Why Aren’t Women Orgasming As Much As Men? Let’s Talk the Orgasm Gap.

By Gabrielle Alexa
Originally Published on the I Am Woman Project

Photo by Toa Heftiba

Of the myriad of ways that gender inequality manifests in our daily lives, the orgasm gap is one that doesn’t get enough coverage.

Yes, as if dealing with a gendered pay gap and interpersonal sexism wasn’t enough, we don’t even benefit equally in the bedroom. While one study reports that 39% of straight women are orgasming consistently versus 91% of straight men, and another claims that 57% of straight women are orgasming consistently versus 95% of straight men, the point is that women aren’t orgasming nearly enough. Continue reading

What do Feminist Candles Smell Like?

By Kelcie McKenney

Sometimes passion is all you need to build something amazing.

On behalf of Catcall, I’m excited to announce that we’ve teamed up with Crumble Co., a anti-suicide, pro-joy candle/wax melt company, to make a line of Feminist wax melts.

Founder Brandon Love and I met when I interviewed him for a story for The Pitch (my amazing full-time job where I serve as Digital Editor for KC’s local alternative magazine). His story is one filled with ups and downs; when a bad breakup left him depressed, instead of ending his life he turned his energy towards making a company that helps bring joy. Crumble Co. also has a Facebook support group–Facebook’s largest 24/7 support group for mental health–called Crumble Family, where 20,000 members can share experiences and compassion involving their own mental health.

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I Blamed My Sister for My Miscarriage

By Catcall Contributor

Some summer day when I was sixteen, I woke up with blood underneath me.

In the bathroom, I fingered a loose thread on my pajama shorts before pushing them to my ankles. I thought about weighing myself and about the clear fluid that had been running down my legs for some days. I thought about my boyfriend.

Then I saw the tiny gray-white thing, almost pearlescent. It was no bigger than a blueberry and possessed black dots one could only think of as eyes. There was emptiness burning up from my belly. I stopped thinking, and here, I can clearly mark the point at which my memories of adolescence change shape; time bent forward in a drunken, shallow arc, spilling onto the ground and across the walls as it reached forward. How long was it before I woke up, pushed away my blankets, swung my feet over the side of the bed, and found that the situation needed someone to blame? A month, maybe two. It was still hot outside.

Photo by Claudia Soraya

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