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Ariana Grande's 'God Is a Woman' Video Is an Incredible Manifesto for Empowering Female Sexuality


There are going to be plenty of people who don’t understand Ariana Grande‘s just-dropped “God Is a Woman” video—and not because they don’t know what to make of those screaming animatronic marmots that pop up halfway through.

They won’t understand it because they don’t understand Ariana Grande, or anyone else who doesn’t fit neatly into their antiquated mold of what a woman should be. They give us two options—virgin or whore—and that dichotomy can be an especially difficult one to defy when you laid the groundwork for your career at a super-young age. But Grande, who has always been an outspoken feminist and refused to be defined by her sexuality, rejects the notion that women can only be one thing, that feminine sensuality and divinity can’t go hand in hand.

When she posted a lengthy statement rejecting double standards and gender discrimination in 2015, she closed it with a Gloria Steinem quote that feels particularly relevant to “God Is a Woman”: “Any woman who chooses to behave like a full human being should be warned that the armies of the status quo will treat her as something of a dirty joke… She will need her sisterhood.”

On its own, “God Is a Woman” is ultimately a song about sex. Its central concept is a straightforward and empowering one: “You love it how I move you/you love it how I touch you/My one, when all is said and done/You’ll believe God is a woman.” Grande also advocates for equality in the bedroom—something that shouldn’t feel radical in the year 2018, but still is in a culture that continues to shame women for enjoying sex and discourages them from speaking about their desires. Case in point: the Sweetener track, with lines like, “And I can tell that you know I know how I want it/Ain’t nobody else can relate/Boy, I like that you ain’t afraid/Baby, lay me down and let’s pray/I’m tellin’ you the way I like it, how I want it.”

The video takes these themes and adds some religious iconography to drive home the point that there is power in female sexuality. It opens with Grande at the center of the universe—literally and figuratively—as some sort of enormous godlike figure, hula-hooping the galaxy that surrounds her. Later, she’s naked and partially submerged in a pool of pink and purple paint that looks suspiciously like a giant vulva. She dances inside the flame of a candle and is worshipped by a choir dressed in all-white robes. At one point, she sits on top of the world, fingering the eye of a hurricane.

Some of it is not at all subtle, like the all-female recreation of Michelangelo’s “The Creation of Adam” that closes the video and replaces Adam with Eve and God with Grande, or the Mother Earth imagery when Grande descends a mountain and strokes her growing, animated belly like some sort of fertility goddess (which has, of course, led to feverish speculation online that she’s pregnant—sigh). Some of it is more open to interpretation: Is the three-headed dog behind her supposed to be Cerberus, the ravenous creature who guards the underworld in Greek mythology? Or is it Fluffy, the character who guards the Sorcerer’s Stone in Harry Potter (of which Grande is a noted superfan)?

At first glance, it may seem like the tiny men below her in one shot are propping her up—blasphemy!—but look closer, and it’s apparent that she’s nursing them, a nod to Romulus and Remus of Roman mythology, often depicted as suckling at the teat of the she-wolf that raised them. When she walks a tightrope against an all-pink backdrop, it’s easy to assume she’s carrying balloons as she toes whatever fine lines society has laid out for her, but watch carefully and you’ll see she’s actually holding a cluster of planets. Our girl’s got the universe in her hands.

The video’s most striking image, however, features a spoken-word assist from none other than Madonna (who better to help dismantle the madonna-whore complex than the woman behind “Like a Prayer”?). It comes as Grande—dressed for battle in gloves that read “POWER” and a helmet with her trademark ears—mouths the pop icon’s reading of Ezekiel 25:17, the verse made famous by Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, replacing “brothers” with “sisters”: “And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my sisters. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.”

She then flings an oversized gavel (justice!) and shatters a literal glass ceiling, revealing an enormous pair of outstretched female legs. She poses in front of the heavenly rays beaming from the giant, shimmering crotch. Grande tweeted a clip of the scene yesterday, writing, “To my fellow goddesses who work their asses off every day to ‘break the glass ceiling,’ this is for you. I respect u and am endlessly inspired by u. pls continue to fuck it up, to be yourself unapologetically & always know how celebrated u are. hope this can be ya anthem.”

“God Is a Woman” is an anthem: for female sexuality, for knowing what you want and not being afraid to ask for it, for knowing your own worth, for recognizing that women can be powerful and spiritual and horny and whatever the hell else they want to be, all at once. Grande knows that there will be people who don’t get it, and she’s not particularly concerned with them. At one point in the video, she sits unbothered as small men hurl words like “bitch,” “fake” and “annoying” at her. They bounce right off of her, and she doesn’t even look at them. And that alone is enough to make “God Is a Woman” an anthem worth worshipping.

Watch it below:

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Cancer Changed My Breasts, Not My Sexuality


When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in May 2014, I was 28 years old, in grad school, living paycheck to paycheck as a part-time sexuality educator, and planning my wedding. I had lost my mom to breast cancer when I was 13, so I had a hunch it was coming for me, but the timing was not ideal—not that it ever is. The universe continues to remind me that life is just going to show up and it’s up to me how I respond.

That statement rang true over and over again: When I decided to cut off my dreadlocs before chemotherapy so I wouldn’t have to wake up and find them loose in my bed; during my wedding dress fitting, as the seamstress situated my gown around surgical drains hanging from each breast; and right before I was put under anesthesia for my double mastectomy that June, when I blurted enthusiastically to the nurses, “I’m having a boob job!” even though I was trying not to cry. I seemed functional to those around me, but I had been grappling for some control over the chaos in my life.

As a black, queer femme, adversity exists for me as normal; breast cancer, hard as it was, wasn’t my first hardship. My family history is rich with a long lineage of black women who’ve not been granted time to heal or address their personal wounds. We are just supposed to do, and when we are unable, hold back tears to appear useful in our stillness. I learned about this secret-keeping from my mom.

I found some lube in my her closet once. It was after my parents had separated a couple of years after her diagnosis, and she was dating again. I was young and didn’t know what it was exactly, but I could piece the clues together—it was suggestively shaped, like a Coke bottle, and had “sex” written on the label. My mom had had a lumpectomy which took a nipple with it, and she never related this as a loss in her sexual self. If anything, being newly single and finished with chemo, baby hairs and all, had her feeling ready to date.

It’s funny how the universe does what it wants regardless of if you are ready or not, and also how it repeats itself.

A year and a half after being married, my wife and I divorced. It wasn’t my breast cancer that undid us, but rather the opportunity of stillness in our relationship. I experienced a great deal of fatigue, so what I preferred to do most of the time was to be still. The adventures that we would take or plan were put on hold, while any arguments we had pushed under the rug had to be buried even farther—and in this stillness they all came tumbling out.

What I found when I began dating again was that something had been missing from “us,” not from me.

The absence of sex created more of a strain. My body was in recovery for most of our marriage. After my double mastectomy, I could not lift my arms above my head for several weeks and needed assistance getting in and out of bed. I suffered painful vaginal dryness and a lowered libido, which I hadn’t known could be side effects of chemo until I went to my doctor wondering if something was wrong with me. I at least knew I didn’t want to be touched, not then.

I had become protective over my body. I wanted to know people’s intentions for coming close—and loving me was not sufficient. With the endless amount of hands on me on a regular basis, my body became a site of constant undesired touch. A year and a half had passed by in my marriage and we had barely grazed one another. I was becoming completely content sleeping with our 40-pound pit bull wedged between us. I thought my illness was wedged between us, too, but what I found when I began dating again was that something had been missing from “us,” not from me.

PHOTO: Nema Etebar

If it’s warm out, I’m contemplating if I can wear a sheer shirt. On this day, it wasn’t warm (hence the coat), but I went for it anyway.


When I moved out, I was thrust into the alien world of online dating. I started with Tinder. Should I add photos of my double mastectomy, so they know what they are signing up for? I wondered. And, Should I include “breast cancer survivor” in the bio?

I went with, “Ericka Hart, M.Ed – Black, queer, Sagittarius, and breast cancer survivor.” I uploaded a picture of myself wearing a head wrap and a T-shirt, at a high enough angle to capture my cheekbones—I didn’t show my body at all, letting the bio be enough of a heads up. I was self-conscious, sure, but my desire to be intimate overrode my nerves. So I hit “save,” and my profile went live.

I started going on dates pretty quickly (like I said, Sagittarius), but being a queer non-binary pansexual femme in New York City meant limited choices (and I live in Brooklyn, I wasn’t about to travel Uptown). But the messages came in, and it wasn’t long before I had my first coy request for nudes. I nearly fell off my bed. Yes, it says “breast cancer survivor” right there on my profile, but that can look so many ways. Who knows what this person might be expecting to receive in a quick sext.

For me, after a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgeries, here’s what it looks like: I still have breast mounds (thanks to silicone implants), but they’re more rectangular shaped than cupped, and there are horizontal scars striped across the center of each one where my nipples used to be. I still felt sexy—and sexual—in my body, but receiving that message, I was confronted with fears that others may not see it that way. Perhaps this person glossed over the “cancer” part of my bio entirely, or assumed the illness was merely a part of my past and not written permanently across my body.

My mind raced for a minute too long for texting etiquette, and I was met with an urgent-feeling, “You still there?”

And so I went for it: I lifted up my shirt, curved my body in a way that I hoped would distract from my breasts to maybe my hips, and hit send.

After a “goodnight” text, I never heard from that person again.

I want to say I was hurt from this experience, but it honestly felt familiar. I’m no stranger to comparison and holding myself up against others who are more often admired for their looks—light-skinned black girls and white girls, for instance. Not being pursued because of my looks was not uncomfortable or weird, it was pretty normal.

Just over a month later, I swiped right on a beautiful person from California visiting Brooklyn for a month. We had a two-hour date which felt like we were just catching up on missed time, and two days later he wrote a poem describing the way that I walk. Perhaps for the first time, my whole self was being worshipped. I had been jumping over hurdles when I was married and then dating. At each intersection of my identity there would be the heavy lift of explaining who I am, the struggle of internalizing some expectation of how the world painted me, and then, after all that, a rejection.

Two years later in a madly juicy off-the-walls love with that poet from California, my double mastectomy scars are not treated as a separate or a confusing part of me. My entire existence is elevated and supported daily, just for its mere presence, not for what it can or can not do. Not for what it’s missing—which, if you ask me, is not a damn thing.



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Black-ish Star Tracee Ellis Ross on Singlehood, Self-Love, and Owning Her Sexuality


I want to preface this by saying I might not appear to have a lot in common with Tracee Ellis Ross. I do not star in a hit TV show. I do not have 4 million Instagram followers. I was most definitely not raised by a music icon. But I’m not married and I don’t have kids, and that is something Ross and I share. So when I heard her speak at Glamour’s Women of the Year Summit—where she denounced the cultural pressure on women to couple up and trot out some tots—I felt like she spoke to my soul.

“It’s really interesting to be a woman and to get to 45 and not be married and not have kids,” Ross told the audience. Even though she’s killing it in many ways—“I’m a good friend, a solid daughter, a hard worker, my credit is good, I take out the garbage before it gets smelly, I recycle, and I won a Golden Globe!”—she is still judged on the marriage and kid counts. Well-meaning people remind Ross that it’s “never too late” for her life to have, quote, meaning: “As if all that I have done and who I am doesn’t matter.” In her confusion about these expectations, she took to her journal, where she had an epiphany: “I wrote down, ‘My life is mine….’ Those words stopped me in my tracks and honestly brought so many tears to my eyes.” And the realization opened a door for her to sort out what her life could look like if she had full ownership of it. “I’m going to pay attention to the reality of my life and the audacity of my dreams instead of the expectation I was raised with,” Ross said on stage. Amen, I thought. The idea that we, as women, are whole and complete as ourselves, not in relation to anyone else, is something we all want acknowledged by society in 2018.

Tracee’s Squad “My friends know: My home phone ringer doesn’t turn off. You need me in the middle of the night? I am your girl. I will bring you to the hospital. I will call you if you are frightened.”
Marc Jacobs bodysuit.

And that message is at the heart of Ross’s work. When she’s not blessing us with seminal speeches, she’s playing a fully cooked human, Rainbow “Bow” Johnson, on ABC’s I. Sure, Bow’s got a husband and kids, but those are just two parts of her life: She’s also an anesthesiologist, an activist, a sexual being, a Beyoncé fan, and more. “What’s so interesting to me about Bow is her selfhood,” Ross recently said when accepting an award from Women in Film. “Not just her motherhood, her jobhood, or her wifehood, but that she is a self with all of those parts.”

Ross herself is a woman with many parts: She is an actress, an advocate, a fashion designer, a beauty disruptor, a ­political opiner—and a doctor. Seriously. She is Dr. Tracee Ellis Ross, thanks to an honorary doctorate from her alma mater, Brown University. And she’s teaching us all to get to know ourselves, to own our dreams and desires, to celebrate our individual paths, and to make space for people to follow their own paths too. Dr. Ross, everyone.


GLAMOUR: In 2017, you became the first black woman in more than 30 years to win the Golden Globe for best actress in a comedy and you got an Emmy nod. You just got nominated for a 2018 NAACP Image Award. What do those wins and nods mean to you?

TRACEE ELLIS ROSS: There’s the personal gratification: I have dreamt of moments like these since I was a little girl, accepting my Oscar in the mirror. So it’s a dream come true. Oh my God, I made it. Pinch me. But what has been way more impactful for me is the larger meaning…. When another woman or another woman of color has a win, I feel like it’s my win. I feel like it’s a ceiling breaking open. And so the nominations, even the win, really feels like it’s not mine. It’s like something becomes more possible.

GLAMOUR: Let’s talk about Black-ish: There’s so much to Bow as a character, and that’s still rare for a sitcom wife.

TER: It is, and Black-ish is told through [Bow’s husband] Dre’s eyes, so it is very traditional in that sense. But I am not wife wallpaper in his world. The tendency, in the old paradigm of how you look at a sitcom wife, is to say, “Isn’t it incredible that she’s also a doctor?” And it’s like, No, what’s incredible about her is that she’s a doctor, wife, mother, person—at any given point she can be any of those things. She’s very fully-formed.

And I am constantly asking questions of the writers: Why? Why am I doing—I coined it as lady chores—why is it that I am making lunches, and Dre is not making lunches? Why am I carrying laundry? Can I not come out of the laundry room, and come in from work? Can I have a wine glass instead of be stirring soup? The writers—we have almost 50 percent female writers—they are so attuned to Bow. There is no one consciously attempting to give me lady chores, but sometimes [it happens] unconsciously. Anthony [Anderson, who plays Dre] will be like, “Let’s switch; let me take a lady chore.” I would say that eight out of 10 times, it gets changed. Sometimes it doesn’t work for the story…and you know what? I have no problem [then]. I do laundry, I wash dishes, I make food as a human being.

GLAMOUR: That’s true. As long as that’s not the only thing you see Bow do. How does it feel to play a character whose lived experience is so different from your own? She is married with five kids!

That Ross Family Glow “My mom looks like she swallowed the sun. The light that’s coming out of her!” Like mother, like daughter!
Nina Ricci dress. Palm Angels pants. Jennifer Fisher x La Ligne earrings. Louis Vuitton sneakers.

PHOTO: Patrick Demarchelier

Love Yourself How, exactly, does Ross do that? By taking baths, eating hot soup (“slows you down”), and leaning into friendships (“people who can see me when I can’t see myself”).
Marc Jacobs jacket, bodysuit, pants. Hanro of Switzerland bra. Bia Daidone earrings. Louis Vuitton sneakers.

TER: It is fun, and sometimes it feels like it steals certain experiences from me. I’ve never been pregnant. As I said in my Women of the Year Summit speech, “It’s really interesting to be a woman and to get to 45, and not be married and not have kids. Especially when you have just pushed out your fifth kid on TV.” And to have spent an entire season pregnant! …On the other hand, it feels very natural: I am very mothering. Whether I end up having children or not, I will always be a very mothering person.

GLAMOUR: You recently hosted the American Music Awards, where your mom received the Lifetime Achievement Award. I loved seeing her perform on that stage at 73. What was that like for you?

TER: The Diana Ross we all know kind of doesn’t hold a candle to the mom that I have, in her extraordinary ability to love. What was most impactful about that moment to me was that my mother was receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award for her career, and the most important thing to my mom was to have her entire family onstage with her. My mom had my nieces and ­nephews—her grandchildren—dancing around her. Whenever we go see her show, that’s what happens. That’s the way I grew up, dancing onstage while my mom was singing. Just like walking on the stage and tapping her on the butt, and like, “Mom, Mom.” My mom holds her family and a career and nourishes both things.

GLAMOUR: That’s amazing. Your mom was raised in Detroit. She has said she came from a poor family. Meanwhile, as a kid, you were dancing onstage with her in front of fans. Those sound like different childhoods. What did she do when you were young to help ground you and connect you to her own experience?

TER: First of all, my mom is very close to her family, and so we were too. My mom is one of six. We used to spend most of my Christmases in my grandmother’s house in Detroit with all of my cousins. I don’t think my mom needed to make a concerted effort to, for example, “ground her children.” I think my mom’s moral compass and sense of priority—that family is first—and her gift has given her family the opportunity to have the life that we’ve had.

My mom always used to make funny jokes, which were not that funny to me, like, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. No, no, no, I made this money for me. I will pay for a roof over your head, your doctor’s appointments, food. Other than that? You guys need to figure that out for yourself.” [I remember], one of her best lines of my childhood—I have always been attempting to make friends with my hair, and I went through this phase where I tried every hair product in the world. My mom said to me, “Listen to me: You either need to get yourself an incredibly good job, or”—and by the way, this is generational, but she did put job first—“or a very wealthy husband to pay for your hair products alone, because they are going to break the bank. Call it quits on the hair products. I can’t deal with it.”

GLAMOUR: That’s hilarious. Did your mom ever try to dissuade you from going into modeling and then show business?

“The key is you ask yourself:
What do I need right now?”

TER: No, she actually helped me do all of those things. My mom was in my first meeting with Wilhelmina, the modeling agency. She set it up. I did the Thierry Mugler fashion show because of her. Thierry Mugler had asked her to do it, and she said the only way I’ll do it is if you let my daughter walk too. So my mom never dissuaded it; although I will say, she was very big on saying things like, “You sure you don’t want to be a doctor?” Her sister is a world-renowned doctor: Dr. Barbara Ross-Lee, the first black female dean of a medical school. So we had all of those options open to us. But what I saw in my mother was a woman with a platform, who had agency in her life. I walked toward that.

GLAMOUR: You mentioned before that she also taught you a lot about love. What in particular did she teach you?

TER: My mother has a deep heart for her children that I almost don’t understand.… I have these memories, like I said, my mom is onstage doing her job, and as a kid, I would wander in during shows, like, “Hey, Mom.” And she was not like, “Get off the stage! Get out of my moment!” She’s like, “What’s up?” I have never heard my mom say, “Not now—I don’t have time.” Even now, in the middle of the night, my mom will answer the telephone. It’s incredible to know you are loved in a way that somebody is there for you.

That’s something that I have used in my relationships with friends. My friends know: My home phone ringer doesn’t turn off. You need me in the middle of the night? I am your girl. I will bring you to the hospital. I will call you if you are frightened.

GLAMOUR: I want to ask about your Glamour speech. You talked about finding love outside of traditional romantic relationships, one place being friendships. At my close friend’s wedding, she said something like, “I’m so glad that I finally have someone to share my life with.” Obviously, I was happy she found this wonderful human, but in that moment, I also thought, Excuse me, I’ve been sharing your life with you for a decade! Why is there this lingering idea that there’s a higher sense of love that comes only in romantic partnerships? That drives me nuts!

TER: Well, it does drive me nuts. I will say—listen—I do not want to make out with my best friend, nor do I want them to spoon me naked. So that is a simple and clear distinction. However, I will tell you that my best friend, for example, is very clear, with her husband—that I’m in the relationship too. There is a clear distinction between [our roles though]. She had a conversation with her husband recently, and she said to him, “Listen to me, Tracee is not available right now, so you’re going to have to take on a different role and listen to what I’m saying to you. Don’t try and fix what I’m saying; don’t try and give me an answer. I need to share.” And she shared some details that usually would have gone to me. Different people have different roles in our lives. One of the ways of cultivating my own selfhood is that I get to lean into different people.

GLAMOUR: In your speech you said you’ve had to be your own support. What does it look like to support yourself in dark moments?

TER: The key is you ask yourself, What do I need right now? I’ve cultivated a relationship with myself where I know I have choices…. I have a toolbox of ways I can find support; journaling is helpful, or meditation.

And I have had to really make friends with loneliness. And know the difference between choice-ful solitude and lonely. [I find comfort in] being able to name it, to say I’m feeling lonely, then to have a tribe of people I feel safe enough with to share: This is how I feel.

I don’t have the luxury of not going to work when I don’t feel up to it. Most people don’t. On those days, I acknowledge I am feeling f-cking crappy, and I’m not at my best, and I still want to or need to keep walking forward. I have to do some of my best work on my worst days. I have to look pretty even when I don’t feel pretty. There’s a way to hold both things.

GLAMOUR: In your speech you imagined a world where women own their sexuality. How were you raised to think about yours?

PHOTO: Neilson Barnard/Getty Images

Ross with her family (including, among others, her mom, Diana, center, and her brother Evan and his wife Ashlee Simpson, center left) at the American Music Awards.

TER: My mom is a sexy woman—that is part of her persona—and that is a delicious thing that has never felt scary to me. Recently I learned this wonderful term, sex-positive, and that is the way I feel. [For me] the answer to the objectification of women and black women in our culture is not to shut down my sexuality but to own it as something that is mine.

GLAMOUR: One response to #MeToo that’s bugged me is men saying: Can you even compliment a woman anymore? Can you hug a female colleague anymore? What would you say to those guys?

TER: [This] is connected wholeheartedly to consent. It can be as simple as asking, May I hug you? I ask my therapist that before I leave the office—I say, “May I hug you?” Ask the question: “Is it OK for me to hug you? Is it OK for me to ask that?” That’s all you have to do. And then, if somebody is even offended by the question, then the response is “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” End of story.

GLAMOUR: Simple.

TER: Yes, it is so simple. Of course people want to be complimented, but you want to be complimented in a way that respects who you are—maybe you don’t want to be complimented on your clothing. You have that right to say to your coworker, “That’s not a thing that I enjoy.” “Oh, no problem. I won’t do that anymore.” It is all about respect and giving people a choice about how we are touching and talking about their body. Historically, women have not had ownership of our own bodies. And it is enough. It is enough. You do not get to touch my body or comment on my body as you please. Period.

GLAMOUR: So your life is yours. Where do you see it taking you?

TER: I have to take some time to dream some new dreams. I feel like there’s a treasure hunt in front of me. A treasure hunt that is speckled with and seeded by a deep-rooted wild freedom.

Emily Mahaney is the features director at Glamour.



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Demi Lovato Clarifies Her Sexuality in Her New Documentary


In early September, Demi Lovato sent Twitter into a tizzy when she was spotted holding hands with a woman, DJ-producer Lauren Abedini, in Disneyland. Lovato’s fans, aptly nicknamed Lovatics, were naturally stoked for their queen; as long as she was happy, that was all that mattered. But of course these photos brought out critics, one who even said it was “bullshit” Lovato wasn’t openly addressing her sexuality. It didn’t take long for the pop star to clap back at this, saying that her naysayers should watch her YouTube documentary (Simply Complicated) if they’re so curious about her sexuality.

Well, that documentary dropped today, and, yes, Lovato addresses her sexuality in it—head on. During a conversation with her stylist, Avo Yermagyan, Lovato reveals she’s on a dating app for both men and women. (The app, if you’re curious, is called Raya, a notoriously exclusive platform stacked with celebrity users.)

“I am open to human connection, so whether that’s through a male or female, it doesn’t matter to me,” she said. “I do like athletes; there is something sexy about someone putting in all of their physical strength into their passion.“

These quotes certainly add more insight into Lovato’s personal life while also staying true to her policy about labels. “Just because I refuse to label myself for the sake of a headline doesn’t mean I’m not going to stand up for what I believe in,” she said on Twitter in September.

Lovato also addressed this topic in a recent interview with Glamour.com. “I think eventually I’ll talk more about [my sexuality], but I think it was cool to be able to put it out there and leave it for what it is and be open,” she said. “It was refreshing to be able to have control over the narrative, and release this information on my own.”

Damn straight. Hopefully now people will drop this conversation and just let Lovato live. She deserves that. We all do.

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Demi Lovato Isn't Here for the Speculation About Her Sexuality


Last week Twitter had a full-on meltdown when Demi Lovato was spotted holding hands with a woman, DJ-producer Lauren Abedini, in Disneyland. With Lovato’s relationship with UFC fighter Luke Rockhold newly finished, many people think Abedini is her new girlfriend—but that’s only speculation at this point. Lovato hasn’t said anything about Abedini or her specific sexuality—she’s only spoken in generalities—and that’s intentional.

In a new interview with Pride Source, the “Body Say” singer explains why she prefers to keep her sexuality private despite being such an advocate for the LGBTQIA+ community.

“I just feel like everyone’s always looking for a headline and they always want their magazine or TV show or whatever to be the one to break what my sexuality is,” Lovato said. “I feel like it’s irrelevant to what my music is all about. I stand up for the things that I believe in and the things that I’m passionate about, but I like to keep my personal life as private as possible when it comes to dating and sexuality and all that stuff just because it has nothing to do with my music. Unfortunately, we live in a world where everyone is trying to get that soundbite and I am purposefully not giving the soundbite.”

That being said, she’s open to discussing her sexuality—on her own terms. Lovato says she answers “a lot of questions” people have about her in her new documentary, Demi Lovato: Simply Complicated, including some about her sexuality.

Of course, Lovato never has to address this issue if she doesn’t want to. Sexuality is a very fluid and complicated thing, and how people choose to deal with it is private and personal. That doesn’t change for Lovato just because she’s a public figure. It’s none of our business. Her happiness is the only thing that matters.

Lovato’s documentary debuts October 12 on YouTube.

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Demi Lovato Held Hands With a Woman Over the Weekend, and Twitter Users Are Thrilled



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