How hard is it for relatively* privileged people to just shut up and listen when people talk about the way society shits on them? I’ll be honest: Really fucking hard. And yet there’s nothing actually easier.
B and I are sitting side-by-side. We are in different worlds.
B’s wishing he’d known women actually like sex back in his raging hormone days. Society had told him that girls just aren’t in to doing the wild thing, and he’d believed that, so he missed a lot of opportunities. He’s not the sort of man who’d ask a woman to do something she didn’t like. It’s why we’re together.
We’re watching UFC fights. B wishes the cage girls were curvier – these are famine years for men attracted to women who jiggle more in the bum than boobs. He’s hoping for an audience shot of Benson Henderson’s wife, because she’s a hottie. I’m busy watching various nearly-naked men in exquisite physical condition grapple and writhe. Some of the wrestling moves look like they could easily be modified for incredible bedroom encounters. And if Benson Henderson and I were unattached and he was interested, I’d love to test that theory with him. But as much as I’m assessing the fighters for potential happy fun sexytimes, I’m also aware that every one of them could turn horrifically violent in a heartbeat, and their strength, speed, and skill mean I wouldn’t stand a chance. So as much as I enjoy admiring the bodies and consider their performance potential, I’m also trying to read their character, aware that misjudging it could get me raped, killed, or both.
Coinky-dinks are funny things. I didn’t think I’d ever come across glittery hoo-ha’s again outside of the Dogs and Goddesses deconstruction I’d got inadvertently sucked in to at Raven Wings. For those who are blissfully unaware of it, Dogs and Goddesses is a gawdawful romance book about a bunch of single women, their dogs, and some Mesopotamian goddess, plus a sexy god (of course), and a weird murderous priestess (ditto), and the sexy but assholish math professor (yep), and some other people I don’t even remember, because the bits Yami quoted were atrocious. There is a potion, and aphrodisiac cookies, and one of the ladies ends up with endless orgasm powers, and I just can’t with this.
Look, I only got involved in it because I was reading her This Present Darkness deconstruction. I will tell you about that book someday soon. Then you will understand why I enjoyed watching Yami savage it, and why I accidentally ended up reading a deconstruction of a really bizarre romance novel. Yami’s really damned good at deconstructions and I was powerless, okay?
“There have never been frontiers between astronauts. The day that this notion sinks into the minds of politicians, our planet will be different.”
Part of me would like to see that world. Part of me wonders if, as Robert Frost’s neighbor said, “Good fences make good neighbors.” I know we need fences even in our own communities. I know sometimes those fences are the only way to co-exist. There are some frontiers between people and nations that need to be there, at least for a time. I just hope that if we do ever get to the point where frontiers dissolve, it’s because we’ve all learned how to treat each other well. Continue reading ““There Have Never Been Frontiers Between Astronauts.””→
I cringed when I read about Patricia Arquette’s oblivious comments at the Oscars. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been an immediate, “Whoops! I’m so sorry, I definitely should’ve phrased that differently and not implied everybody else’s struggles are totally over.” It’s too easy, when you’re a white feminist, to get wrapped up in your own problems and forget that other people are dealing with far more shit than you are. It’s far too easy to assume the black feminist in the room faces the same issues you do. And then you end up blabbing something that comes across as dismissive, erasing the existence and concerns of huge swathes of people and then wondering why they’re mad at you.
Some people never change. Take the Men’s Rights Movement (MRM). It’s full of men who panic as they realize they’re not actually the Kings of Creation. Women pry a tiny bit of privilege from their sweaty, grasping hands, and they shriek like toddlers being forced to share the crayons. Unlike toddlers, they never learn to share. They just howl persecution and lie a lot in a pathetic effort to get all the power back.
In our first installment, we saw how Mr. William Austin, Victorian MRA Esq., was being terribly oppressed by all those women with their miniscule hard-won rights. But he didn’t give us actual examples. He spoke in sweeping generalities that were, on the whole, pretty meaningless, especially when you contrast his problems with the actual conditions women in the 19th century faced.