Being that “women” who voted for Trump actually exist, it can be no wonder that there still exist “women” who are petrified by even contemplating the notion of asking a bloke out, of being billed, as Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie would call it, “Debbie Desperate.” Speaking to the congenital fear that all “women” have of rejection (most especially when it is all largely based on their looks–though there are some deranged “men” who claim they are unaffected by the beauty and fashion industry and all they do to transform “women” on a daily basis), the self-branding as desperate for expressing one’s affections is yet another instance of patriarchal-instilled gender role fulfillment. “If I’m not the one being pursued, how can I know this is real?” is the question. The answer being, in the stuck in the twentieth century mindset, it’s not. What’s worse, this mentality is what has for so long driven “women” to settle for whatever pathetic entrails show up on their doorstep. If he’s into me, I guess I should just go with it being the surrender Dorothy rationale.
That a very dance exists–Sadie Hawkins (in addition to that Leap Year loophole that permits a “woman” to invoke the Irish tradition of being able to ask a “man” to marry her on 29th of February that occurs every four years)–to flip the switch in “allowing” a “woman” to feel confident enough to express a desire and fondness for the bloke of her choosing without the usual sentiment of humiliation or prostration is just one of many confirmations of the rigged in favor of the patriarchy game known as “trying to bang the same person on the regular.”
Yet when taking into account the overall enervation of the “male” species and what it once meant to be “male” (in the John Wayne spirit) having totally vanished into obsoletion, it is only natural that a “woman” should, at times, feel inclined to take matters into her own firm and ready to grip hands, to drive the spirit of the “relationship” she can feel faintly forming based on intuition and the number of times he “finds ways” to touch her and/or glance at her for far longer than is appropriate without immediately thinking he’s probably stalked her Instagram profile to the point of having gone back fifty-two weeks. So then, why shouldn’t it be that she helps him along in his overt inclinations that can still be picked up on in those moments when one or both parties is not welded to their phones?
The point is, “men” are dainty motherfuckers, and waiting around on them to “bequeath” their dick to you at their own leisure will leave one’s pussy hairs turning gray. Though some “men” with a fetish for Helen Mirren (a.k.a. a strange offshoot of the Oedipus complex) might be inclined to actually pursue you at this stage.