The Effect of Rerolls on D6 Probabilities: A Visual Guide and Discussion

The Effect of Rerolls on D6 Probabilities: A Visual Guide and Discussion

Recently I was working on a sci-fi tabletop miniatures game, and while designing one of the factions decided to give some of their units a phasing ability. The lore and visual aesthetic of this was straightforward, but how to represent it in-game?

I greatly dislike +1 or -1 style modifiers, especially if there are a lot of them and they stack on top of each other. I could go on for an hour or so about why I think they are an overused lazy design that, among other things...

I digress. Maybe it's okay for things like cover but no modifiers like that for unit abilities! However I was open to the idea of rerolls. In order to make my game both fun and balanced, I needed to understand the statistical and probability effects these abilities and reroll rules would have on the D6 dice used in the game. Fortunately the mathematical calculations are not unduly complex or difficult, but I quickly found that staring at a handful of fractions and percentages on a text document didn't really help me "understand" what it would really do to an actual game with human players, not binary chalkboard spreadsheets.

So I made some graphs to visualize it. To help give context and comparison guidance. Since there wasn't anything of the sort readily available online already, I thought I'd share these graphs and a few of my insights regarding them. I like to think they are easily digested and clearly labeled, but I'll go through them to discuss. This whole rabbit-hole was started because of a miniatures wargame, but actualy the end results are probably just as or even more useful for regular board games. Games that use dice other than D6's aren't going to find these results very helpful though, so keep that in mind.

I will avoid going past five dice for the charts in this post since most target numbers and reroll effects quickly end up at or near 90% past five dice, with only things like a target number of 6 with a negative modifier not being 99.9% chance around ten dice or so. Relatedly, I didn't bother with 2+ and 3+ targets in these graphs because even with negative modifiers you are consistently likely to succeed even with only a single die and practically guaranteed to do so with a beneficial reroll or multiple dice.

First up are some simple charts of how likely you are to get at least one success with various reroll effects. The exact same information is shown in two different types of graphs. I think this is absolutely not redundant, because they give different impressions. 

Probably the first thing you'll notice is that the effect of the rerolls on probability changes drastically depending on what the target number is. In both directions actually, with the increasing or decreasing difference from a "plain roll" getting more and more exaggerated with additional dice. 

Maybe this is just un-asked for advice, but as a game designer I would highly recommend people try to avoid probabilities higher than 90% or lower than 10% if reasonable to do so. The purpose of this is simple: those likelihoods are not going to fail or succeed often enough to be fun or relevant. Unless your game involves rolling copious amounts of dice, then literally an entire game will go by start to finish without either player actually rolling two 1's in a row in a situation that needs it. It's only a 2.78% chance! That isn't zero or anything and if you roll a few hundred dice combined during the game sure it'll happen here and there. 

But that's the thing, it won't happen WHEN it's relevant. Coincidentally getting two 6's, like for example when you toss two dice, get a 2 and then a 6, reroll the 2 and get another 6. That was a statistically remarkable two 6's in a row! But you don't care, because for either die you actually only needed a 4. It's mildly notable from a mathematical standpoint but neither player will get excited about it or, Hell, even notice because they are focused on the end result and don't care if it was a 5 or a 6. And the few times that you absolutely need to make that final shot to take down the badly wounded monster, if you have a 93.4% chance or whatever then flubbing that roll won't feel like a tactical or strategic error or a risky gamble that didn't work out this time. It will just feel like an irritating and arbitrary fluke.

With that said, let's look at the relative effect of a reroll, rather than the overall effect on probability.

When I first started doing the math I was surprised by how little a difference rerolling 1's made. It's only 8.33% with Target 4+ and an even more meager 2.78% at 6+. That's just mild noise. That's not enough of a change to have any tangible or noticeable impact on a player's strategy or tactics or psychological warfare. Yeah, sure, if you are like Walmart looking at some quarterly revenue report than 8.33% or even 2.78% is such a difference that you can break out the champagne. But dice only land as a 4 or a 5, not as 4.515768 compared to 4.681293. And again, unless you are rolling entire cups full of dice and then spending all that time counting them and sorting them before you then spend another minute or two rerolling a bunch, it's not going to truly matter.

It's funny because forcing a person to reroll 6's, on the other hand, goes from a minor debuff at 4+ to a crippling shutdown at 6+! Even rolling 10 dice at a time doesn't give good chances.

So... is it better to do the "Reroll Hits" and "Reroll Misses" route instead? Yeah, personally I'd say so. Not only do they have much more noticeable effects on the game, but they are more mirrored regarding how much they alter the probability up or down compared to a single roll. Remember how I said neither player will care if a dice ends up as 5 or 6 if all they needed was a 4? That's the same mindset with rerolling Hits or Misses compared to a specific number. It makes it more of a Pass/Fail attitude than an arbitrary numerical emphasis.

I feel that, in regards to both fun and balance, the initially drastic effects of Hit/Miss rerolls on Target 6+ can be negated by overall good design that contextualizes it. Let me give a real, practical example:

You want to shoot someone. You start with a base 5+ target to hit them. But they are behind some cover, so that makes the target number 6+. Okay, you are fine with those odds, you still got a 16-ish percent chance per shot right? Ah, no actually... the target has a partial cloaking device that forces you to reroll hits when targeting them from a distance. Damn, now you only have a 2.78% chance of hitting them! That's basically impossible! This isn't fair! That cloaking device is overpowered!

Hold up now, it's not. You have other options. If you use a flamethrower or weaponized EMP or some other area of effect weapon, it will ignore the forced rerolls of the cloaking device. Or, if you haven't received any damage this round and choose not to move this turn, you can "Aim", with allows any unit to lower the target number by 1 when shooting. So it's back down to 5+, and you've got 11.11% chance. Or you could use a psychic power or hacking ability or something else that targets the mind, not the body, which would not only ignore the cover but also ignore the Reroll Hits effect for a pleasant 33.33%. So your assault troopers might have a hard time with that coaked fellow but your combat tech-priest is much better suited to taking him out. OR you could say that, well, I'll just shoot him with a heavy machine gun that fires lots and lots of bullets. That weapon has a built in Reroll Misses ability, so the two abilities cancel each other out and it's a plain 6+ target again. 16.67% or 11.11% or whatever aren't good odds but it's not as impossible as 2.78%!

Do you see how this works? It's not unfair or unrealistic or "gamey" that it's very, very difficult to shoot a person wearing a cloaking device who's also hiding behind cover from a distance. And even if you DO have a very hard time shooting them so what? The other player isn't going to win the game and achieve the Objective by hiding their units in the bushes near the edge of the map/board. If other aspects of the game overall or the specific scenario encourage movement or combined arms or "anti-camping" measures then that unit who is extremely difficult to shoot in that specific turn might end up a lot easier to hit later, or they WERE easier to hit a few turns ago and frankly it's your own fault for letting them get into such a great tactical position unopposed.

This absolutely goes in the other direction too. A unit ability that gives you Rerolls Misses which might at first seem like an unfair and unfun "he always hits me why does he even need to roll for fucks sake..." could be balanced and managed if you did better about taking cover, arranging rock-paper-scissors match-ups in your favor, focused on the scenario objective instead of bloodthirsty combat, made your army list more well-rounded defensively, etc etc.

Let's look at the impact of rerolls from a different angle. Previous charts were focused on the likelihood that you'd score at least one success. But obviously that is not the only thing that matters. If you are hacking away at a monster with 5 HP, or need a cumulative amount of successes to complete an arcane ritual regardless of how few or many turns that takes you, then you care about the average number of the successes more than you care about the likelihood of getting a success. Let's see the charts!

Now naturally you can't get 0.5 or 1.82 successes in real life, since you can only get whole numbers with D6 dice. But these give some telling insights none-the-less. The biggest difference between these charts and the earlier ones is that average number of successes is linear, not binomial like the % chances. Rolling three times against a 5+ target does NOT make you three times as likely to succeed. Sadly for our puny human brains probability doesn't wok that way. But the cumulative results would actually be three times as high on plain addition. Again we see that the Reroll 1's effect has very little impact, especially at a single die but even all the way up to five. The Reroll Hits and Misses ones have more of a noticeable impact.

But I think this shows that, if your game or your special ability or whatever does involve tossing substantial amounts of dice, the effects of a beneficial rerolls ability start giving you a hefty amount of successes. With ten dice against 4+, with rerolling misses, you could casually assume you'll get five or six hits. Certainly you'll get at least two or three, right? Conversely, even if you start avalanching all the D6 dice you have nearby at the same time you'll never have good odds of getting more than one success against 6+ with either negative reroll type. But you stand a reliably good chance of getting at least one if you can reroll misses!

But what's that you say? You don't care about "successes" you care about the total number of pips from a roll? Well, I mean, that's not a very common thing in most games, but yeah sure it's valid. Dungeons and Dragons famously uses a few D6s added up for the starting ability scores of characters, though that game also uses D20's not just D6's so... Yahtzee? That game is a whole 'nother can of worms regarding probability...

Maybe people don't use it very often because it's not common knowledge how rerolls influence that! Good thing I'm here! Though actually it's just because it takes a lot more time and effort to do all that addition over and over again, especially if you have lots of dice. And then there is usually a bunch of record-keeping associated with it... Still, it's just more basic yet tedious math that I figured out before writing this so that you don't have to! 

Now, when looking for as high a total as possible rather than a specific number or better, you don't have any "Hits" or "Misses" but you can calculate the odds if you could voluntarily reroll "low" numbers or be forced to reroll "high" numbers. Which you would, logically, define as 1/2/3 and 4/5/6 because if you rolled a 4 initially you are more likely to roll something worse or the same than you are to reroll that into a 5 or 6.

So.....

As you can probably see, the effect is very minor unless you are rolling lots of dice and adding the pips up. Which quickly becomes cumbersome and boring after five dice and unless there is a substantial difference between a result of 17 and 19 in your game, it probably won't make a meaningful impact regardless of what beneficial or hindering rerolls you have. Having visual evidence of that is helpful though, and again perhaps your game actually does have tangible consequences between a total result of, say, lower than 10 or higher than 10. If so, and if in your game you routinely roll three dice, against that threshold rerolling highs and lows would actually come into play in a meaningful way frequently. But it might be worth considering just adding or subtracting a die instead, to cut down on time and brain power spent on rerolls.

I can hear the people in the back... "Yeah, that's swell dude, but in MY game we don't use target numbers OR cumulative totals. We use opposed rolls, where both players roll one or more dice at the same time."

Alright listen here you lil' shits... 

I mean, uh, that is, mathematically speaking that would look similar to but not identical to the graphs and discussion we already went through, just with the "target" numbers decided at the last moment by whichever die happened to stop moving first. I understand it would be a bit more complicated than that regarding % probability, since unlike the stuff we've gone over so far the temporary "target" results one players needs to beat the other player might be affected by different reroll rules, which would alter the overall impact of "your" reroll effect on the probability you'd win in the end. 

That is, while the above graphs could give you accurate info on your chance of victory or defeat after one of the opposing dice stops moving, that isn't the same as knowing your overall likelihood of winning before taking the tactical or strategic action that triggers the opposed roll. 

I could do the math, but it would be difficult to display that information without cumbersomely large or dense graphs, or a large number of simpler but very specific use-case graphs. There are too many variables. What if different players roll different numbers of dice? Is there only one "round" of rerolls after the initial toss or is it more like each player is allowed a reroll independently? Like, we both have a Reroll Misses ability. I roll a 4 and he rolls a 3. So he gets to use his reroll, and then gets a 6. Do... I get to reroll now too? No, it's only a second chance if I initially lose the toss? What if we both roll the same number in the first toss? That is a whole lot of very specific calculations (some of which are tricky to reduce into a simple "X% chance I win" numerical value) to display in a single post.  

In many ways the numbers would be very similar to what is above anyways. So if you intend to have opposed rolls in your game, just look at the graphs here and imagine a few minor changes up or down. And maybe reconsider the wisdom of opposed rolls with rerolls, because that is going to be a nightmare to even playtest, let alone reliably balance.

So... anyhows,

What have we learned? Well, nothing really since I did all the math for you and didn't explain how I did it or how I implement these rerolls into my game/s. But personally I feel a lot more informed and confident in my decision to emphasize rerolls over generic +1 or -1 modifiers. I also feel comfortable recommending that the Reroll Hits and Reroll Misses way is better than the Reroll 1's and 6's idea. Mostly because it is more symetrical in the positive or negative impact and also less of a trivial difference, but also because I feel that the Pass/Fail mentality is superior to the number specific mindset.

Dolling out these reroll abilities too liberally or arbitrarily would bog down the game and be very difficult to balance. If four-out-of-five units in your army and three-out-of-five in your opponent's army are rerolling on a regular basis, we are going to be spending literally twice as much real life time or worse on a very basic aspect of gameplay. And it can feel very arbitrary or immersion breaking to see such an effect on the dice that doesn't have a plausible or rational justification in the lore or aesthetics. 

My Lunar Elite veterans of the Marson IV campaign get Reroll Misses on their Fear rolls or Initiative rolls or whatever. Okay sure, that makes sense, they are experienced combatants so might be a little quicker on the rollout or need less time to react to things than a fresh recruit because unlike the new guy they've already seen horrible cosmic abominations before and defeated them. But that guy has a jetpack... so... why does he make your opponent Reroll Hits in melee combat again? 

Thus, in summary, jetpacks are awesome, +1 modifiers are to be avoided when possible, and I think I got all the math correctly computed and accurately placed on my graphs. If you actually care about the formulas or want to double check my findings, I am totally happy to write them out in a comment down below! And yeah, I'd love to hear your thoughts on rerolls, or know if anybody but myself actually benefits from these data visualizations. Keep making and playing games!

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Bonus Round!

Here are three example formulas. For these examples I'll use the Reroll 1's effect. The process is mostly the same for different target numbers and reroll effects. You figure out the formula for a single die, then use binomial calculations or arithmetic to work out subsequent additional dice.

If, say, the target number is 5+, and you reroll 1s, the formula would look like this, at least before any condensing or simplification:

((2/6)+((1/6)*(2/6))

Not so hard. It results in 0.38̅ or ~39% chance of at least one success. Now, since each die of a set acts individually, that is, you may roll them at the same time but the results of any specific die do not interact with or change the results of other dice, a straightforward Binomial Cumulative Distribution Function gives you a percent chance for N number of dice.

So if, say, we wanted to see what our chances are with the Reroll Ones ability and a target number of 5+ when we roll four dice... it would look like....

Y=F(1∣4,0.38̅)=1∑i=0(4i)0.38̅i(1−0.38̅)(4−i)I(0,1,...,4)(i) 

*which may or may not display correctly on your screen*

So... ~86.05%

Math!

Now, for the average total, on a normal D6 die you have equal chances of getting any result so the average total is ((1+2+3+4+5+6)/6) or exactly "3.5". But if you are forced to reroll 6's or allowed to reroll 1's, then you actually have a slightly more than 1/6 chance of getting the other numbers and only a 1/32 chance of getting the 6 or 1 a second time in a row. So the average total is different. Same idea, with a few more parentheses, for rerolling Highs and Lows.

If we sought the average cumulative total for rolling 3 dice if we are Rerolling 1's, the formula would look like this:

(1*((1/6)/6))+(2*((1/6)+((1/6)/6)))+(3*((1/6)+((1/6)/6)))+(4*((1/6)+((1/6)/6)))+(5*((1/6)+((1/6)/6)))+(6*((1/6)+((1/6)/6)))

Simplified and turned into a decimal number, it is 3.916666666666666. No binomial crap here, more dice just stack up more pips, so that number times three, or...

11.75 as the average total in that situation. 

Ta'da!

The X Line - WIP

    

Chapter 1:

She hated the subway. Always packed, always loud, always a big fat reminder of the grind. That non-stop, in-your-face Hustle™. The unfun and unavoidable clogged plumbing of big-city life. And today? It felt like a straight-up oppressor, echoing her mood to the T. She'd just come from this job interview, feeling all kinds of drained and shaky. The look in that interviewer's eyes? Didn't exactly scream, "Welcome to the fam!" And those pleasantries? Felt more like they were reading her career’s eulogy.

The train car, all empty and chill at first, gave her a sec to breathe. She leaned up against a pole near the end, not tryna sit down again. Her booty was still sore from parking it in a lobby chair, waiting forever for her name to be called. Her mind kept replaying the interview – each question, her answers that seemed on point but kinda fell flat. Every stop one or two more folks piled in, gradually filling it up with that stressed vibe.

There she was, all decked out in her interview best – black dress pants, crisp white blouse, trying to look all professional and whatnot. Even had this wide belt with a big-ass buckle – didn't do squat for holding up her pants, but damn, it looked classy. But now, standing there, that getup felt like some kind of costume. Her shoes? Cute as hell. But man they were pinching like nobody’s business, a constant nag on her already shot day.

It had been a rough couple a months. A series of dead-ends and fizzled hopes. Today was supposed to be a game-changer, a chance to flip the script. But there she was, swaying with the tracks, and all she could think was "Rejection incoming!"

The subway, with its non-stop noise and sea of dont-talk-to-me faces, was like her mind’s background track. Just a mess of sound and chaos. As it shambled towards Queens it felt like she was rolling back to square one on the Chutes and Corporate Ladders game.

Sipping her now lukewarm coffee, she reflected on the tiring boredom of her current life. God damn, being single sucked...

So anyhows, there she was, just tryna check her phone, when this lil' old Asian lady comes bulldozing past like it's Black Friday at Walmart. The timing's just perfect – she’s mid-sip of her to-go cup, hand off the overhead hanger, and bam! Caffeine chaos.

She’s doing this quick, hot potato trick to keep her top from becoming a latte-stained mess. A desperate attempt to save her white blouse from a visit to the dry-cleaners she can't afford. Most of what's left in her cup ends up hitting the floor, making a mess right in the middle of the subway car.

Now, she's standing there, feeling some kinda way about this frothy puddle situation. She ain’t got nothing to mop it up with, and her good girl instincts kick in. She ain’t about to let someone slip and bust their ass on account of her being a klutz. So, what’s a girl to do? She plants herself right over that spill, like she’s guarding a crime scene or something. It's like, congrats girl, you wanted a job and now you’re the official coffee splatter warden.

She lets out this heavy sigh, her frustration level cranked up to eleven. There she is, her day already in the toilet, now playing bouncer for a bunch of spilled java.

It’s a whole new level of ridiculous. As the train continues its journey, she's the Beyoncé of deflated ego, a woman who started her day with hopes of a new job and is now reduced to a yellow caution sign on the damn subway. The universe is straight-up clowning her today.

Lo and behold, the subway jostles through a station and she does in fact trip. It was inevitable really. Those shoes, sleek and sharp for interviews, sure as hell weren’t made for exploring Antartica's ice. Of course she would trip. That's what happens when you stand both feet in a puddle of coffee on a metal floor.

The whole thing is like a scene straight outta the Three-Stooges. Her arms are windmilling, her phone’s doing a death-defying dance in her hand, and she’s pulling off stunts that would have the Cirque du Soleil folks taking notes.

She bends forward, ass sticking out, in a move that’s half accidental bow, half desperate attempt to maintain balance. Then there's this wild, lanky leg kick, like she's auditioning for the Rockettes or something. It’s a whole performance, complete with dramatic pauses and near-misses, as she teeters on the brink of a full-on flop.

Somehow, by some miracle of her half-forgotten childhood gymnastics lessons, she manages to regain her balance, clutching her phone like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic. But her dignity? Oh, that’s long gone, probably chilling with the coffee on the floor.

She stands upright, slapping a hand to her eyes in a facepalm disturbingly similar to the ones her mother does. In her impromptu acrobatic routine, she's pretty sure she wiggled her booty right in the face of some dude sitting nearby. And not just a casual wiggle – we're talking full-on, two-bit stripper shake'n'bake. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and it's not just from the workout her impromptu performance gave her.

"Great, just great," she thinks, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation swirling inside her. "Now I'm the twerking crazy-lady of the W train." She glances over at the guy, half expecting him to be either laughing or ogling her, but he's just sitting there. Probably as stunned as she feels.

As the train rattles on, she's trying to piece her composure back together, but it's like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. She’s gone from shiny new potential employee to spill security to street performer in less than an hour. 

As the train barrels onward, more and more people step into the car, and our sista finds herself in the midst of an ever-growing crowd. She watches as her little coffee spill territory gets invaded by Jewish land-grabbers. There’s no standing guard over that spill now – it’s every commuter for themselves in this sardine can.

She finds herself nudged closer and closer to Mr. WiggleWitness – yeah, the same dude who got a front-row seat to her impromptu booty show. She just can’t bring herself to look at him, let alone acknowledge the whole debacle. Instead, she fixes her gaze on the ads above the subway windows – those same adverts she's seen all week, now suddenly the most fascinatin' things in the world.

Mr. SuspiciouslyOblivious, to his credit, is doing his best not to make this any more awkward than it already is. He’s not leering at her, thank the Lord... Actually he’s avoiding her figure, her face, her everything really. It's like he's trying to find Waldo in any spot that isn't her.

So obviously desperate to escape the awkward he whips out his phone, diving into whatever the hell white people be reading on the subway. Maybe he's scrolling through emails, the news, or some article on artisanal beard grooming – who really knows, right? She's kinda thankful for it, though. 'Cause, for real, she ain't in no state to be dealing with any eye contact.

She's in this weird-ass moment, just begging for her stop to roll up so she can dip out of this whole crazy scene. She's torn between wanting to just poof into thin air or saying "My bad" out loud for... well, she ain’t even sure what she did wrong. Taking a deep breath, she's trying to blend in with the crowd. Yeah, that's right – she's just another regular chick on the subway, not some pole-dancing queen. She's mentally chanting, "Just let me get home, Lord, without any more drama."

Next thing, the train pulls up at a stop, and while she's getting bumped around by everybody, her purse decides it's had enough being a parrot and slips right off her shoulder, landing with a thud between Mr. 10SignsYourCatHatesYou's shoes.

Homie's arms shoot up like he's in a horror movie when her purse lands and he drops his phone. Just as she’s bending down to grab it for him along with her purse, (and she can't really see what the hell she's doing if she keeps shooting loving looks at those stupid ads up top...) she flashes him this quick "Oops, my bad" smile, like, "Didn’t mean to get all up in your space, dude." He hits her back with this quick half-lifted palm, the universal sign for "No big."

But then, oh then, he twitches like he's been electrocuted or something. She straightens up, clutching her purse, wondering what's got him all shook. She looks down at the phone in her hand and... Bam! Her cleavage, right there on his screen, looking like it's about to start its own Instagram influencer career. Her girls are all smooshed together, caught from the ideal angle, like some overpriced lingerie ad that intentionally crops at the neck.

She's stuck for a sec, her mind a whirlwind of "Oh hell nah" and "How the Hell did this even happen?" She can feel her face burning up – is this for real? It’s like she's starring in her own personal sitcom, except it’s a lot less funny when you’re the one with your boobs on display.

Mr. PulitzerPrize is clearly mortified, his face a picture of shock and embarrassment. He’s probably wishing he could disappear into the floor right about now. Meanwhile, she’s standing there, clutching her purse like a lifeline and the phone like a parking ticket, feeling a mix of horror and disbelief. She's torn between smashing his phone to erase the evidence or just sinking into the floor right along with him.

She tries to play it cool, but inside, she’s like a mixtape of every cuss word she knows and a few she made up. She desperately wants to request he delete the photo, but they're on a packed subway, and there’s only so much she can do without causing a scene.

Okay, girl, let's not get this guy canceled just yet... She rationalizes that he ain't creepin' on her, since she took the pic. She just hit the side-buttons of his cell or somethin' like that in the combo that triggers the camera. Or her thumb tapped the screen as he tried to get out of her way as she bent down. He's, well, probably innocent. A lot more innocent than he probably thinks she is... 

She’s got this nagging worry now. "Fuuuuck, what if he thinks I'm out here trying to throw it at him or something?" The last thing she wants is for Mr. BlackmailMaterial to think she’s some kind of subway seductress, especially after the whole slip-and-shake show.

But then there's this little devil on her shoulder, all snarky and mischievous, whispering, "Girl, you should totally ask him to send you that pic. I mean, it's the best shot of your lumps ever taken." It's a ridiculous thought, but part of her can't help but be a little tempted. That photo would be send-to-a-guy-later gold...

She's torn between wanting to set the record straight with Mr. PlayboyPhotographer and the cheeky temptation of snagging a killer boob pic. It's like she’s in the middle of a mental tug-of-war – one side all about keeping it respectable, the other just wanting to lean into the madness of the moment.

As the train keeps electronically chuggin', more and more people squeeze in, disregarding any semblance of personal space. It's like those pre-Covid habits are doin' a comeback tour in the tunnel, where personal bubbles are a myth.

Then, in comes this old hag, like doesn't need makeup to be a witch in a movie repugnant, elbowing her way through the crowd like she's on a mission from the Lord. And Mr. ChivalrousGentleman, probably more than ready to escape his personal strip-club booth, pops up like a Whack-A-Mole. He gestures all suave for Sabrina-The-81-Year-Old-Bitch to take his spot.

"Well fuck," our girl thinks, watching the scene unfold. "He just had to be a Nice Guy." Half of her is hoping he’s as gay as the Pride Parade, while the other half is bizarrely irritated by the idea that the lewdest thing she's ever done in public was potentially wasted on a Mormon that didn't even enjoy it!

But then, as he stands, something catches her eye, something that was totally off the radar while he was sitting. Oh lord, there it is – a bulge. A very noticeable stiffie under those Levi's.

She's hit with a mix of feelings. "Well, damn... that’s flattering, right?" But then she's also mortified. "Girl, are you really gonna stand there contemplating a subway boner?" And distracted – oh, so distracted. "Why the hell am I still staring at it? Look away, girl, oh my god! Look. Away."

It's like every emotion is having a party, and they're all invited. The situation is absurd, kind of funny, and a little bit of a turn-on, all at once. It's the kind of thing she’d laugh about with her friends later, but right now, she's caught in this weird mix of disbelief and intrigue.

"Okay, so maybe he’s not a Mormon," she muses, trying to tear her eyes away from the evidence of that. "And maybe, just maybe, he did enjoy the show." It's a thought that's both unnerving and kinda thrilling.

In the mad scramble of the next stop, where people are shoving their way on and off the train like it's some kind of contact sport, two terrible, horrible, awful things happen in quick succession. First, there's this tug at the absolute worst moment, and she feels the flimsy stitching of her dress pants give way.

She's mentally kicking herself, "You idiot, why did you go for the cheaper pants? For fuck's sake, girl, they were only $13 less..." But hindsight’s always 20/20, and right now, her pants are betraying her in front of an audience.

Meanwhile, Mr. ObliviouslyDistracting, who obviously isn't aware his zip has been partially down for who knows how long suddenly feels something. It's not a sound, but a sensation – the unmistakable feel of a metal snap quietly going "pop!" His eyes widen slightly as he realizes what’s happening.

She's internally raging at the fashion industry, "Yo, what designer thought it was a good idea to use snaps on denim jeans? Bring back the good ol' button and slit, for heaven's sake!" But her silent rant on the shortcomings of modern fashion is cut short by the reality of her situation.

She's standing there, her pants having a red carpet wardrobe malfunction right in front of Mr. CouldBeAMormonButProbablyIsnt. She's subtly tryna hold her pants up, praying they don't just give up and drop right there on the train. It's one hot mess after another on this subway ride from hell, and all she's tryna do is get through it without turning into a surprise striptease.

As the train starts moving again, she's hanging onto what's left of her decency for dear life, her hands shoved in those tiny-ass woman's pants "pockets" just in case she needs to go into emergency hold-up mode. Her dignity, well, that lil' shit slunk off at the previous station...

Assessing the situation she realizes it's just the asscrack of her pants that's gone rogue. "Alright, I can work with this," she thinks, feeling a little wave of relief. She's rocking black panties – hell, she's dressed in NYC's unofficial uniform: all black everything aside from the blouse. "Cool, cool, I got this. No more impromptu pole dancing and I'm golden." 

She's all squished up with this random-ass trio that could be the setup for a lame joke: a chubby dude, an old guy, and one of those "they's" whose gender is a total mystery to her. Making a snap decision, she figures if anyone's getting a free peep show, it might as well be Mr. Unzipped, who's already scoped her bra situation.

So, with some slick, tiny steps, she does this subtle spin move, positioning herself so she’s facing away from him. It’s a tactical maneuver, ensuring that if her pants decide to fully give up on her, it’s Mr. LeastUglyDudeInArmsReach who's getting the view. She's trying to be nonchalant about it, but inside, she's feelin' part ninja part cat burglar, all stealthy and strategic.

"Alright, just stand still, look cute, and pray the buttons of my blouse are secure," she coaches herself. Her mind is on high alert, but she's trying to look all ice-queen. It's like she's in some high-stakes game of wardrobe malfunction poker, and she's bluffing her way through with a pair of Bs.

She can feel Mr. TooTallToNoticeAnythingHopefully's presence behind her, and she’s half expecting him to suddenly get woke to what's going on. But for now, she’s just another commuter, albeit one with a slightly breezier situation going on in the back.

Actually, as the train ride bumps around, she feels more than just his presence. There's this gentle pressure on both her buttcheeks, and she's like, "Girl, that's not a laptop bag..." She's cursing her luck, and maybe even her genetics a little. "Why must I be blessed with this nice ass? Some skinny Asian chick would not be dealing with this right now..."

And what's this 'issue' she’s mulling over? Oh, well, ya' know, it could be a bunch of innocent things – an umbrella handle, those metal tubes framing the subway seats. But let's be real, she's pretty sure it's none of those. It feels suspiciously like a hard cock nestled right between her ass cheeks. Yep, a complete stranger's hard-on, pressing up against her, thanks to her impromptu twirl.

Internally, she’s having a moment. "Great move, genius," she chides herself. "Thought you were being slick, turning around like that. Now look where it got you." She's caught between irritation at her own decision and, if she's being real with herself, a not-so-small thrill at the situation.

Now, don’t get it twisted – she’s not exactly against the idea of a cock resting between her cheeks, theoretically. On the contrary, in the right time and place, it’s a thought that’s downright inviting. But a crowded subway car in the middle of rush hour? That’s not exactly what she had in mind for her next splash of romance!

She's standing there, a mix of exasperation and this guilty, risqué excitement bubbling inside her. "Okay, this is happening," she thinks, trying to keep her cool. "Just a hard dick casually chilling between my ass on the subway. No big deal, right?" Wrong. It's kind of a big deal, and not just because of the where and when, but the who – a total freaking stranger.

Her mind's a cocktail of sarcastic quips and naughty thoughts. She’s like, "Well, this is one way to spice up the morning commute." But then there's also the practical side of her, all, "Girl, you better not move an inch, or things are gonna get real interesting, real fast."

Part of her wants to just burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. She's gone from job interviewee to accidental stripper to, now, a cushion. Life’s full of surprises, and this one’s particularly... stiff.

"Okay, girl, just chill, act natural," she tells herself. Easier said than done, though. She's trying to figure out her next move, caught between stepping forward and potentially making a scene, or just riding it out, no pun intended.

It's a wild situation, the kind she’d remember and randomly laugh about after a drink or two. Right now though she's the star of her own awkward, R-rated subway saga. It’s one for the blog, that's for sure... A story equal parts embarrassing, bizarre, and, if she's being totally honest with herself, a tiny bit fun.

In the middle of her mental editing an abrupt line-break throws her formatting all off. The thing – let's just be real, the dick – nestled between her cheeks decides it's got a mind of its own. It twitches. Just a lil' bit. Just for a moment. But oh boy, does she feel it.

She's utterly flustered, sending up a quick prayer to anyone who might be listening – Allah, God, Oprah, the AI Overlords – anyone who can keep this situation from spiraling any further. "Please, please, don't let this get any worse," she silently pleads.

But then, as if her body's out to betray her, her own ass decides to join the party. It's not a twerk or anything so deliberate; more like a fleeting itch and her booty scratched itself, so to speak. It's the kind of thing that would be no big deal under normal circumstances, but right now, it's like striking matches in a library.

And then, in response to her twitch, he twitches again. It's like they're texting via butt-based Morse code. In a panic, she clenches her bum, trying to put a stop to this bizarre, involuntary paddy-cake they've found themselves in. But damn, that clenching – it sends a jolt of something that's way too close to pleasure zipping through her.

Determined to escape, she's all hyped up and ready to bounce out of this crazy-ass situation. She’s mentally shouting at herself, "Girl, it's time to dip! Abort mission! Abandon ship! We out!" The thought of getting side-eyed by that Asian harpy at the door seems like a vacation compared to this steamy, freaky game she's caught up in with Mr. Epileptic. She’s ready to face the music, ready to be hauled away by the MTA for causing a ruckus, anything to stop feelin' that delicious tingle down her spine.

She ain't even mad that the next stop is only halfway to her crib. She'll catch the next one, she'll grab an Uber, hell, she'll walk if she gotta, anything to get this pleasantly hard dick away from her disloyal booty...

Gearing up to muscle her way through the crowd, underground railway herself to freedom, she lifts up her fly black shoe. Inside, she's a mix of "I gotta get out" and "Damn, why do I wanna stay?"

The moment her shoe hits the deck again, ready to make her great escape, the train's got other plans. It hits this hefty bump, right as her foot lands on the coffee spill. Oh yeah... the coffee spill... Forgot about that...

She ain't out here doing some dramatic flailing this time around; there's no space for theatrics ‘cause this subway car’s packed like a club on Saturday night. But she does stumble back a lil', losing her balance just enough to tumble right back to where she started. And there she is, plopping against the chest, and more noticeably, the more interesting parts of Mr. MuchTooTempting.

Hold up. Holy fuckin' shit wait... That ain’t his phone or his wallet nudging up on her lady bits. And why the hell does it feel like she's got a one-sided wedgie?

It takes a hot second for her brain to catch up with the script. But yeah, that's for damn sure not his phone. That's his dick. And oh, sweet Jesus, it's actually inside her. Like, hello surprise penetration! Her mind's racing a mile a minute: "Fuck fuck fuck fuck... fuck?"

They're both fully clothed, standing up in the most janky way, but oh Lord, she's 100% feeling him inside her. It ain't deep or anything, but it's the real deal. She can feel him – he's in there. Just a very little bit, but he's in there. 

The whole situation's got her trippin'. Here she is, a grown-ass, independent woman, unintentionally getting dicked down on public transport. It's so wild, so completely beyond the realm of normal, that part of her wants to bust out laughin'. But then there's another part of her, that sorta freaky side, that's whispering, "Okay, but low-key... this is kinda lit." She ain’t exactly hating it, per say...

"Am I really doing this? Is this dude actually up in me? Should I... like... confirm that?" She internally eye-cuts herself. It's not exactly the first time ever. "Girl, yes, that is a penis. You know damn well what it feels like..."

The moment she accepts this, her first instinct is straight-up homicidal! "Yo, what the literal fuck, white boy? You think you can just slip it in without so much as a 'Sup girl'?" The thought screams through her head, loud and clear. For a hot second, she's ready to go full-on Tarantino on his ass, because, like, yo mothafucka, what happened to consent?!

But then, reality hits. She tilts her face, eyes darting behind her to sneak a peek at Mr. JudgeYouGottaBelieveMe. Yeah, check out the look on his face – pure, uncut mortified. It's clear as Sunday that some tail was the last thing he expected when he got on the subway. He's deer in the headlights frozen, a mix of fear and embarrassment written all over him. He's prob'bly scared stiff she's 'bout to scream rape and/or slap him 'cross the face. And, maybe, fear that if he moves this, uh, thaaang they got going on will end? 

"Heh... yeah, he's scared 'stiff' alright," her lewd subconscious snarks with a taunting snicker.

As for her? Well, she's kinda thrown for a loop because, uh, she likes it? I mean she doesn't dislike it... If she gonna be real with herself it's not unpleasant, exactly. I mean it's not like it hurts. The opposite of hurts really. There's a part of her that sort of doesn't want him to move, a lazy part that's kind of enjoying the moment.

But then there's this other part, this more adventurous side that's whispering in her ear, "Girl, what if he does start moving? What then?" And that part of her sorta, well, might hypothetically want him to start moving. And keep moving. And moving. It's a saucy thought, a hold-your-nose dive into the deep end of her inner kink, and she's surprisingly here for it.

Standing there in that vacuum-sealed subway car, she's got this whole choir of wild thoughts singing off tune in her head. But then, she goes and does something bold. She pushes her booty back, just a smidge, and helloooo – feels his dick slide just a lil' bit deeper. She lets out this silent sigh, her eyes fluttering shut for a sec, like she just took that first sip of the lewd latte.

The squad in her head is hella loud and all over the place:

"Girl, go on, get you some of that dick!"

"You idiot, you're going to get arrested for this!!!"

 "I finally get some action, and it's on the mothafuckin train..."

"Lord, what would Mama think right now?"

"My labia are like, a little crooked cuz of these panties..."

"Fuck my ass so hard, Babe!"

"I need to thaw some chicken for dinner..."

"What is the next stop?"

"I wonder how long his dick is..."

And all these voices are fumbling and shoving to drown out the others, but the beat goes on and the chorus comes in... All together now girls...!

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm...."

Amidst that mental chaos, she's leaning right into whatever this is. Her body's saying yes to every bit of Mr BackseatDriver's dick, and it's responding to him in a way that's both unexpected and a whole new level of thrill because of that.

She's smack dab in the middle of this raw, real moment. And she just, sorta, wants to reach out and carpe diem the shit outta it...

As she subtly leans forward, letting her hips move off his dick a half inch or so, he sort of "follows her" forward which feels almost stupidly nice. "Damn, girl, you're really feeling this, huh?" she chides herself. "You are way too into this right now..."

But then, there's this wave of reassurance that washes over her. He's not pulling away; he's staying right there with her, sharing in this guilty pleasure. That little "mini-thrust" of his – that wasn’t an accident. No way. Being naughty is so much emotionally easier when you have a partner in crime. 

She's hit with the realization: "Holy shit, I'm actually having sex right now. Like, real, intentional, very public fucking." She's not just caught up in some freak of nature coincidence anymore; she's an active participant. And so is he!

Mr. SubwayStud is sticking with her forwards and backwards like they're in some sort of horny conga line. She can't help but feel vindicated. "I knew you weren't the missionary type..."

And then, there's this sudden boost of confidence washing over her. The moment he intentionally moved deeper into her, it felt like nothing but green lights on 5th Ave. "Oh, we're doing this, are we?" She's suddenly feeling a lot bolder, a lot naughtier. It's like his little move just cranked her inner sex goddess up to eleven.

"Alright, Mr. MysteryMan, let’s see how you handle this." With a sly grin, she presses back against him again, turning their awkward subway stand-off into a full-blown, slow-speed-but-never-stopping hump fest. It's not like they can go all out – they're on a packed train, for crying out loud – but they're definitely not just standing there anymore.

Her mind is racing with all sorts of lewd thoughts. "Bet ya like that, huh Babe," she muses, giving her hips that extra little roll. Hey, when life gives you lemons, you make some freaky lemonade, right? She gives it a big, juicy squeeze...

Yo but suddenly she's got this creeping sense of panic. She’s shooting these quick, side-eye glances all around, her eyes darting like she’s some undercover cop getting frisked at the door. The big question on her mind: can any of these random folk in the car tell just how wet her pussy is getting? She's slick as hell down there, and part of her is freaking out, wondering if it's, like, detectable or something.

She's doing her best to keep it covert, trying to stand all casual-like, but inside, she's a hot mess of nerves and excitement. This ain't her usual scene. Normally, her modus operande regarding sex is way more, eh... well... "vigorous". You know, the kind where you can be loud and make the furniture creak and not worry about some grandma calling the FBI.

But here she is, trying to be all sly and shit, while this dude is giving her the business. It's a weird mix of thrill and anxiety. It’s like every bump and grind is sending her arousal levels off the charts, yet she’s sorta worried someone’s gonna pick up on that like a horny drug sniffing bloodhound.

She's checking out the faces around her, trying to see if anyone's giving her that knowing look. But everyone's in their own world – headphones in, eyes on their phones, lost in their own miserable morning commute. Nobody seems to have a clue that she's getting her world rocked in the most low-key way possible.

This not-so-deep action has got her all kinds of hot and bothered. "Why's this feel so damn good?" It's like her body's on a whole different wavelength, responding to every subtle movement with a resounding "Yes, please!"

The slow burn is lighting her up in ways she didn’t even know were possible. It's like every inch he moves is amplified, each slight penetration sending waves of pleasure through her. She's not getting pounded, but she's definitely getting pleased.

"Or maybe it's just been too damn long," she admits to herself with a mental shrug. It's been a minute since she’s had a good lay, and her body's like, "We'll take what we can get, thank you very much." 

She's usually Miss StraightLacedProfessional, all credit-to-your-people gonna get elected someday style. But right now? That nigga is taking a back seat. She's embracing her inner ho', just for a moment, and she ain't even mad about it!

She feels his hand tentatively slide under her blouse, on some kind of James Bond mission to cop a feel. Dude’s trying to be slick huh? Making an attempt at a lil’ touchy-feely action in the middle of this crowded mess? His hand's moving all careful-like, as if he's tiptoeing in the dark trying not to wake up the whole house.

Now, she's usually quick to shut down any dude fresh enough to step outta line, but this time, she's kinda hesitant. He's inching towards her boob and she's about to unleash a smack, hand instinctively rearing up like a cobra or something ready to put Mr. GrabbyPaws in check. But hold up – she pauses, this wild, naughty thought popping in her head: "Oh, what the hell, why not? His dick is like, 25% in me already what's a little boob action gonna change?"

She's pressed up against Mr Handsy in a way that's anything but graceful or convenient. Meanwhile, he's just as awkwardly positioned. His hand, aiming for some kind of erotic caress under her blouse, ends up more like an damn pigeon pecking around, occasionally hitting the jackpot with a clumsy brush against her nip. Each swipe right sends a ripple of pleasure through her, making her bite her lip.

In any normal situation, she’d be rolling her eyes at these awkward gropes. But here, in this weird-ass crowd crush, it’s kinda doing it for her. The dude's doing his best, given the, ya know, circumstances. The fact they gotta be all hush-hush about it, with a bunch of clueless people around them, is like adding some decent masala to that bland American white rice.

She’s doing her best to help ol' boy out with his clumsy tit-grabbing mission. She angles her body just so, giving Mr. AlmostGotIt better access to her boob. It was a tricky thing, trying to strike a sexy pose without anyone actually noticing. The whole scene was straight-up ridiculous, but there she was, directing his hand to her tit on the down-low like some kinda stealth-porn director.

Their moves downstairs? Oh, they're 'bout as smooth as 40grit sandpaper. It's like they’re in their own little private TikTok top-most-cringe dance video. Their hips are trying to find some kind of groove in the cramped space, but it’s more awkward shimmy than sexy sway. The train's jerky movements ain’t helping, making their attempts at grinding all kinds of wonky – but weirdly enough, that janky beat feels kinda hot.

Every time the train jolts, she’s hyper-aware of his crotch pressing up against her. She's way past just being horny; she’s on some wild hormonal joyride, her body reacting in ways she didn’t even think were possible in this nutty situation.

She's shocked by how much she's digging it. Every accidental brush against her nip is like a static zap of pleasure, turning his fumbling grope into something kinda raunchy. She's always been proud of her rhythm, but right now, she's like a tipsy nerd at karaoke – all off-beat and completely shameless. And it feels hella fine!

Engrossed in the mission of guiding his hand to her boob, she kinda blanks out for a sec on the even more NSFW party backstage. But then, bam! That comes crashing back, hitting her like a bolt of lightning. She tightens up, all instinct, no thought – just a straight-up body reaction. And oh boy, does he feel that clench. His hand, which had been kinda timid on her tits, now goes full-on fondle mode. He reflexively squeezes her entire boob, not twiddling around anymore, in a grip that’s all kinds of manly.

"Holy shit," she thinks, her brain melting a lil' bit for a moment. "This is actually feeling kinda bomb..." The way he's working her boob, the sensation of his dick inside her – it’s turning into something more than just bearable, it's straight-up enjoyable... "Holy shit girl, are you actually getting your rocks off on this?"

Power-walking headfirst into this crazy-ass epiphany, she's got this little naggy voice in her head – like a shoulder angel with a stick up its ass. It's all up in her business, yapping, “Girl, what the hell you doing? You acting like a straight-up ho'! Loose as hell!” But instead of getting all twisted about it, she's just cracking up on the inside. Here she is, caught in some wild, X-rated comedy skit that makes her Auntie's soaps look like War and Peace. This was too absurd, too deliciously naughty to take anything seriously.

Then, the subway gives this little shake, throwing in a twist to this whole raunchy script. Mr. JustTheTip's dick shifts sideways a tad inside her, and it's a really swell improvement. She chokes down a gasp, then she's scanning the crowd, making damn sure ain't no one caught her almost moaning out loud.

Realizing she's way past the point of playing coy, our girl decides to get a little more rewarding with her subway bae, a sly grin in her heart. She's been all about that low-key, given they're basically glued together in this crowd, but she wants Mr. SurprisinglyGoodTime to know she’s more than just cool with what’s going down – she's genuinely having fun. And yeah, she’s more and more and more into how his dick feels, not gonna lie.

Since they're stuck facing the same way, surrounded by people, there's no chance for a flirty lip pucker or a sassy wink. So, she gets creative. She adds a lil’ extra sway to her hips, more than the jerky subway moves call for. It's her way of whispering, "Yep, I'm feelin' this."

Then, she ups her game. Every time the train gives them a shake she hits him with this small, sneaky squeeze. It's playful, kinda teasing – like she's giving him a secret high-five with her ass. "You're doing just fine, Babe," she tries to say with her body, sending out happy and approving brainwaves.

Her moves are all about finesse, like she's walking this tightrope of sexy signals. She's aiming for that perfect mix of bein' freaky without going overboard, keeping it all fun and flirty. And not so overt that the old guy, chubby guy, or non-binary whatever right next to her notice...

As the train screeched to a stop at Lexington Av/59 St, all hell breaks loose like usual there. Folks are shoving and elbowing to get off, while a whole new crew is battling to get on. And there she is hit with a sudden wave of worry. "What if his dick pops out?" she thinks, this weird mix of panic and disappointment hitting her. It's not like she can just reach down and help him back in – that would turn their sneaky subway session into a full-blown show!

But hold up – Mr. QuickOnHisFeet behind her is already on it. With this slick move, he wraps his free arm around her, firmly pulling her close to his crotch and holding her there. It's not just that his dick was now literally twice as deep inside her as before, though that helped... It was the act itself. A move that's kinda practical but also hella sexy.

Part of her's all, "Okay, Mr. TakeCharge, I see you," feeling this crazy respect for his smooth handling of the situation. Then there's this other part that's just straight-up relieved, 'cause Lord knows she sure as hell didn't have a plan!"

But there's more stirring inside her – this rush of naughty, submissive tingles. She's a tiny bit shook at how bothered she was by the thought of his dick slipping out. She wants it right where it is, a craving that's both kind of embarrassing and hot as hell.

Her confused subconscious is bouncing between ludicrous overreactions to his "manly assertiveness" and relief that he did something about it so she didn't have to. "Girl, first you're out here thirsting over some random dick on the train. And now you’re all swooning 'Ooh, my hero!' 'cause he hugged you? Check yourself!" 

But even as she's mentally facepalming, she can't shake off the buzz of it all. The mix of close-call and abrupt dose of unusual submissive urges is like the wildest drink she's ever had, spiking the whole thing with an extra shot of erotic energy. 

As the train lurches back into motion, she's pressed up against him even tighter, their hush-hush hookup also rolling on amidst a sea of clueless commuters. Contently secure that he can handle an emergency, she takes a moment to wallow in her own muck. She realizes it's been a hot minute since she was this into a romp. Like, it's been a long-ass time since she got this cozy with a dude, even before she was single.

And this specific dude, well, she kinda hit the jackpot in the subway hookup lotto. He's young, pretty easy on the eyes, and got this kinda dorky charm that’s tolerably cute. It's an unexpected plus. She's there idly wondering what his deal is – maybe he's a Master's student? Some young professional type? He's got this mix of fresh and nice and a hint of pent up eagerness, which, not gonna lie, is absolutely doing it for her right now.

Then there's that whole 'white boy' thing. Something else she's never done before. She’s sorta cracking up inside, thinking 'bout what her grandma would say. "Child, what you doing with that white boy?" She could almost picture the expression on her face, that perfect blend of shock and amusement. "Oh Lord" followed by "You go, girl."

As the subway got distressingly closer to her stop, she felt something unexpected bubbling up inside her. 

She was stunned. She was actually about to bust a nut. It's crazy... Ain’t nobody plowing her out or working some magic on her clit. But the way his dick's kinda just there inside her, the train doing its bumpy dance, his hand on her tit, and the whole naughty vibe of the situation's got her like... what the actual fuuuuuuck?

We ain't talking 'bout those extra-ass "releases" from trashy books – no earthquakes, no tidal waves, none of that dramatic shit. This was different – a soothing deliciously good feeling that started to spread from her pussy, warm and tingly. It sorta slid into her DM's unasked, a smooth, melting sensation that fuzzes out her brain for a sec. She clenched her teeth hard, desperately fighting to keep those moans on lockdown. The last thing she needed was to become the center of attention.

But holy shit, she was cumming and it's legit the bomb! She rode the breeze of bliss, her pussy softly gripping Mr. CanYouDoThatAgainPlease's dick. On the outside, she's keeping it cool, all poker face, but inside, she's like, "Oh snap girl, you did it! Woo!"

She ain’t even sure if homie knows what's up. For all he knows, she just flexed her leg a bit or something. Men... Pfft. But for her? It was actually sorta of a big deal. She had always figured she needed a lot more... action... to get off when a dick was involved. But here she was, coming down from one of the chillest orgasms she's ever had, all thanks to a ride with less speed than a mall Christmas train.

Her head's spinning with this mix of giggles and straight-up satisfaction. "Well, ain't that some shit," she thinks to herself, a laugh simmering inside. "

She's riding high on a serious ego boost. Feelin' like the hottest thing on wheels. She's all different kinds of naughty now and thinking, "I gotta make this dude bust so hard, he's gonna be daydreaming 'bout me for years!"

Her mind’s diggin' deep into some dirty ass thoughts... One second she's thinking about letting him shoot his load deep up in her – a wickedly steamy notion. Or she could get a hand down there and jack him off until he splooges all over her fingers. Each option's oozing its own brand of naughtiness.

This dude's been a total boss this whole freaky subway ride. Respectful, considerate, and damn effective in playin' her like an upright bass, all without so much as a peep. She's got this raw, sexual kinda fondness for him now – it ain't about catching feelings or meeting her momma, just pure, uncut physical appreciation. She doesn't even really care what his name is. But Mr. LaconicLay snapped her dry spell in the most bomb way, and she didn’t even have to ask.

Feeling all empowered and shit, she's dead set on making this guy cum in a way he'll never forget. But it's all about the how – how's she gonna make that happen without turning into a free peep show? They’re still squished in this packed-ass subway car and so far her stop is coming faster than he's cummin!

As the train swayed and rattled along, she carefully shifted her hips, grinding against him in a subtle, rhythmic motion. She's in this sexy groove, her body whispering, "I’m 'bout to blow your mind, boy." Every move she makes is calculated – enough to take him there, but slick enough not to turn heads. It's like she's playing this undercover game of dirty, and she's winning!

That little shoulder angel was in full-on meltdown mode, screeching in her ear about propriety and decency. But, let's be real, that ship had sailed, crashed, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean the moment she hadn’t hopped off his dick when it first slipped inside her. Meanwhile her inner devil was lounging back, sipping a metaphysical martini and smirking with glee. It just cooed seductively, "Go on girl, let him fill your pussy with his load. You absolutely deseeeeerrrve it!"

Feeling hyped up by the lascivious little red ho', she was all in. She wanted to feel him lose control, to experience that intense moment of release inside her. She was dying to make him lose it, to get that deep, intense burst inside her. Thinking about his cum filling her up was not just hot – it was the perfect finale to their insane hookup.

With this new bad-bitch energy, she starts moving her hips with a mission, grinding on him in a way that's silently screaming intent. She feels him getting all worked up, his body tuning into her signal. Every push of her ass was like a secret convo, a "we both know what's up" kinda deal.

She's cheering him on internally. "Do it, Babe. Just let it go. I got you," she thinks, a grin on her face. She twerks on his cock as best she can. Oh she wasn’t about to star in a rap video anytime soon, but in this moment, she felt like she could give those backup dancers a run for their money. 

Hell what difference does this white boy know? He's like, statistically speaking probably never been fucked by a black girl before anyways, let alone felt her delicious booty bouncing on his dick! She was flaunting that ass with a kind of giddy, raw enthusiasm. 

Her moves have gotta be working, she can feel the way he's tensing up. His cock isn't even moving in and out now. Yeah it's definitely fucking working... She felt so sexy she could probably make one of the statues in Central Park jizz their Civil War pants... She reached up her hand and gave her own boob, the other one, a good squeeze. Her other hand gently lay atop his, separated by the blouse. She gave it a little squeeze too, letting him know that this was more than okay – it was freakin' fire.

Go ahead Mr. FuckingFantastic, cream my eager pussy... go on... I want it... I honestly really fucking want it...

When he finally busts his nut inside her, it's like the grand finale of their wild, risqué escapade! She can't actually feel the warmth of his jizz – biology don't work like that – but in her head she's picturing it in copious amounts, like a freakin’ geyser, all spraying and wild. And damn, if that thought isn't just insanely hot to her right now.

As for Mr. MilkDispenser, he's handling the whole situation like a boss. He's shooting his load big time, she can feel his dick really jerking around in there. But yo, externally? The guy's a freaking rock star. He's keeping it so cool, so collected, that anyone looking at him would just think he's another commuter, maybe a bit stressed out the way he's gripping that overhead rail so hard. It's impressive, really. Dude deserves a medal or something, for real. 

She's way too pleased with herself about how hard she made Mr. HasGotHisShitTogether cream her. Homeboy just straight up unloaded into her didn't he, check out his hand all shaking and vibrating on her tit! Although now it was sorta, like, coming out a lil' bit. Right... standing up... gravity... shit...

A damp circle was forming, clinging to her skin – a telltale sign of her own sloppy arousal from before mixed with, presumably, his jizz. She couldn't help but think with a wry smile, "Well, these pants are officially retired from public life."

Even with her pants looking like she just survived Hurricane Sandy, she's feeling like the queen of the damn world. The whole freaky thing got her strumming and buzzing – like she just popped the tops off and drank three EpiPens. She's riding this high of satisfaction, naughtiness, and a little bit of “Yeah, I did that” pride. The little devil was having a field day, cheering her on, while the shoulder angel had long since fainted in shock. 

Her stop was up next and the train was slowing down. With a sense of bittersweet finality, she gently shifted her position, allowing his dick to slip out of her. The movement was subtle, calculated to avoid drawing any attention from the surrounding commuters. She stays up close by him, giving Mr. ForgetsToZip some cover while he tucks himself back in. It's a small act of solidarity, hommie would do the same for her.

Before she bounces off the train, she spins around to face her subway Romeo for one last move. There's no game, no agenda – just a real, heartfelt "thank you" kiss. She grabs his head and Bugs-Bunny-style plants her soft lips on his, giving him a big dollop of gratitude chased with a bit of playful lick as she pulls away. It's her way of saying, "Damn, stud, you rocked my world and turned this weird mess into something straight fire!"

The kiss don't linger, but it's deep in what it's saying – like she's sealing their wild, raunchy adventure with a stamp of approval. It's real, no bullshit – just her way of giving a nod to the dope-ass time they just had, even though it all kicked off mad awkward and kinda cringe.

As she breaks away from that kiss, there's this vibe of camaraderie hanging in the air, like they're two gangbang members who just aced the sexiest, freakiest heist. She's stepping off that train feeling like she's strutting on cloud nine. There’s this fresh, bold bounce in her step, her eyes shining with a mischievous light that's been missing for way too long.

And just as she's 'bout to sashay down Astoria Boulevard, she remembers the whole ass-out situation of her outfit. She whips her purse around quick, giving her exposed crack some cover. She thinks about wiping off the, uh, evidence from their crime-spree dribbling down her thigh. But then she's like, "Nah, let it drip," chuckling to herself.

Her mind is playing on repeat, wallowing in each kinky, exhilarating moment. She can still feel the ghost of his hand, the memory of his dick just enough inside her, the rush of their tryst.

She feels like the ultimate boss bitch, like she just snatched life by the balls and squeezed. She thinks about her girlfriends and how they would react to this story. Would they be shocked? Impressed? Jealous? Appalled? She can almost hear their reactions, a chorus of “Girl, no way!” and “You did WHAT?” It’s a tale that’s too juicy not to share, but for now, it’s her own personal trophy.

As the city bustles around her, she feels a part of it in a way she never did before. Like she’s just unlocked a new level in the game. And damn, she’s still feeling sexy as hell. Like, "I'm ready for round two, where the boys at?!" kinda sexy...

Getting back to her place, she's thinking she can handle whatever, and whoever... comes next. Today, it was a crowded subway car with benefits. Tomorrow?

Mmmmmmm....

Stop, for Diversity’s Sake!

Here's our new pitch for Netflix. It's Popeye, right, you know surly musclebound-sailor cob-pipe good ol' Popeye. But it's updated for "modern times", so Popeye is now an Afghani woman named "Poppy". (ha!)  Bluto and Olive Oyl and Wimpy are there of course. Few slight alterations though. Olive is now ambiguously black-ish and in a lesbian relationship with Poppy. Wimpy is an asexual Rain Man style figure somewhere on the spectrum, but still loves his burgers. Veggie burgers only though. Bluto actually isn't changed much, because he works already as a villain in our new story of "feminism" and tolerance and smashing the glass ceiling, while also saving the ocean from pollution along with a pro-marijuana message. We mean, "spinach", right? (But I thought the Poppy joke was about the fields in Afghanistan? - Shush...) 

The first episode is about the Taliban and Somali pirates teaming up while trying to stop Poppy from opening her own bank account!

The hat counts as a hijab.

Netflix would gobble this up faster than the old cis-white male hero would pack away a can of mushy greens. Twitter can celebrate another glorious triumph for diversity! 

Right?

No. For pity's sake no! Absolutely not, in fact! Whatever measly short term points supposedly won in the battle for equality are dwarfed, nay drowned by the long term repercussions of such poisonous pyrrhic victories.  

If you type the world "diversity" into Google, it gives you the following:

1. The state of being diverse; variety.

-  a range of different things.

2. The practice or quality of including or involving people from a range of different social and ethnic backgrounds and of different genders, sexual orientations, etc.

The first one there seems pretty inarguable. The literal meaning of the word in the English language. The second one though, strikes us as very narrow to a certain social agenda which is in vogue right now. It is very specific to the people involved and the identities of said individuals. Affirmative action style diversity, not like the diversity of life in an ecosystem. There are, we believe, enough other sub-meanings of the word to have maybe a couple more definitions, at the least enough for a #3 and #4 if the first one is not good enough all by itself.

But Google has the second understanding of the term right there front and center for a reason. It's a hot topic at the moment. It is something which seems to draw out a lot of passion and vocality in a growing number of, shall we say, concerned citizens of the world. We are among that diverse crowd, yet it troubles us how much unhealthy rhetoric and shallowness pollutes the concept. We see a sort of corruption of intent. A co-opting of a movement to make profit or escape responsibility for selfishness.

The most tragic part is that not all people agree with soulless corporations and bigoted shills, yet still contribute to a toxic expression of diversity simply by not knowing any better. As children one of our mothers was prone to say that you should never attribute to malice what could be equally or better explained by incompetence and ignorance. There are more than a few movies which, on clear-eyed critical examination, have serious flaws and issues yet boast of 90% audience approval ratings or higher on Rotten Tomatoes. It is pretentious and elitist to imply the public is a herd of bleating sheep, yet the millions or even billions of dollars raked in by works with ugly faux-diversity can be very disheartening.

What often makes the process of course correction difficult is how sensitive and defensive many humans become when challenged on their principles and righteousness. For example, a person who publicly crusades for diversity with sincerity and zeal would likely consider this next sentence to be barbaric blasphemy:

"Diversity is not always innately superior." *gasp*

There are waaaaaaay too many of such people.

But for real tho'... If it was, then people would do it all the time! Turn the diversity up to 11, and make a better world! But reality is not so white and non-white as that. There wouldn't even be a debate surrounding the issue if it was clearly better and had no negative side-effects. Yeah, we know, break out the torches and pitchforks. But the hard truth is that diversity and inclusion do have downsides and there are valid reasons to avoid them.

Diversity, among other things, diffuses the ability of any specific real life human to connect with or relate to the fictional characters or the events taking place within the story. Let's say you want to tell a story about a person that heavily invested in or embraced a certain path, but years later has doubts and wishes to walk a different path. That's a story which pretty much anyone can self-identify with. The details are not the same as your specific life, but you can easily empathize with the protagonist and their struggles.

But what if said story is specifically about a woman in her late thirties, who after devoting herself as a nun while a teenager now longs deeply for romance and children and a more exciting life outside the cloister. It is suddenly more difficult for anyone not a highly religious single woman in her late thirties to subconsciously relate to the protagonist. That doesn't mean it is impossible, just that it becomes less smooth and natural.

Oh, and the woman is black. And a lesbian. And is deaf. And lives in medieval Ethiopia. 

Your typical middle-class white American liberal-ish secular straight man with normal hearing and no particular fondness for historical fiction might just not be interested in your story anymore. It's not that he refuses to give it a chance or anything. He's not avoiding your story on principle. He just won't gravitate towards your creation and is likely, given the choice, to watch or read something else. Can you blame him?

Media executives certainly don't. Storytelling may have been a religious or educational tool in the cave-men days, but in the modern era it's a business. And diversity is bad for business. Hard numerical evidence clearly shows that, at least for now, certain nationalities or genders or orientations or just basic subject matter and topics are more financially lucrative than others. The 2019 live action remake of Aladdin was a great opportunity to shake up the very, very Western cast of the 1992 version. But Aladdin was Canadian and Jasmine was British. Of course they are, because it's not like there are over half a billion people in the Middle East and North Africa, presumably a few of which are decent actors or pretty women. So, why did Disney use Will Smith for the genie instead of Ibrahim Al-Khairallah?

Who? Yeah, exactly.

Which of these two would you prefer getting an autograph from? Why?

But it's not all greed and risk aversion. To be fair, arbitrary diversity also gets in the way of good storytelling. How are we supposed to make our bad-ass epic Lord-of-the-Rings-quality fantasy trilogy about precolonial Mesoamerican mythology if we are forced to include a bunch of black people? Their very presence would be both historically wrong and rip apart all of our carefully crafted verisimilitude the moment they show up, regardless of what role they play in the plot. It is wrong to mock or discredit Master and Commander or The Shawshank Redemption based on gender imbalance. Anything more than literally zero women would be just factually offensive.

This is not to imply that diversity inherently diminishes a story or that it prevents a person from creating "true art". No, of course not. It's just that an artificial requirement to be a very specific form of "inclusive" is both foolish and impractical. No creator should be forced to alter their creations to be accepted as valid. No work should be heckled or punished for no reason other than that it doesn't tick enough boxes. The manifesto of a supremacist school-shooter should be dismissed as the inane hateful gibberish it is, but the reason to mock or discredit it should not be because it was written by a white person and doesn't pass the Bechdel Test... Does that make sense?

When we say "true art", we mean this 1978 masterpiece.

The true meaning of diversity or inclusion or tolerance or respect or open-mindedness is a deeper thing than some list of buzz-words. We are not here to pompously preach to anyone. We won't lecture you the long-suffering reader with our philosophical opinions on humanity and media. But we can give a practical example of a form of diversity that is not included in most conversations regarding such matters.

Consider traditional Luo oral storytelling, Luo being a large ethnic community in East Africa. You see, the nature of a story or how it is told are also forms of diversity, not just the genetics or lifestyle of the characters and the details of the setting. Luo storytelling traditions are defined not by elephants or spears or witch-doctors. What makes it strikingly different from modern German or Chinese storytelling are things like the live interaction between storyteller and audience. The non-linear or cyclical narratives that usually lack a climatic or happy ending. That is if they even have a conclusion at all. The use of gesture, costumes, props, song, and banter that ignore the distinction between stage and audience. The way that stories are intentionally changed every time they are told, depending on who is listening and why, or when.

Wanna hear about why chickens don't fly? That hand gesture is part of the story.

You could tell a story about Little Bo Peep's feud with Red Riding Hood in a Luo way, and it would be just as if not more "African" than a typical Hero's Journey tale from Hollywood that takes place in the Congo. It's not merely the surface level stuff, it's the very nature of the story itself and how it is told that displays culture and values and heritage.

We have an idea for a mini-series or something like that. A straight white healthy bad-ass goes to another planet and shoots a bunch of aliens while searching for lost artifacts amongst some ruins. So, that might not sound very radical at first. But perhaps we can change that impression. Let's start with our very un-diverse sounding protagonist!

Samus Aran, the heroine of the Metroid series of video games, has, to put it lightly, changed throughout the years. From a handful of pixels whose gender was only established in the last few seconds of the game, through an experienced and competent explorer-warrior, all the way to a petite waifu in a skintight blue leotard (complete with battle-heels) desperately seeking the approval of her male commanding officer. Suffice it to say that a picture speaks a thousand words, so you should feel almost spoiled here by three of them for demonstration.

How do #1 and #3 fit their hair inside the helmet?

Let us, for sake of argument, focus on the middle period, specifically the best game of the entire franchise, the 2002 entry Metroid Prime. 

For those unfamiliar with the game, know that it is a universally respected and beloved game in its own right, regardless of the gender of its main character. A well crafted, spooky, cerebral experience which focuses on the themes of legacy, corruption, decay, and renewal.

The risk here is that, in the effort to be more "emotional" or "help audiences relate to the characters", show-runners could easily warp Samus's identity or mangle the tone and themes of the story. Imagine that they devote multiple flashbacks to Samus reminiscing about her mixed-race 8-year-old son who was killed in a space-pirate raid or something like that. Nothing of the sort happened in the games! Yet it is the type of tripe far too often added for "diversity" and to remind the audience that, in the eyes of media moguls, womanhood is automatically intertwined with motherhood. 

No, in order for a Metroid Prime movie to truly respect and celebrate Samus Aran, she needs to be a stoic, introspective, very quiet loner.

In the void of space, nobody can hear you tweeting anyways.

Consider Cartoon Network's widely hailed series Samurai Jack or Primal. Classic films such as Papillon, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Cast Away, or The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Modern masterpieces such as There Will Be Blood. High quality, respected works which have long stretches with little or no dialogue but still express emotional and intellectual depth in addition to intense, riveting sequences. All of those examples and a dozen more we could list have a man as the central figure. Do you truly want diversity? Gender balance? Create something akin to those works with a female protagonist. But for pity's sake that doesn't mean flipping the chromosomes in an otherwise uninspired repeat, al-la Ghostbusters 2016. Nor does it mean a sci-fi reimagining of Cast Away with Zoe Saldana replacing Tom Hanks.

Make or adapt a new story with a character who was female or otherwise outside the so-called "norm" from the very beginning! The version of Samus Aran in Metroid Prime combines the independence and drive of Lara Croft with the believable competency and toughness of Ellen Ripley. Yet it does so without the literally in your face phallic imagery of Alien or the little replacement daughter Ripley clings to in the sequel. Let's not even get into the gratuitous booty shots of Tomb Raider... 

Girl power...?

A Metroid Prime film done correctly would be diverse not in genetics or lifestyle, but in its intent and execution. 

The lack of any typical villain figure. The minuscule cast and very limited dialogue. The short, dangerous fights with no kung-fu theatrics or slow-mo explosions. No romance. No metaphors for trendy social issues. Just pure uncut unfiltered Metroid Prime. Alas, Netflix would never fund this idea over our other Popeye reboot one. But believe it or not, a film about a straight white healthy bad-ass shooting aliens can be, deep down, more diverse than a rainbow hued bowl of Fruit-Loops.

It is worth noting that when we spoke a few paragraphs ago of repeats, we don't necessary limit ourselves to licensed reboots or sequels where some element has been changed for diversity's sake. We mean also thematic or stylistic repeats, which are identifiable as to their references and predecessors but don't explicitly declare as such. Take, for instance, the 1976 film Rocky and the 2021 film Bruised.

They are similar yet so very, very different.

One may, if they want to weigh the matter, claim that Bruised is a diversity counterweight to the straight-white-male centered Rocky. The main character is somewhat akin to the protagonist of Raging Bull, another straight-white-male boxer, but the plot of Bruised hearkens more towards Rocky. A struggling martial artist and the intense training they endure before a big fight that lasts unexpectedly long and doesn't have an obvious winner. But Rocky never dealt with a plot tumor in the form of his previously abandoned small son that he suddenly needs to start taking care of again as a single parent. Rocky doesn't have a failed relationship with a violent abusive man then immediately afterwards an exploratory lesbian romance that ultimately goes nowhere. And he most certainly does not almost defeat Apollo Creed through the power of family and friendship, but lose due to a biased jury at the end. 

Those diversity scales are balanced only in a very narrow numerical sense on the details of the protagonist. But Bruised is ultimately far more deeply stereotypical and never strays from well-trod expectations. Rocky fought and trained in small, but reputable local gyms. Bruised involves some illegal ghetto dog-fights with "no refs, no rules." Because apparently the only respectable athletic activities for black people are golf and the Olympics. I mean, does anyone remember when the black man beat the crap out of the white guy but nobody really made a big deal out of it? (Perhaps in part because it was based on a true story that happened only a year before the film came out.) Rocky was a complete mess by the end, but in his defeat managed to claim a very personal and philosophical victory. The whole thing reads a bit differently when the dreadlocks-sporting much-older black lady is getting kicked around by a white person. A black lady literally called Justice! We shit you not the character's actual name is Jackie Justice. This movie was made after the whole BLM thing became a thing does anyone think it has an ounce of subtly?

Are these movies balanced because one is a black bisexual woman and one is a white straight man, or because one is brimming with positivity and the other crammed with negativity?

But whether Bruised is good or bad does not particularly matter. It will be slapped onto the flip-side of a coin with two different looking heads. It will be lumped in with every other movie regardless of quality when computing the oh-so-quotable statistics bandied about when the topic of diversity and representation in media inevitably comes up. And maybe it's just us or something, but doesn't it seem to come up a lot?

We are not innately experts on the matter, as we the authors are by and large not representative of every different possible angle of inclusiveness that human nature can be fractally broken down into. But from what we see there are four main types of unhealthy faux-diversity. These being what we call cosmetic diversity, tokenism, inaccurate representation, and minority typecasting. All four are commonplace and all four are bad; so when we discuss them it is in no particular order. Worth noting as well that there is usually overlap between them and more than one is typically a problem in a given work at the same time.

Let's start with...

Cosmetic diversity. If you can change the genetics of a character, such as gender or ethnicity, without making any difference on the character's role in the story or how that character is treated by others, then the genetics of said character are functionally meaningless. The character becomes akin to a bottle of flavored water. It is not overtly unhealthy, to be sure. It enticingly proclaims right on the bottle that is has 0 Calories! So this drink won't rot your teeth and won't make you fat. But it also has no nutrients. It's objectively not as natural or healthy as milk, or fruit juice, or herbal tea. 

Sort of pretty, yeah, but notice how none of them have any faces and all have the same exact outfit...

Take for example the impressively multi-racial cast of the 2004 film The Terminal. Tom Hank's character being a non-US citizen that can't speak English is directly linked to the plot. However, replacing the Eastern European Caucasian man with a Hispanic woman from an equally war-torn Central American country would have little if any impact on the sequence of events or how the supporting cast interacts with the lead. 

Other characters are similar. Take the janitor that persuades the lead to help him find out more about the visa officer he secretly pines for. If you changed the Latino man and black woman playing these roles into an Asian woman as the janitor and a white man as the visa agent, it does not make a single lick of difference. The Star Trek joke at the end is still funny and heartwarming, the airport supervisor's threat to fire the janitor is still completely valid as to the technical rationale he uses as an excuse. 

The one big exception is Gupta, the older Indian janitor. His race, age, and gender are intrinsically connected to his personal story. To recap he owned a small shop, and was increasingly harassed by a corrupt police officer that demanded ever larger bribes. Eventually, in a fit of anger, Gupta stabbed the officer; fleeing the country in fear of an unfair trial. However, many years later he has a change of heart, willingly getting deported and returning to his wife and children.

Now, if you were to modify this character into a 25 year old highly-educated white lesbian woman from France, it breaks down the subplot. It is not believable that the petty bribery Gupta describes would happen that specific way in a developed European country. The very valid fear Gupta expresses about an unfair trial is, again, a big stretch to imagine troubling our alternative version of the character. If the character is changed to be much younger, the motivation for the deportation is silly, as they could never have been apart from their children for decades. You the reader can surely imagine other reasons why such a change in the character's identity would disrupt the narrative.

The faces of the other characters when the director informed them that Gupta actually already is a woman...

But that is one character. The head of security for the airport? Change him to Hispanic and you don't even need to change the character's name, let alone a single word of his dialogue or stage directions. This cosmetic diversity is not a "bad thing", but it is not a reason to celebrate either. It is highly commonplace, but can we as an audience stop praising empty, calorie-free diversity pandering? The critics lap it up like aspartame ice-tea, but we should focus on other, more nutritious diversity. Again, we need to stress that colorblind casting or realistically proportional representation are not innately wrong, but they are far too often empty, hollow gestures undertaken to throw meat, errr, tofu to the mob. 

A mob which wasn't always really a mob. Back in the good 'ol days it was more a small gang of rabble-rousers. Like this one fellow named Martin Luther King Jr. He wrote this book in 1964 that, among other things, directly discussed the problem of tokenism. Let us quote:

"The Negro wanted to feel pride in his race? With tokenism, the solution was simple. If all twenty million Negroes would keep looking at Ralph Bunche, the one man in so exalted a post would generate such a volume of pride that it could be cut into portions and served to everyone."

That almost nobody under the age of 65 can recognize one of the most famous, uh... "black" men of his generation demonstrates how trivial and temporary tokenism truly is.

Oh, Dr. King, if you only knew... 

One thousand million Sub-Saharan black Africans nibble on their tiny portions of Black Panther. Symbolically speaking, of course, as all the financial profits and artistic glory was divided between a handful of Westerners. But look! An African superhero. We call her "Storm"! No wait... not Storm. But she is Kenyan... She is? Yeah man. Huh, I don't recall that coming up in those movies... Whatever, I meant the guy from the completely fictional country.

T'Challa. Yeah, that one. A beacon of Afrocentric hope and joy that shines like a trial-by-combat chosen one from the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro all the way to the shores of the Ivory Coast. The international community can endlessly hype it up all they want but you just can't smear a single American across a table with 50ish seats at the UN and expect an entire continent to profusely thank you for the meal. 

Imagine the opposite. Take a moment to really image this: The entire Western world from Canada to Australia, with every American and European between them, has Batman. Nothing else, just Batman. No Wonder Woman, no Hulk, no Superman or Spiderman. Definitely nothing outside of DC/Marvel like Hellboy or Flash Gordon... Oh, and the only villain is the Joker, by the way. Yeah, none of the other Batman staples like Mr. Freeze or Catwoman, just the most obvious one. Oh, and when we say Batman we mean like just a couple movies not all of them. The dozens of Batman video games, TV-shows, etc all need to be forgotten about and ignored. A handful of paper comics and 1.5 movies is all the white people need.

It sounds absurd when you put it like that. The entire multi-billion-dollar Superhero industry would completely collapse. But have no fear, Black Panther is there to make sure all the brownish and blackish folk feel included and respected and acknowledged. You're welcome.

Just race and/or gender flip all the most popular characters. Except Batman because it's not believable for anyone other than a white man to be that rich. So he stays white but becomes gay. Everybody wins!

Tokenism is nothing but deception that offers empty pride without real power. It is extremely commonplace. We could spend 1000 words listing examples from across the decades and across every form of media. It is downright pervasive, and it needs to be addressed that many of the content-creators championing a very specific form of supposed "diversity" are far too often the most guilty of displaying it.

One of the most infuriating aspects of tokenism is how smoothly and frequently it is merged with the next big type of unhealthy diversity: Minority Typecasting. As in, the only Asian character in the work is also good at math and stingy with their funds but secretly knows ninjutsu. Unless the Asian is female, then she will be either a beautiful yet submissive bimbo or a vicious, calculating Dragon Lady doomed to violently die by the end. 

Netflix acquired the rights to the downright revered Japanese series Cowboy Bebop through what we can only assume was innocent ignorance or soulless greed on the part of some Japanese people not involved in the creation of the original show... They then promptly decided that some changes were needed. Drastic changes. Among other things they promptly changed the character of Jet from a white man to a black one. 

And then they made him a bad father and husband desperate for redemption. Note that Jet from the original show had no such issues. He had no children at all, and did not speak with his ex-wife for years after she left him. In fact, he moved on completely after coincidentally seeing her in a new life. But Diverse-Jet in the Netflix show has serious drama involving his daughter that is shown in numerous scenes. So the question is... why did they do this?

For pity's sake the one on the right was made for free by a single fan. Did anyone at Netflix even watch the show? Jet's beard doesn't cover his upper lip and the shoulder pads are made out of metal! The cigarettes are an important part of the story!

We know why. It's because, supposedly, black men always have issues with the daughters they didn't take care of in the past. Anybody remember the NASA guy in season three of Lost in Space? Another Netflix adaptation. Or the 2021 film Fatherhood. More Netflix. Let's break the trend here... Remember in 2016's Suicide Squad when they changed the usually white Deadshot into a black man, and had those scenes with his daughter? Oh, and in the 2021 sequel The Suicide Squad Will Smith was busy so they replaced Deadshot with the suspiciously similar Bloodsport. Another black man who is motivated to cooperate with the shadow feds because of a daughter that he never had in the original. 

The original character, by the way, was a deranged bastard who went insane due to a bunch of factors involving draft dodging and Vietnam. The new movie completely changed the core fundamentals of his character. Changing him from a psychotic American to a calm, level headed British guy who is trying to stop his daughter from following in his footsteps. We can not repeat ourselves enough that the studio making both these films made extreme changes to the very basics of the characters. And one of those changes was adding in father issues. Because, supposedly, all black men are terrible parents that will do anything, particularly suicidal risks and sacrifice, to restore previously tarnished paternal honor.

There are a hundred other stereotypes we could talk about. We are not going to list them all here. We don't need to. You already know what they are. How could you not know what they are? You see them over and over ad nauseam in just about every genre of every form of media... It does not need to be this way. It should never have gotten this bad, but now that it has we need to accept that like a boulder rolling down a hill it won't just suddenly stop without intentional effort by an outside force. Hollywood and Twitter and The Pride Parade organizers are never going to be that force. They are not the boulder, but they knowingly step aside out of its path rather than face it head on. In their eyes, throwing a few minorities and a handful of flowers in front of the boulder is all they need to make a profit and win awards.

It is not progress to include something that is underrepresented or otherwise at a disadvantage if the thing you are including is a cheap, shallow caricature. Ever heard of Wong Liu-tsong? Probably not. How about her stage name Anna May Wong? She was a talented, lovely actress who, in the 1920s, became the first Chinese-American movie star. In less than a decade she became so frustrated and disgusted by the racism and typecasting that she literally left the country to try her luck in Europe. It wasn't much better there. Here we are, 100 years later, and most people still see nothing wrong with the glaring fact that of the 1300 top grossing films worldwide from 2007-2019 only 44 had an Asian as the lead character.

Wong Liu-Tsong is not impressed by your script... Tell her again why she can't kiss Douglas Fairbanks, Cary Grant, or Clark Gable on screen but Charlie Chaplin is acceptable if shot from behind.

3.4%. Three point four percent... Think that number is bad? 19 of those 44 were either The Rock or Keanu Reeves! Half the human beings alive are Asian! 3.4% is not even remotely close to statistical expectations but here we are anyways with Matt Damon defending the Great Wall of China from aliens. Wong Liu-tsong is not rolling in her grave. She is rolling her eyes at the airheads celebrating the so-called triumph of Crazy Rich Asians. 

Actually both that movie and The Great Wall are also good examples of the fourth and final form of unhealthy inclusion and representation. Specifically, inaccurate representation. If you showcase a type of person or a place or culture but mangle it and distort it then that is just as bad, perhaps even worse, then not displaying it at all. Exaggerating or over-simplifying an entire culture, misleading audiences to the reality of being or living with a certain trait, or worse showing/saying things which are objectively wrong and factually inaccurate completely negates any positive aspects you may have regarding diversity.   

Toplessness is a good example. Pocahontas is the only female main character from Disney's extensive animated canon who is ethnically Native American. (We haven't forgotten Kenai from Brother Bear but our point is about the ladies.) Much shade is thrown around regarding this flaw or that flaw of the 1995 movie, but rarely is it mentioned that Powhatan women were topless during summer. Most people are to their credit vaguely aware that the details of the story and the real life people it involves are not historically accurate. But nowhere near as commonplace is it known that the basic fundamentals of the native culture are horribly warped. Where are the tattoos!? 

Not perfect, but a lot better. Alice, Wendy, Lilo, Penny, Vanellope, Tiger Lily, Eilonwy, Riley, and others were all children so why make Movie-Pocahontas a 30-year-old D-Cup?

But lo, that was in the distant past of yesteryear. Behold yonder much newer film! The one where Disney and its sycophants gushed about the inclusivety and diversity. Moana! It has tattoos! Hurray! Wait what tribe is she again? Polynesian you say? That is not really a tribe...  Even freakin' Pocahontas was not a generic "Native American" girl, she was specifically Powhatan. That mattered you guys, there is a big difference between say the Lakota and the Algonquin. She is just "Polynesian". Alright fine, then why is she not topless? Why are none of the other characters in the film topless? Maui is! Oh stop that you know I meant the women. What is that tube-top rag thing she has magically staying up around her chest? 

We mean do the words "Google Image Search" mean anything to you diversity proponents? There are literally thousands of photos and hundreds more drawings and written descriptions of women from the various pre-colonial Pacific Island sub-groups. Social justice warriors say things like "whitewashing is bad" or "we need to respect other cultures as equally valid to our own" or maybe "breasts in those cultures were not always an inherently sexualized matter". Yet they are too cowardly or hollow to really put their money where their mouth is and, if they can't handle partially nude teenagers who are above the age of consent or half-naked old women, insist that at the bare minimum at least Moana's mother be topless. (But really though every single female in the film should be, get over it you pearl-clutching culturally censoring Victorians.)

This is especially glaring when contrasted with the beautiful title sequence of Lilo & Stitch. The women practice performing a (mostly) authentic looking Polynesian dance. Traditional instruments are shown being used, the song is sung in the Hawaiian language, the ladies are barefoot, they even have grass skirts. And underneath those grass skirts they are wearing pants with a white top. This is perfectly normal, something you would see in real life if you went to Hawaii and watched a similar performance. Modern day Polynesian women are not usually topless let alone bottomless, and it's not censorship or inaccurate to show that. The clothes are accurate to what a Hawaiian dancer would actually wear circa 2002, in a way that the clothing in Moana is not accurate to what they would wear several hundred years ago.

Moana only has authentic, realistic culture when it is convenient. It takes place not in the modern day but some vaguely defined distant past. That's helpful, you can skip doing research and avoid historical inaccuracies if it's all vague and blurry. They just picked the parts of some abstract Polynesian-ish culture that will make Disney look woke while blithely refuting anything that might cause waves in the magical ocean. Did you notice the slanted eyes of the dancers in Lilo & Stitch? They even bring attention to it by having the central dancer slowly blink while staring directly into the camera. The eyes of the white or black people in the film look completely different. Yeah, that's authentic and all but big round googly eyes make more money so no more of that in Moana.

This is the "good" kind of diversity and representation.

This the "bad" ki - awwwwwww. Wait we forgot our priciples and morals for a moment...

Inaccurate representation is not just about culture though. Another great example is mental illness or various forms of mental disability. Anyone who has dealt with the real life stress and pain of, say, a family member clinically diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder or Schizophrenia or even Depression will tell you that Shutter Island or The Electrical Life of Louis Wain are, in proper medical parlance, piles of shit regarding the hard truth of the mentally unwell. A Beautiful Mind is a great movie! A masterpiece of storytelling and acting and cinematography. But that is absolutely not what such an ugly, devastating illness is actually like. It's a fantastic piece of art but it does not bring relief or joy to those who are marginalized and misunderstood in real life.

The nuances, the proper context, the parts of life which are not sexy or glamorous or funny are not required when making a work of fiction. Yeah you probably didn't expect us to say that huh? But we get it; people watch or read fiction because they want something different than the real world. Escapism or wish-fulfilment or even something like racial fetishism are not incompatible with being a good person. However, if you display a minority or a foreign culture or anything else in such a way that it becomes "not the truth", then you are not worthy of praise regarding your efforts at inclusion or diversity. You are, in a tragic irony, actually making the problem even worse.

Another problem, troublesomely, is that not everything neatly fits into the four categories we just discussed. Consider the 2018 Academy Award winner for Best Picture, Green Book. A story centered around a real-life black musician named Don Shirley. It covers all the usual topics for black-people biopics like racism and prejudice and Jim-Crow era mistreatment, etc etc. The very name is a reference to a historical book intended to help black people. Thing is, the story may be centered around a black man and black issues, but the protagonist point of view character is white.

Why? Why not just have Don Shirley be the main character? Of course Tony Lip was also a real person, so it's totally fine to include him in the story, but why not as a supporting actor? In the film, witnessing the pain and vileness of how Don is treated makes Tony increasingly appalled and protective of Don. The entire experience of discrimination in the American South is examined through the eyes and feelings and reactions of a person who never suffers from that discrimination personally. This film, though in theory a noble condemnation of a social ill, is ultimately nothing more than voyeurism intended to entertain and sooth the conscious' of a white target audience.

The center of the film is the guy definitely not in the center of this poster...

This happens a lot, but the issue is one that lays unevenly across the four broad categories we discussed. Which category/ies are most relevant depends on the context and details of the specific work. Other issues are no easier. Does the identity of the person making a work matter, or only the content of the work itself? Saying it does not matter at all seems to be unjustly apathetic. But saying it does matter conflates the diversity of a work with the diversity of real life, and that opens up a whole different can of worms. These difficult to clearly and objectively describe concerns are numerous, albeit nebulous.

A particularly nefarious trend is the way many content creators do what they see as the bare minimum to avoid criticism and earn praise. What is the bar and how low or high is it? Well, from what we see all around us, the acceptable threshold for diversity is not hard to clear...

The show Young Justice, in its third season, introduced a Muslim teenager as part of its main cast. The character, who has multiple names but uses the hero moniker of Halo, is notable for her dark skin, thick accent, place of origin, and consistent use of what is clearly a hijab. 

Hurray? Islam in super-heroics, let alone specifically the big boys Marvel and DC, does not have an illustrious, enlightened history. Indeed, Muslims in general, particularly those of the Middle-Eastern variety, are far more likely to be nameless goons and terrorists than recurring characters. What few exist are usually villains or at least frustrating bureaucratic hindrances to attempts by the heroes to solve problems and save people.

What little representation Islam itself receives, positive or negative, is oblique and inferred rather than explicitly stated. Major, influential characters like Ra's Al-Ghul being an excellent example. He uses a scimitar, is from the Middle-East/North Africa, has an Arabic name, and engages in international terrorism on a regular basis. But the comics don't dwell on his religious beliefs as a young man or elderly villain. It wouldn't be unreasonable or out of character for him to throw out a few megalomaniacal claims to being the Mahdi or something like that, but he never does.

So Halo being, ostensibly, an openly Muslim lady in the show is an interesting and refreshing surprise. Especially since the character of Halo in the original comic books was white and non-Muslim. Wait, did we say ostensibly? Yes, we said ostensibly. Let us briefly explain why. Spoilers ahead!

Well, at first glance everything seems pretty halal...

In the show, the first appearance of the girl that would become Halo is a domestic servant in the royal palace of a nation called Markovia, a small fictional Eastern-European country akin to say, Macedonia. She promptly dies a few minutes after first seen on screen. Her corpse is thrown into a small mass grave, but suddenly returns from the dead! That's just the first episode so now come the spoilers... 

It is revealed much later that she was a poor refugee named Gabrielle Daou from a Syria-analogous middle-eastern nation called Qurac. But twist! An advanced, intelligent alien computer called a Motherbox, after being torn apart and on the edge of "dying", merged itself with Gabrielle's corpse in desperation.

Alas, human brains were not designed to house hyper-advanced alien artificial intelligences, causing a sort of amnesia and timid confusion while the space WiFi adjusts to its new, mostly biological body. But eventually confidence and personality are restored, resulting in a hybrid entity. An identity that, when informed of the story regarding her body, directly and forcefully denies being that woman called Gabrielle Daou. 

Can you blame it/her? The mind and soul is still the alien computer, forced by circumstance into a new container that is not fully bio-mechanically compatible. Gabrielle Daou died, and her corpse was recycled into what would later choose for itself the name Violet Harper. 

So... is Halo a Muslim super-heroine? Well, let's recap. She...

A: Does not/did not recieve her powers directly or indirectly from Allah or a similar figure.

B: Does not perform any other Muslim specific ritualized behavior such as daily prayer, hand/foot washing, going to a mosque, etc. 

C: Does not speak of or seem to care about concepts such as halal/haram or Hajj. For example, she voluntarily drinks alcohol and when presented with meat, never asks how the animal died.

D: Does not apparently own a Quran, let alone actually read it or make any references to its wisdom/proverbs/etc.  

E: Does not express any Muslim-coded secular culture. I.E. decorate her living space in a visually Islamic way, cook/eat traditionally Muslim food, listen to music connected to any Muslim culture, dress in clothing specific to any Islamic style or fashion (aside from a generic loose hijab), or express any particular interest in Muslim history/heritage.

F: Does not speak Arabic or any other language from a Muslim majority region such as Dari. Her initially thick accent even diminishes with time during the show.

G: Emphatically and repeatedly refuses to acknowledge her biological relatives as "family", and related to this does not self-identify with either her original birth name or in general as an individual originating from her birth country when introducing herself to others.   

That doesn't look like tea to me... Positive Muslim representation huh?

By the way, early in the show when directly asked by another character why she wears a hijab when she has total amnesia, she just shrugs and says "it feels right". So she doesn't have a reason, in universe, to wear it outside of muscle memory from her stolen body! It's not a chocie she makes due to a desire for modesty or tradition NOR a coercive control tool of the patriarchy. It's just an old habit that's hard to break. She wears a hijab for the same reason she holds a pen in her right hand. There is no deeper reason than that, even after the software update amnesia wears off.

This woman, even putting aside the alien computer merged with her brain, is not a Muslim! Slapping a hood, not even an actual hijab just an ordinary hood, onto a superhero costume does not a Muslim super-heroine make. No more than arbitrarily slapping a burka purchased via Amazon on any random woman suddenly makes that lady a tallymark on the scoreboard of diversity. 

We cannot, unlike our superhero representatives, read the minds of the people that created Halo and Young Justice. We were not there in the room when the script or concept art for the character was approved, let alone when the first draft was rejected for whatever reason.

But let's be completely frank here, there are logically only a few possible reasons... 

The directors and producers and scriptwriters and executives for the show where either too lazy, too ignorant, too greedy, or too bigoted to include authentic diversity in their creation. They clearly did not feel an actual Muslim woman had any place in the story they wanted to tell. But they were internet woke enough to vaguely capitalize on the whole "diversity fad" and tease the concept of something new before popping the champagne cork on an inclusive job well done.

We discussed this character at length not because the show Young Justice is of any particular importance in the grand scheme of things. Not because that character is overtly more offensive than 50 other examples we could have used instead. We did it to demonstrate and give context to just how little effort the crew of the show felt was necessary. To really prove a point, not just insinuate things or lob incendiary accusations. That shallow, cursory offering was, in their eyes, good enough to meet the public's new diversity expectations.  

"We are not as quite as bad as that other studio/author/country! So pick us instead of them!"

The sad part is that, far too often, it really is enough to keep the critics away! See, DC is not truly the problem here. They are just a part of a much larger problem. Disney is not better. Ubisoft is not better. Netflix is not better. The New York Times is not better. All of the big studios and content creators in every form of media from books to music to children's toys are swindling the masses! Rye bread and animal-rights-conscious circuses for the plebeians! 

We mean look at how bad this brainwashing cancer is...

"If we could all vote unanimously on a movie that has a perfect balance of diversity and story, that is Black Panther. First, every character is not just defined by their color or culture, but also has a rich background, characterization and development. Second, the cultural background of the film gives viewers an appreciation of the unique and colorful African culture." 

Bianca Padilla - April 26, 2021 for Onemega.com

Unanimously huh? How-about-we-link-you-to-some-people-that-disagree?

You wax poetic about diversity of skin color and such but apparently you are not so into, oh, diversity of thought... Anyhows did we watch the same film? As we recall tribalism and social-class are very much so on display in the film. Multiple characters, such as T'Challa's best friend or the big guy that challenges him to the throne, are absolutely defined by their ethnic group and the traditional role that sub-culture plays in the overall society of Wakanda. There are issues with the king and his sort-of-secret girlfriend specifically because of what she is, not who she is as a person. And the main villain is totally all about Black Power issues, he definitely is defined by color and culture, not to mention his inherited position via genetic lineage!

"...the unique and colorful African culture." 

If Wakanda is somewhere in this circle why does the border patrol wear those blue Lesotho blankets and the capital city have West African inspired skyscrapers?

The culture? Uh, Africa is a continent, not a country. Even if it was, it wouldn't have a single unified culture. Many African nations seriously struggle with issues of discrimination or prejudice or outright violence, in part because the various groups within those countries consistently do not get along or have social balance. But let us magnanimously pretend that person meant pan-African aesthetic trends. Indeed, Africa overall is famous for its military battle rhinos and the ninja-shoes worn by its special forces. Did you see the part where one of the Wakandan tribe leaders literally says "Glory to Hanuman..." during the film? Hanuman! Yeah, the popular monkey god from Indian Hinduism... Let us all take a moment to bask in the "African" culture perfectly appreciated in Black Panther. 

And then they made a sequel! Kunta Kinte and ourselves suffered through watching it, and then surprise guest Pablo came over and we all watched it again though the "Mayan" lense. The film was... well... shall we say less than perfect. *cough*

By Pinocchio's nose we could talk about why Black Panther is bad for hours. (The skyscrapers are made of mud! - Shush!) But let us restrain ourselves to a slow shake of the head at the ignorant, foolish, blind idolization of unhealthy faux-diversity that dominates such a large portion of what should be an intellectual, open-minded discussion. We are not attacking the morality of the author of that article. Truly, it's not about them. We are expressing disappointment underscored by sorrow at the literally millions of people such a quote represents even now in the midst of 202X.

Hell is full of good meanings, but Heaven is full of good works.

For diversity's sake please, please stop rewarding such retrogressive so called "diversity" with praise, or even worse with money! If you truly want a more balanced, healthy corpus of media in your life or the life of future generations, seek out and reward the diamonds among the coals that work towards such a goal with more honesty and integrity. They exist! Perhaps not as famous or numerous, relatively speaking, but there are alternative options. If all else fails, here is what we can only hope is a clarion call to go out and make something diverse yourself. 

We will be your first fans.

Begging is for dogs, but we will ask very nicely!