I have always dreaded the questions, “Who are you?” “What do you do?”

They appear harmless, even polite. But for me, they have always felt like spotlights, demanding clarity I have never been able to confidently provide. The world seems to reward those who can answer swiftly and succinctly: I am a singer. I am a writer. I am an accountant. Their identities are put neatly into job titles and LinkedIn headlines. Mine spills over the margins.

I do many things. I have a solid background in design and styling. I am a “good” writer and I have strong academic training. I am capable of idea organization, system analysis, and concept creation. On paper, this sounds impressive, versatile even. However, in practice, it has often felt like a liability because while I am competent in many areas, I have mastered none to the point of indisputable excellence (I am saying all this at the ripe age of 21). And in a labour market that increasingly prizes specialization, that leaves me in an awkward middle ground.

I have been in the creative industry professionally for just over a year, approaching two. If I had a dollar for every time an H.O.D told me, “We’re figuring out where to place you,” I would own a Birkin by now. It is a sentence that sounds useful on the surface, as though there is careful consideration happening behind closed doors. But I have heard it often enough to recognize its undertone. It usually means: We don’t quite know what to do with you and because we don’t know what to do with you, we may end up doing nothing at all.

Each time I hear it, I brace myself because I know what follows. A slow fading out. Fewer responsibilities. Less clarity. An eventual ending. It is difficult not to internalize that pattern as a personal failure. I begin to wonder: If I were exceptional at one thing; undeniably, visibly exceptional, would this keep happening? Is the problem my lack of mastery? Is it my inability to condense myself into a single, marketable identity?

My experience in the creative industry has only amplified this tension. Creativity is often romanticized as free-flowing and spontaneous. People jump in, they improvise, they brainstorm aloud and they “freestyle.” There is an assumption that to be creative is to be chaotic in the best possible way. But I do not function like that. Structure is not a preference for me, it is a necessity. Everything I do must operate within order. I thrive with clear instructions, defined expectations and outlined goals. Within structure, I can excel. Without it, I struggle.

Ironically, this need for structure is often misread as a lack of initiative. I have been told I am not “proactive” simply because I do not insert myself into unstructured workflows. But what looks like passivity from the outside is often careful processing on the inside. I am thinking, organizing and waiting for clarity so I can deliver excellence rather than chaos. The creative industry often equates loud participation with passion and spontaneity with talent. But there are other ways to create: quietly, methodically and intentionally.

As a result, I frequently feel disposable. Not because I lack skill, but because my skill does not fit neatly into the molds available. When you are not the obvious specialist, you become the flexible extra. The support, the one who can “help out” in multiple spaces but does not own a single space. And ownership, in the workplace, is currency.

But perhaps the real question is not whether I am to blame or whether the industry is. Maybe the instinct to assign blame is itself misguided. Blame assumes that something is inherently wrong. It suggests deficiency. Yet what if this tension is simply misalignment? The challenge is not necessarily to transform myself into a master of one thing, but to articulate the cohesion between the many things I can do.

Because there IS cohesion. Design informs my writing. Writing sharpens my academic thinking. Academic discipline strengthens my creative concepts. My need for structure can be a superpower in chaotic spaces; it can turn vague ideas into executable plans. What feels fragmented may actually be integrated. I simply have not yet learned how to frame it that way.

Feeling disposable hurts. There is no romantic way to frame that. It chips away at confidence and it makes introductions feel like interrogations. But disposability often reflects systems that cannot categorize you, not a lack of value within you.

I am still learning how to answer the dreaded question, “What do you do?” Perhaps the answer is not a job title at all. Perhaps it is this: I am someone who can build bridges between disciplines, someone who needs structure but can create beauty within it. Maybe I will have a different or concise answer in a few years. But please gentle reader, keep in mind that I am only 21 (gentle reader being me).

As always, thank you for reading.

At what point does it stop being personal preference and start being an anti-fem sentiment? That question feels less rhetorical the more one spends time observing queer dating culture today. What is often brushed off as “just preference” is beginning to reveal itself as something far more patterned, far more collective, and far less neutral than people would like to admit.

A typical definition of a femboy is a slang term for a male, often young or cisgender, who adopts a feminine appearance or behavior, such as wearing skirts, makeup, or having a “soft” presentation. In recent years, you may have heard a term being thrown around a lot: “masc4masc”; a phrase primarily used in LGBTQ+ dating, particularly among gay men and sometimes lesbians, to describe a preference for partners who are both highly masculine in appearance, behavior, and personality. The rise of this preference has left the femboys stranded in the dating pool, floating at the margins of desirability. In this essay, I will talk about how this has now become more than a preference and is starting to look and function like something systemic.

This year, I have been attending clubs and partying a lot because I am now 21, and it feels like the right thing to do. Every time I go out, I try to be in spaces that are queer-friendly. And as I conduct my own observations of human behavior, I have noticed a consistent pattern: femboys are constantly being turned down whenever they try to approach a potential partner, solely because they are femme-presenting. I mean, God forbid a girl’s lace is laid and her lip combo is nasty. Meanwhile, the masc gays are pulling guys left, right, and centre with what seems like ease.

It is difficult to ignore how disheartening this is. It genuinely breaks my heart to see my queens being paid dust in real time. There is something almost tragic about watching someone shrink themselves in a space that is supposed to celebrate expansion. Because slowly, quietly, there is a shift happening. And this is not only in the clubs. On dating apps, “masc4masc” has become one of the most common, if not the most dominant, niches. Others signal this same preference through phrases like “no fems,” “straight-acting,” or “discreet”- coded language that reinforces the same hierarchy while pretending to simply describe taste.

The reason I believe this has become more systemic and no longer just a preference is because it is impossible to ignore men’s inherent misogyny - or more accurately, the way society conditions men to devalue femininity. Men don’t really hate women in isolation; what they are taught to reject is femininity itself. Femininity is framed as weak, excessive, unserious, or performative. It is something to be controlled, mocked, or kept at a distance. And when that belief system is internalized, it doesn’t magically disappear in queer spaces. Instead, it gets repackaged.

In queer male spaces, masculinity becomes the gold standard because it is still aligned with power. It is still legible, still respected, still “safe.” A masculine-presenting gay man can move through the world with a certain level of ease because he does not disrupt straight people’s comfort too much. But the moment femininity enters the room (whether through a wig, a heel, a gesture, or a voice) it becomes “too much.” Too loud. Too visible. Too unapologetic. And suddenly, what should be celebrated becomes something to distance oneself from.

I think it is also high time the gay community confronts its internalized homophobia. Because what does it say when queerness is only acceptable as long as it mimics heterosexual norms? When being “masc” is rewarded not just with attraction but with social legitimacy? There is a fear operating here, and it is often disguised as preference. You don’t want the femboys not simply because they are not your type, but because you are scared. Scared that being seen with them will make you more visible. Scared that their femininity will reflect onto you. Scared that you will become more vulnerable to discrimination by association.

This idea is explored by Bophelo Seleke in their Substack essay There Is Nothing Neutral About Preference, which argues that attraction, especially in queer contexts, is socially conditioned rather than neutral. In South Africa, where queerness is legally recognized but still socially constrained, preferences often prioritize safety. Masculine, “straight-passing” men are favored because they can navigate public life with less friction, while femininity is pushed to the margins. You see this clearly in how straight men are comfortable with gay men as long as they are masc-presenting, but the minute they put on a wig, suddenly they are “doing too much.”

Because of this high rise in masc preference, we are losing our fem boys. And not in an abstract way - in a very real, visible way. They are starting to cosplay as masc for male validation. These queens are sacrificing being who they are for a chance at being loved, desired, and chosen. The wig is exchanged for a fresh fade. The heels are thrown out for a pair of Air Force 1s. The softness is tucked away. And in that process, pure queer expression begins to die, or at the very least, gets diluted into something more palatable.

This is not about blaming individuals for who they are attracted to. It is about interrogating patterns. When an entire group of people is consistently excluded, dismissed, or undervalued, it stops being random. It becomes structural. It becomes something we have to name and confront.

We must also be cognisant of the zeitgeist and how the political climate of the 2020s feeds into this narrative. Across many parts of the world, there has been a rise in conservative ideologies that reinforce rigid ideas about gender and sexuality. These movements often frame visible queerness, especially femininity in men, as excessive, inappropriate, or even threatening. In response, there is a growing pressure, both subtle and explicit, to conform. To be quieter. To be less visible. To be more “acceptable.”

Within that context, the appeal of masculinity makes sense: it offers a kind of social camouflage. But when that camouflage becomes the standard of desirability within queer spaces themselves, it creates a hierarchy that mirrors the very systems those spaces are meant to resist.

So again, at what point does it stop being personal preference and start being anti-fem sentiment? Maybe the answer lies in repetition. In patterns. In who gets chosen and who gets left behind, over and over again. Because if femininity continues to be treated as something undesirable (even within communities built on the idea of embracing difference) then we are not just talking about preference anymore. We are talking about a quiet, collective bias that deserves to be called out.

Let it be known that I am also calling myself out with this piece, lol, this is my most hypocritical one yet. As always thank you so much for reading, let’s hope it doesn’t take me yet another 3 months to post an essay on here. BYEEEE

This started out as a personal essay and somehow turned into a think piece so please bare with me. I consider myself a late bloomer sexually (which might sound dramatic, considering I’m twenty one) but the delay had less to do with age and more to do with how I understood sex growing up. For most of my childhood and early adulthood, I moved through life believing that sex was something only hot people participated in.

That idea didn’t come out of nowhere. I was a chronic TV watcher as a kid and the pattern was always the same: whenever sex showed up on screen, it was between a really beautiful woman and an attractive man, at least according to traditional beauty standards. Over time, that repetition planted a quiet but powerful message; that desire, intimacy and sexual freedom belonged to a very specific type of body.

Things only got worse with my inevitable introduction to pornography. The tall, muscular guy was always paired with the slim-curvaceous woman with perfect skin. The more I consumed this kind of media, the more I internalized the idea that sex wasn’t meant for people like me. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see Gadaffi from Generations or the muscled stallion from mainstream porn and eventually I stopped imagining sex as something that could ever be part of my life.

Sex as a Taboo Subject

Growing up in a Black African household, sex was not just private, it was unspeakable. It existed somewhere in the background of life, unacknowledged and unnamed, yet quietly powerful. You were taught from an early age that “good” children did not ask questions about sex, showed little curiosity, and certainly did not display desire. Any attempt to do so was quickly shut down, often with silence, discomfort, or harsh reprimand. Looking back, I believe this silence stunted my sexual growth. Not because sex itself was harmful, but because ignorance was.

When questions naturally arose (about bodies, attraction, pleasure or intimacy) there was nowhere safe to put them. No open conversations, no comfort, no guidance. Instead, my curiosity had to be stifled or deflected and like many others in similar households, I learned to explore these issues alone, silently and often with shame. The absence of dialogue didn’t prevent exposure; it simply ensured that whatever understanding I formed was incomplete and unsupported.

One of the biggest subjects within this already taboo topic is pornography. Porn exists in a strange contradiction: it is everywhere, yet rarely discussed honestly. Polly Barton’s 2023 book ‘Porn: An Oral History’ confronts this contradiction head-on by interrogating the silence surrounding pornography through a series of intimate and candid interviews. Barton’s work highlights something deeply familiar: while porn is ubiquitous, it remains shrouded in shame, secrecy and moral panic, especially within families and close relationships.

For many young people, pornography becomes the default educator in the absence of open conversations about sex. Yet without guidance or context, it can distort expectations, fuel insecurities and reinforce harmful ideas about bodies and desire. In my situation, watching porn in seclusion increased my body image issues. I internalized what I saw, unaware that others were questioning, criticizing, or even rejecting the same pictures. I had no way of knowing if my friends were equally perplexed, insecure, or distrustful.

I truly believe that if porn had been a shameless topic to discuss while growing up, my experience would have been different. Hearing other perspectives from my friends, siblings or trusted adults would have provided more nuance. It would have humanized the experience and reminded me that porn is not reality, that bodies come in an infinite variety and that desire is deeply personal rather than prescriptive.

Sexual Freedom Is For the Ultra-Hot

We like to pretend that sexual freedom is universal; that anyone, regardless of appearance can explore their desire without being judged. However, in practice, sexual liberation is unevenly distributed. It is quietly reserved for the ultra-hot.

Society has a long history of picking and choosing who it celebrates for being sexually free. The pattern is obvious: the closer you are to conventional beauty standards (thin, attractive, socially desirable) the more your sexual expression is applauded rather than policed. In this sense, sexual liberation becomes more about aesthetics rather than autonomy.

This hierarchy shows up early, often as early as school. In high school, there is an underlying expectation about who is “allowed” to be sexual. The “fat” or conventionally unattractive girl is rarely imagined as someone who has sex at all. Her sexuality is erased. And if she does display sexual autonomy, it immediately becomes a problem - something shameful, inappropriate or even alarming. Her desire is viewed as a moral failure rather than a personal choice.

Meanwhile, the skinny, pretty girl receives a whole different narrative. When she expresses sexual freedom, it is interpreted as empowerment. She is praised, labeled confident, daring, even progressive. Her behavior is more likely to be interpreted as feminist or liberated. The actions themselves may be the same, but the social response is vastly different.

And I can’t help but wonder how much of this is due to the way sex is portrayed in traditional media. When sex is shown in film & TV, it is stylized, curated and almost exclusively limited to those who look a specific way. Audiences, like me, come to believe that sexuality is a reward for beauty rather than a human experience.

The more the media welcomes genuine diversity (various body types, faces, genders and expressions) the more opportunities there are for people to develop a healthy self image. Representation impacts not only who we see on screen, but also who we believe is allowed to desire, be desired and live freely without shame.

Until sexual freedom is separated from beauty privilege, it will remain just that: a privilege. Not a right.

Johannesburg has long presented itself as a cultural power house: restless, layered and politically inclined. From protest theatre to experimental fashion, from kwaito to contemporary visual art, the city’s creative legacy is rooted in urgency and intent. Yet within much of today’s creative scene, there is a growing disconnect between the work being produced and the reasons it exists at all. The problem is not a lack of talent or access, but a crisis of purpose.

The Death of Research and Curiosity

At the core of this disconnect is the gradual disappearance of research as a serious practice. Research is increasingly being viewed as an aesthetic shortcut rather than a discipline: a mood board, a few references, a buzzword-filled statement. Deep engagement with history, theory and lived experience is now optional.

This is important because research is more than just academic labor; it requires an ethical commitment. Without it, work floats free of context, repeating old ideas through new lenses. When artists stop asking why something exists, who it serves and what it responds to, creativity becomes decorative rather than interrogative.

Where Is the Social Commentary?

We would be kidding ourselves if we said Joburg is a neutral city. It is shaped by inequality, migration, violence, desire, resistance and survival. Historically, its artists have responded directly to these realities. Today, most of the creative projects seem strangely disengaged from the social conditions that make the city what it is.

This absence of commentary does not signal neutrality, it signals comfort. When creatives avoid political or social responsibility, it is often because critique threatens access, funding or social capital. The result is work that is visually polished but intellectually hollow: content that circulates well online but says very little

Culture as Costume

One of the most troubling patterns in the scene is the way culture is mined rather than understood. Wealthier creatives (often insulated from the material realities of the communities they reference) borrow aesthetics, language and symbols without accountability. There’s a big difference between being inspired by someone’s culture and profiting off of it.

Culture becomes a costume: something to be worn, then discarded. The people whose lives give these aesthetics significance are rarely centered, acknowledged, or financially rewarded. This is not collaboration, it is extraction. And it reinforces the same inequalities that art so often claims to challenge.

Queer Stories, Straight Profit

A similar dynamic plays out in the commodification of queer narratives. Queer pain, joy and resistance are increasingly used as raw material by straight men who face none of the social risks attached to these identities.

The issue is not that straight creatives should never engage queer stories, but that they often do so without humility, accountability, or redistribution of power. When representation becomes a branding strategy than a responsibility, it strips queer narratives of their political force and turns them into marketable trends.

Cliques and Creative Flattening

Social media has intensified the formation of creative cliques; tight circles that validate one another, recycle the same references and reward conformity. These networks offer protection and opportunity but also stifle risk leading to these creatives forgetting their responsibility to motivate and inspire. Belonging becomes more important than integrity. Over time, the scene starts to feel smaller, not larger - dominated by a few recurring faces, styles and narratives.

Ironically, many of these creatives are deeply compelling as individuals. In isolation, they are thoughtful, curious and complex. But within group settings, that complexity often collapses.

Group dynamics encourage performance: the right opinions, the right aesthetics, the right alliances. Difference becomes dangerous. As a result, individuality is traded for acceptance and the work suffers.

Dunusa: A Test That Many Failed

Dunusa was more than a venue, it was a cultural infrastructure built by and for black and queer creatives, a space that offered visibility, opportunity and community in a city that routinely erases both.

When it was shut down there were few public statements, little organized resistance, no sustained creative or political response. This was a litmus test for whether the scene truly believes in the spaces, narratives and communities it profits from. For many, Dunusa was valuable only when it functioned as a backdrop. Once it required defense, it became expendable.

But as many people remain silent, it is a breath of fresh air when creatives like Mickyle Berling (@mickyleberling_) take a stand - she wrote her Master's thesis on the Dunusa market, exploring how the second-hand market, its traders, and thrift culture weave Johannesburg's forgotten spaces into "living architecture."

Toward a Reconnection

The solution is not nostalgia for a “better” past, nor moral purity. It is a return to intentionality. Joburg creatives must relearn how to research deeply, engage ethically, and position their work within the realities of the city they claim to represent.

This means asking uncomfortable questions, sharing power, and accepting that good work may not always be popular or profitable. It means valuing substance over access and purpose over proximity.

Until the work reconnects with its why, Joburg’s creative scene will continue to look busy, stylish and hollow - full of movement, but going nowhere.

Last Friday night, Backyard made a spectacular comeback with one of their legendary parties, this time a Halloween Slumber Party hosted by the brilliant team Pink n Noir at Great Dane in Melville. And let me tell you, it was easily one of the liveliest nights of the year.

Although the night was a full-on celebration, the venue’s intimate ambiance made it feel personal and immersive, one of the many wonders of Great Dane. The space was transformed with eerie decor: bleeding limbs, decomposing brains, and scattered spiders that made you feel like you had stepped straight into American Horror Story. The dim red lighting added to the surreal atmosphere, giving everything a dreamlike, almost lucid quality.

But as much as the decor and vibe set the tone, it was the crowd that truly made the night unforgettable. Imagine a mix of Storm from X-Men, the Monster High cast, and the White Chicks - that’s how eclectic and star-studded the guest list felt. The creativity on display was next-level; someone even showed up dressed as ChatGPT while another was the full embodiment of Checkers Sixty60. And major props to Backyard for pulling off what once seemed impossible: getting straight men to actually dress up in costume.

For those who wanted to immortalize their looks, there was an editorial photo station managed by the talented Nondumiso Shangee, ensuring every costume had its moment in the spotlight.

Of course, no Backyard event is complete without an exceptional music lineup. The night kicked off with some tasteful music from Zano, and JADE T, who got the crowd moving with a vibey amapiano set. Then, Mordecai took over with some alt-pop realness. After that, Masego fed our Kaytranada cravings with some house music, followed by Glock Angel, who closed the night with a heavy dose of Gqom therapy. Between DJ sets, the crowd was treated to live performances from Lia Butler, whose vocals were nothing short of divine, and Money Badoo, who summoned all the baddies to the stage with her electric energy.

To keep things exciting, Backyard hosted a best costume competition, with the winner taking home a Backyard voucher. The competition was fierce, but in the end, the White Chicks ensemble snatched the crown.

In every sense, Backyard succeeded in creating a safe, inclusive, and vibrant space for everyone - filled with good vibes, beautiful music, and even better people.

Here’s to Backyard for another unforgettable night and until next year’s party, we’ll be counting down the days.