piece, along with a gentle encouragement to upgrade to a paid subscription. I’ve been seeing my general subscriber numbers increasing steadily, but, unfortunately, my paid subscribers aren’t. In fact, they have fallen, and new paid subscribers haven’t come through to sustain income levels.
The number of paid subscribers I currently have isn’t enough for me to continue this project in its current form.
So, I’m having a think about how I can still engage with you all regularly, but not feel like I’m spending a lot of time and effort simply gifting you with my expansive insights. After all, we live under extreme capitalism and creatives can definitely feel very exploited under the current system. So, for next season, I’ll be putting many more of these mailouts behind a paywall.
But, since many hundreds of you read these mailouts each month, I thought I’d give you lot the opportunity to let me know what you’d like to read and/or listen to in this newsletter’s next season.
And to refresh your memory, here are examples of all the different types of content listed in the poll above:
Lyrical essays:
Explaining the cultural significance of West African women wearing ‘waist beads’:
Describing my sex scene-writing process:
Interviews with people:
Revisiting all the ‘What The Notches Said’ interviews:
Revisiting all the ‘Authenticity Arena’ interviews:
Professional updates and events:
Scroll down for the ‘professional updates’ section of the below mailout:
Promo email for my ‘Developing sexual expression and understanding intimacy’ series (each of the four workshops are still available to book for events like hen parties and baby showers):
Guest writer content:
‘Considering My Crushes’ guest essays by writers in my community:
Season 1 round-up of all the guest pieces on sexuality, diversity and coloniality:
I’ll be back when I’m back! 😃
[Image description: Text ‘PRODUCED BY’]
I’m Almaz Ohene, a Creative Copywriter, Freelance Journalist and Accidental Sexpert.
Watch my showreel highlighting the work I’ve been doing within the intimacy pleasure, intimacy and sex ed sectors.
[Image description: Text: “Ms A, Model Commercial, Lifestyle, Editorial, Height: 174cm / 5’ 8.5” UK clothing size: 12 Bust: 91cm / 36” Bra size: 32D Waist: 77cm / 30” Hips: 103cm / 40” Inside leg: 74cm / 29” (to ankle) 83cm / 33” (to floor) Shoe size: 7 / 40 Hair colour: Black, afro-textured / braids Eye colour: Brown]
This content is not behind a paywall, but since it takes time to create and upload each piece, do please consider becoming a paid subscriber of ‘She Dares to Say’ (especially if this project is something that you value, and you have the means to do so). A paid subscription gets you bonus posts each month and unrestricted access to the full archive of this newsletter. A paid subscription is either billed monthly at £3.79 or annually at £34.99.
If you would prefer to make a one-off donation, feel free to send a contribution via PayPal.
You can also show your enjoyment without spending £££, by liking, commenting, restacking via Notes or just generally sharing 😃