Getting What You Want, Wanting What You Get

An Unbiased Study of Feminism

June 29, 2010

I see where women, or college girls anyway, are honking and blowing most fierce about how they don’t like the way sex works nowadays. Yeah. It seems that the hook-up is in flower. This means that the girl meets some guy on a bus or in a remedial-reading class in college or finds herself in the same elevator, and he says, “Let’s screw,” and she does, maybe right there in the elevator, and then she’s all mad because she did, and because he did, men, the bastards.

I was born too soon.

What seems to get their panties in an uproar is that they offer their favors to passersby like soap companies handing out shampoo samples, but without the intimacy, and then grouse because the guy doesn’t call them back. Why would he? Give me one reason.

What I don’t get is, why are gals bitching? This is the world they wanted. They clawed and scratched and burned their bras and had court cases and threw fits to get exactly what they have. They hated men because, they said, men weren’t letting them copulate frantically like men had always wanted them to. Men, or more likely their mothers, didn’t let them make themselves unattractive by dressing like hod-carriers and swearing like sailors. Finally men gave in and now women hate them for that. Whatever happened to gratitude?

When I was a young stud—well, young anyway—in high school, girls were still oppressed, which meant that a guy knew he probably wasn’t going to get laid, so he might as well find a girl he really enjoyed being with. The idea slowly leaked into his hormonally disabled psyche that girls were kind of special. You could actually like one. Sure, a guy made pawing motions because he was expected to, and she went along to a minor extent. But that was it.

So she didn’t feel used or hooked up with because she hadn’t been, and he thought he was damned lucky to have her. It was a concept of sorts.

But then came fem-lib. A torrent of really nasty dykes with politically-significant hairy armpits started yowling about how it wasn’t fair that men could cat around and women couldn’t. Then the Pill shifted the paradigm into high gear. Girls could now Do It in relative security, and abortion, also championed by feminists, provide.

Which meant—Oh bliss!—that she had little excuse for saying No. Sally Sue might have teeth like pearls and brains and perky tits and a wacky sense of humor and actually be quite a prize, but sex trumps art. If Sally didn’t say Yes, she knew that Greta would. Women had commoditized themselves. It was a marvelous thing for the testosterone wads we think of as college boys.

It quickly came to the old country saw with fangs: Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free? Guys learned that they could say, “Check your oil, lady?” and it worked. Praise de Lawd! Gloria Steinem and Andrea Fire-Plug-with-Leprosy Dworkin had done what men had failed to do in millennia: produce a race of obligately loose women.

Women, never happy, discovered that they didn’t like this either. They wanted the right to rut, but not the duty. Unfortunately the two were a package. What they really wanted was to…get married. Being less adept than men at getting outside of their own heads, they didn’t understand why a lot of men were happy single. For a guy, serial monogamy was fine. So was  hooking up. Soap flakes are soap flakes.

But it was what women had deliberately brought about.

Not being too good at abstraction, they didn’t understand that a man can be perfectly happy with casual sex, scuba gear, and a Harley Sportster. Left to himself, he would never think of having a Volvo station wagon, a boring McMansion with a backbreaking mortgage, or a wedded termagant who wouldn’t let him go out with his friends. He doesn’t see himself as exploiting his one-nights. He didn’t tell them he was looking for a soul mate, and may well have told them he wasn’t. (Fortunately they never believe it.) He probably isn’t contemptuous of them. He just wants a shot of leg, and figures she must have been taken by the idea, since she did it.

Certain dialogs become common:

“All you want is sex!”

“Uh…what else have you got?” or “So what?”

Or, “Marriage? Why? Would sex be better? Would food taste better? I don’t get it.”

Or, “Marriage doesn’t make sense. Do you want to eat in the same restaurant all your life?”

Marriage of course has only the function of getting the woman’s legal hooks into the guy. It’s a set-up aimed at child support and nothing else.

Anyway, it was the world women crafted, but somehow it didn’t suit them. Nothing does. They relapsed to their default position: Furious.

To make matters worse, women decided that they wanted to be men, or like men, or one of the guys, or some equally awful thing. Enter Anti-Viagra: the little blue blazer with shoulder pads, and the floppy pants-suit suitable for a trailer park outside of Las Vegas. These had the appeal of truss ads and alone would have dropped the birth rate below ZPG, but then came the Chip. As women entered what had been a male workplace, they found that they didn’t much like it, precisely because it was male. Angry as always, they set about neutering all things male, with wild success.

The Chip was the view that they weren’t going to take any crap, accompanied by a constant search for crap not to take. Hating men gave them a horsepower unavailable to males, who didn’t hate women but just wanted to get away from them.

 

Here again, women got what they wanted. Much favored them. Though they knew less about politics than do men, they voted in larger numbers and, since they did the shopping and liked buying things, they discovered that they had tremendous economic clout. They couldn’t compete well with men, but didn’t have to: Affirmative action worked just fine.

Except somehow it didn’t. One triumph after another somehow didn’t make them happy. They chased boys out of college, providing the satisfactions of vengeance for a crime never committed, but it engendered the hook-up culture, and they hate men for it. They pressured the divorce courts to rape men, and now hate men—the beasts—for not marrying them.

I dunno, Brothels and Cisterns. It seems to me that the feminists got just what they wanted. They made their bed. Now let them lie in it. But quietly. Oh please, quietly.

Philip Francis Stanley and Grotesque Ophthalmological Malpractice