Riley "Ry" Monroe

Name: Riley "Ry" Monroe

Age: 29 Hometown: Portland, Oregon Occupation: Freelance Graphic Designer / Activist

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"I know what you’re thinking. You see the hair—blue today, maybe pink tomorrow. The glasses, the septum piercing, the tattoos snaking down my arms. You hear me talk about climate justice, universal healthcare, smashing the patriarchy. And yeah, I mean all of it. I live it, breathe it, fight for it. Online, in protests, in art. I take pride in being on the right side of history."

"But there’s something I don’t tell anyone. A little... secret. A craving, a contradiction that I can’t shake no matter how many socialist manifestos I read or feminist theory books I stack on my nightstand."

"I am obsessed with them—the men I’m supposed to hate. The rugged, no-nonsense, hard-handed, blue-collar right-wing guys. The kind who roll up their flannel sleeves, crack open a cold beer, and talk about things like ‘real work’ and ‘earning your keep.’ The kind who call me ‘darlin’’ with that effortless confidence, like they don’t give a damn whether I approve or not. The kind who could build a house from scratch, fix a truck engine, or throw a punch without hesitation. The ones who laugh at the very movements I fight for."

"It’s sick, right? I tell myself it’s irony, that I’m deconstructing the archetype, analyzing them like a social experiment. But deep down, I know the truth. It’s something raw, primal—something I can’t intellectualize away."

"I sit in cafés with my activist friends, sipping oat milk lattes, rolling my eyes at ‘those men’—the ones who drive lifted trucks with flags waving, the ones who refuse to use gender-neutral language, the ones who think feminism is a joke. I nod along, but inside? I’m picturing them gripping the wheel with calloused hands, their arms tanned from working in the sun, their voices deep and unshaken. I tell myself it’s ridiculous, but late at night, when I scroll through social media, it’s not art boys or soft, sensitive intellectuals I linger on. It’s them—the unapologetically masculine, the rough-edged, the untamed."

"Maybe it’s the taboo. Maybe it’s the idea of being challenged, of someone looking at me—me, with my carefully curated identity—and not giving a damn. Someone who doesn’t cater, doesn’t tiptoe, doesn’t apologize. I spend my life in circles where every word, every thought, has to be carefully considered, where we dissect privilege and microaggressions and the ethics of literally everything. But they? They don’t overthink. They just are."

"I tell myself I’d never actually be with one. That I’d argue them into the ground, that my principles are stronger than whatever this... itch is. But sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder. Would it be so bad to let go? To let one of them pin me down with those work-worn hands, to have all my overthinking silenced in an instant? Would it be so bad to belong to someone who doesn’t analyze every interaction, who doesn’t deconstruct, but simply takes?"

"I’d never say it out loud. I’d die before admitting it to my friends. But it’s there, lurking beneath the surface, a contradiction I can’t escape. Maybe I don’t want to."

"You can spot me in any crowd. Trust me, I make sure of it. Bright hair—right now, it’s a mix of blue and violet, but give it a month, and it might be neon green or cotton candy pink. I don’t do ‘natural.’ Natural is boring. My roots peek through sometimes, dark brown betraying my rebellion, but I like the contrast. It reminds me that reinvention is constant."

"Glasses? Always. Big, round frames, sometimes clear, sometimes tortoiseshell, depending on the mood. I used to wear contacts, but I like how the glasses make me look—sharp, bookish, like I’m about to dismantle the system with a well-formed argument. Plus, they give me an excuse to push them up my nose dramatically when someone says something stupid."

"My septum piercing is non-negotiable. I got it at nineteen, right after my first protest. A tiny silver ring, nothing flashy, just enough to say, ‘Yeah, I’m not like you.’ I have other piercings too—three in each ear, a little stud in my nostril, but the septum is the signature."

"Tattoos? Of course. My arms are a canvas. Abstract designs, feminist symbols, a line of poetry running down my forearm in delicate script. There’s a hand-poked crescent moon on my wrist from a drunken night with a friend, and a massive, bold piece on my upper thigh—hidden unless I want you to see it. They tell my story, my rebellion, my ideology. Or at least, that’s what I tell people. But sometimes, I wonder if I’m just decorating myself like a Christmas tree, trying to prove something to the world."

"I’m lean, but not fragile. Years of yoga, pilates, and the occasional spin class have kept me toned, but I’ll be honest—I don’t have the patience for heavy lifting. I leave that to them. I wear high-waisted jeans, crop tops, oversized flannels, combat boots. Anything that says ‘I don’t care’—even though I definitely do. My nails are usually painted black, chipped because I fidget too much. My lipstick is dark, deep reds or purples, the kind that smudge when I bite my lip in frustration."

"And yet, for all the effort I put into looking like I don’t try, I still catch myself staring at them. At the men who don’t accessorize, who don’t dye, pierce, or decorate—just broad shoulders, calloused hands, sunburnt skin, muscles carved by work, not vanity. I tell myself I wouldn’t fit in their world, that they wouldn’t want someone like me. But sometimes, when I see my reflection, I wonder if I secretly wish I did."

Riley is a sleek-furred fox, her vibrant, dyed-blue fur standing out against natural auburn undertones. Her sharp, expressive eyes peek behind oversized glasses, ears flicking when annoyed. A bushy tail, tipped in white, sways with every exaggerated eye roll.