It’s a dangerous thing as a “woman” to go against the enthusiasm of a viral hashtag pertaining to standing up against an endless history of “men” abusing their power via sexual harassment and/or assault. And while it’s a positive sign that an open and candid dialogue has commenced about centuries-long accepted behavior, there are more than a few complications to #metoo. First and foremost, there are still a lot of “women” who would rather not go into detail about the horrors of their bodily debasement. Some of us, after all, have suffered more than what can comparatively seem like a menial catcall.
Another problematic element is that rather than the hordes of “women” responding with their story managing to be heard, their trauma only seems to get lost in the abyss of the internet’s black hole of misery sharing. Rather than remaining a spotlight on what’s wrong with “men” in positions of power, the hashtag is a whirlpool of untrackable tales of suffering as they drown in the numbers. This then becomes antithetical to the point of forcing “men” to come face to face with their crimes.
To compound it all, there is the very real possibility that two words aren’t going to change “men’s” perception of themselves (especially Lars Von Trier or Woody Allen) or the out of hand situation. As social media specialist and sexual assault survivor Wagatwe Wanjuki put it, “I know, deep down, it won’t do anything. Men who need a certain threshold of survivors coming forward to ‘get it’ will never get it.” Of course, one doesn’t want to believe that it’s all doom and gloom. Clearly, there’s a sea change afoot, and even if #metoo does nothing other than to encourage “women” to at least seek therapy for their PTSD, well, then, that’s still something. It’s just a little fucked up that you’re looked on as some sort of anti-feminist for not wanting to join in on admitting to and/or sharing your rape story.
For as in the vein–historical-wise–as the “Women’s” March that took place earlier this year, the #metoo phenomenon that transpired on Twitter on Monday, October 16th after Alyssa Milano tweeted on Sunday has somehow lost sight of one very important fact: who actually came up with the notion? Though Milano mentions “a friend” suggested the idea to have any “woman” who has ever been the victim of sexual assault or harassment reply “me too” to Milano’s tweet, will we ever unmask the actual identity of said friend?
Before anyone knew it, media outlets like The Hollywood Reporter were simply going with headlines like “Alyssa Milano Launches Me Too Twitter Hashtag to Raise Sexual Assault Awareness.” But without this nameless friend, would any of these droves of “women” who have come forward even been able to at least revel in the comfort of mass solidarity? Doubtful. And yet, here Milano is lapping in the glory with comments like, “While I am sickened and angered over the disturbing accusations of Weinstein’s sexual predation and abuse of power, I’m happy — ecstatic even — that it has opened up a dialogue around the continued sexual harassment, objectification and degradation of women.” Alright, but just remember that the dialogue was started by the friend you’re keeping out of the spotlight. Then again, maybe she’s one of the few “women” who doesn’t want the world to know about her sexual violation.
Possibly the only female celebrity who has ever owned up without shame to having nude photos of herself leaked is Madonna. Rather than shy away from the controversy, she welcomed it, declaring what became a now illustrious New York Post cover titled, “I’m not ashamed.” Though the photos were highly violating and sold to Playboy and Penthouse by the skeevy “art” photographer against the then freshly famous pop star’s will, she didn’t try to play the innocente about her past.
Most “women” who do sexually “devious” things before becoming famous in order to become famous will attempt to distance themselves from the scandal of their photos or videos (even Paris and Kim initially acted appalled by the “leak” of their respective sex tapes) upon their “unexpected” release. This false display of martyrdom rarely comes across as authentic and only serves to accent the perpetuated sense of puritanism Americans feel about sex. Why not just admit to the public that to be naked is to attract surefire attention? No matter how the sands of time billow forward, this is the one tactic that has and will probably always spark interest. Acting shocked by it isn’t fooling an increasingly jaded audience who, at this point, just wants you to take your top off and shut the fuck up with that faux “Oops” bit of yours.
Ever since the pilot episode of Sex and the City, when Carrie Bradshaw declared to Big that she was experimenting in having “sex like a ‘man,'” a modern revolution has been afoot. Or maybe you could count it from the time Janeane Garofalo as Vickie Miner in Reality Bites tallied up the number of guys she banged in her diary every time one of them left her bedroom in the morning (adding many a question mark behind said names). Whatever you trace the origin of “female” promiscuity as a source of pride to, the bottom line is that, in general, their sole motivo for doing it is to prove something to a “man”–that is, that they can be just as callous and emotionless as a non-human purported to have a penis. But to be “slutty” for this competitive, vengeance-driven reason only serves to strengthen a “man’s” point that a “woman” has no gender identity of her own.
She isn’t having sex with a robust number of “men” for pleasure, she’s doing it for the bragging rights. And this doesn’t make her any better than a “bloke” who does the same thing. Rather than solidifying the perception that she is a feminist, the woman who gets satisfaction out of “men” as conquests and not as people is only debasing herself, lowering her values to the level of the former stereotype of the sexually appetitive “male” before we all got saddled with the current generation of 30 & unders obsessed with porn and video games to the point that it’s completely stamped out their sex drive for a flesh and blood girl.
Be that as it may, “men” are still, for the most part, the ones who get the reputation for “looseness” because they continue to remain the gender with the ratio in their favor. The only “woman” who has ever truly enjoyed boning an endless barrage of “men” for sport is Laura Bell, and that’s only because she got the “bow down to me” title of Queen of London whoredom. Every other “notorious” “whore” (e.g. Samantha Jones and Vivian Ward) went home wondering if they might ever find someone to share their bed with on a consistent basis. “Women” just aren’t disloyal enough for the lifestyle of the philanderer. Anyone who tells you otherwise has gotten her heart broken and is just trying to fuck the pain away.
One can’t really fault a “woman” for getting ahead any way she can. And one of the oldest (no pun intended) forms of that is targeting a wealthy elderly “man” with the prowess of her good looks, tight pussy (though it’s all tight to an older “man,” innit?) and presumably blonde hair (“men”–especially ancient ones–are cliche in their classicist love of long, blonde hair on a “dame,” it’s Aphrodite-esque or something). And yet, in these times of neo-feminism, most members of the proverbial sistren aren’t too keen to support the type of “lady” lazy enough to turn to a “man” for financial support. But clearly, they aren’t aware of just how much work it actually is to climb the social ladder, especially when it’s such a rickety one.
To “love” a “man” is challenging enough, with all his grossness–slothery, farting, belching, etc.–but to “love” an old “man,” with his sagging skin, papery texture and foul breath, that takes true work–true devotion to the one thing that makes the world go round: money. Once the getting married part is over, however, that’s when the “female” lackadaisicality can really begin. She can loaf and invite her soul to do just about whatever it wants. The “woman” who cashes in on the fruits of her teabagging a decrepit sack is then at her most horrible, representing the worst stereotype about “females”: all they care about in a “partner” is if he can afford her ideal lifestyle. And all she has to do is wait for the fool to die in the process of getting it handed to her. That’s what makes these types of “women” the most clitless of all, for “women” are supposed to be givers of life, not takers away of it, which they inevitably do by sucking the old “man” dry of his remaining will to live upon realizing that she’s never going to put out in the same way again now that she’s locked him down. And anyway, sucking away life, well, that’s something “men” are far better at with the skill of their congenital sociopathy. Then again, sociopathy, like fire, is something “men” may have invented, but “women” learned to perfect.
As fall descends upon us, the endless hype leading up to what has officially been dubbed “basic bitch season” is about to reach a fever pitch in the coming weeks. The first signal, regardless of how the climate actually feels, is Starbucks deciding to re-inaugurate one of its bestselling drinks, the pumpkin spice latte, which typically always occurs during the first week of September (they’ve got to cash in on it for as long as possible, after all). Once this event is heralded, there’s no stopping the rest of the steam roll that is the fall accoutrements a particular sort of “woman” just adores.
And even though the exact period and duration of fall may change with increasing rapidity over time as the apocalyptic patterns of the weather mirror the imminent demise of humanity, you can always count on fall’s “female” dick suckers to adhere to the usual uniformed reverence: oversized sweater, painted-on leggings and Uggs (or some knockoff form of them). Equipped with her hot beverage in hand, there is no man the fall-loving “woman” can’t corral into her bedroom (packing, undoubtedly, Ralph Lauren sheets) just in time to have someone–anyone–to cuddle up with for the winter. Requisite trips to the pumpkin patch where infinite photos will be taken so that only the perfect one can appear on Instagram are also mandatory fall protocol. Summer be damned, fall is the time when “women” get at their most understatedly slutty–one wouldn’t be surprised if you caught her actually fucking a leaf as she rolls around “just so” in one of the piles before sipping from a mug of hot cider that makes her giddy with elation almost as much as the pumpkin spice.
Then, of course, to top it off, is Halloween: the granddaddy of all “female” love for fall since, as Cady Heron said, it is “the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.” Testing the very thin limits of her creativity, this usually means the fall lover in question will don whatever is most trending pop culturally from the year. In 2017’s case, Missing A Clit predicts the simplicity of Taylor Swift’s black shag “Rep” sweater from “Look What You Made Me Do.” And it’s not just because she’s the satyr to basics, but also, well, it just gets so chilly with only shorts and heels on. So if you’re a man who, by now, hasn’t learned to worship fall, maybe there’s a reason you’re single–and it’s not just because you’re poor.
“Women” aren’t typically all that well-known for traveling alone or being adventurous in a way that isn’t carefully curated (you know, they need their toiletries, their access to a shower that isn’t merely a spigot and, most of all, a real pillow to rest their head on–any “woman” who tells you differently is a fucking liar probably trying to kowtow to her “man” du moment, e.g. taking up a sport just to claim having a similar interest as the object of her desire).
But that rare “woman” who does like to travel–especially alone–often has the tendency to boast about the number of foreign conquests she’s been able to include in her sexual passport. It’s as though, in addition to being able to call herself a “free spirit,” she can also lay claim to being a true “bohemian.” Minus the part where she actually does anything pertaining to being “an artist” apart from surrounding herself with faux aspirants (i.e. a guy who plays guitar near the Puerta del Sol at unpredictable times when it strikes him that perhaps he can make some quick cash for the bar later).
Her strange need to play the braggart doesn’t come from a place of wanting to reveal just how deep her passion for travel goes, but the underlying need to cling at any sense of being “rebellious” that she can. For once she hits the age of desperation (arbitrary in some cities and suburban milieus), she will immediately pack it up in a different way. Putting her suitcase back in her closet for good in favor of domestic, steady dick that she can at least fool into believing she was “wild” once and that he’s now tamed her. But if she could, she would keep on sampling all the flavors of the world, if only that thing called an expiration date on “female” desirability wasn’t so pervasive (and it’s an expiration date that only accelerates when a “lady” is always on the move without a proper skin care regimen).