I wander the scorched wastelands of the human psyche, explore the depths of the musty ideologies hidden within, and drag them kicking and screaming to the oasis of cleansing truth so that you may be entertained from the comfort of your Barcalounger. My crusade over the past three years finding and eviscerating the hated enemies of beauty and truth has finally brought me face to face with perhaps the most execrable creature to stalk the consciousness of the Holy Hedonist Empire.
I hesitate to write this post because the horror you will find within is nearly beyond comprehension. I risk credibility if it turns out the entire article was a put-on, an act to stimulate an immunological response from a healthy psyche. I accept that risk, because the greater risk is in allowing a genuine abomination to go unridiculed.
From a Washington City Paper interview (hat tip: reader Mike), pay your shilling and enter the tent to feast your eyes upon Jaclyn Friedman, AKA “Fucking While Feminist”:
Jaclyn Friedman is, in short, a feminist rock star. She is the executive director of WAM!: Women, Action & the Media. She edited the incredible Yes Means Yes!: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape, and continues the work of dismantling rape culture in her weekly pro-sex column. She writes as compellingly about taking off her shirt for fun as she does her college sexual assault. And she has been fucking under these conditions for nearly 20 years.
What is the difference between sex with a pro-sex feminist and sex with a pro-sex normal woman? Earplugs.
Fucking while feminist presents a peculiar set of challenges for the pro-sex single. How do you talk rape culture on a first date while still managing to get laid once in a while? How do you find the feminist guy who won’t self-flagellate to the point of unfuckability? How do you avoid dying alone, basically?
I’ll answer those questions for the City Paper interviewer.
“How do you talk rape culture on a first date while still managing to get laid once in a while?”
You don’t if you want to date men who aren’t afraid of their own penises.
“How do you find the feminist guy who won’t self-flagellate to the point of unfuckability?”
Such a man doesn’t exist. If he does, he is lying to you. Or gay.
“How do you avoid dying alone, basically?”
J[aclyn] F[riedman]: The way I hope it will work is that they ask these initial questions [about my rape culture books] before we meet in person. So then they can go offline and collect their thoughts and then respond to me. My profile says I’m a feminist. So a lot of people who would be really scared off by me, we don’t get very far. When the whole Polanski thing was going down, I had this big argument with a guy about Polanski. First date. And last one.
No surprise there. Though I can only read her words, I can vicariously hear her grating voice plucking out my ear hairs one by one, slowly to maximize the pain. Could you imagine going on a date with this shrike? She’s already arguing with you before the first round is ordered. If I get into *one* big argument with a chick within the first three months of dating her, I seriously consider dumping her. But a big argument on the first date is a giant red flag that proudly proclaims “Kneel before my mighty shit test, and pass or be emasculated by the swinging of my serrated clit dick!” Some shit tests are not worth passing. Sometimes it’s just an ugly, gnarled soul staring daggers of challenge at you from across the table.
Do you have any feminist litmus tests?
JF: I would like for there to be a set of feminist litmus tests that I could reference and use to find the right guy. Right now, I feel like I’m in an endless cycle of asking myself, “Am I willing to let this slide?” I’m mostly dating guys right now, which is fairly new for me. From my early 20s to my mid-30s I dated exclusively women and trans men.
Ah, so she’s in her late 30s or 40s now. That would explain the sudden biological urge to merge with sperm-manufacturing normal men. Experimentation is all fun and games until your subjects stop finding you a worthwhile lay.
I’m not romanticizing that, like “it’s so much easier with women”—let me tell you, it’s not. But it’s a different set of questions you have to ask. I don’t feel like I can go in to these dates expecting dudes to know as much about feminism or sexuality studies or rape culture [i.e., lies], the stuff that I live my life talking about and thinking about. I feel like I’m going to die alone if I do that.
Will your slavish adherence to your comforting lies have been worth it?
Here is what’s depressing about dating while feminist. Feminism is what I do with my life, it’s how I spend my days, it’s my job, it’s not just an opinion I have among many other opinions.
The most dogmatic ideologues are always running on the righteous fury of their opinions. They have to, because one stop to take a breath could mean the entire edifice of lies crumbles down on them from forward momentum. They secretly suspect, late at night when the terrifying silence leaves them alone with their innermost thoughts, that everything they believe is a lie. And so they shout hate and fear at the heart of the world. Imagine waking up one day to realize your entire life was a farce? And a deadly farce at that; one which withheld from you some of the greatest joys of life.
If I had a hardcore litmus test, the pool of men I could date would be so tiny.
I’ve got news for you, my cougar child. It’s getting tiny regardless of any litmus test you might impose. Which, ironically, will cause you to impose ever stricter litmus tests. The bruised ego drinks deeply from the chalice of the sour grapewine.
And then when you weeded out men who are gay, the men I don’t find attractive, the men already in monogamous, committed relationships—really, I would never get laid again. So I do feel that I have to try to be flexible out of necessity.
Older women either stiffen into celibacy or become Yogic masters of dating flexibility. As “Feminist While Fucking” seems to possess a man’s libido, she has opted to accept the dreary fact that her waning sexual market value places constraints on what she can, and can no longer, demand from the men she dates.
But if I were to end up with someone—and I do want a long-term, stable relationship with someone at some point—they would have to be feminist on some basic level. They would have to be.
Hey, betas, guess what! You now have your shot at tasting the curdled nectar of an aging radical feminist who has spent her prime years servicing a battalion of men, women, and transsexuals. All you need to do is nod in agreement when she discusses the finer points of the imaginary gender wage gap. Sound like a good deal? And turn off that sexbot when I’m talking to you.
Right now my basic litmus test is this: Is he interested in feminist issues when I bring them up?
Sure. I’ve noticed feminists are quicker to jump into bed than non-feminists.
And can he talk about them in ways that express curiosity and engagement and respect, instead of defensiveness or dismissiveness or attachment to stereotypes?
Feminists have hairy armpits and daddy issues.
If we can talk about this stuff in ways that are interesting and productive, I can work with it most of the time.
A good marriage will have a higher status husband and a better looking wife. Discuss.
[T]he only cisgender man I’ve been in a longterm relationship was a feminist when I met him. We would have feminism arguments where I was educated by him, and vice versa. And I thought, well, how lucky I am to have found a feminist guy! And he ended up being an ass . . . in somewhat unrelated ways.
Disturbed hardcore feminists are attracted to assholes, too. Red alert on Drudge.
Is there anything that men can mention in their dating profiles that tips you off to feminist compatibility?
JF: Well, this is my test: When I look at personal ads, I look at their lists of favorite books, movies, and music, and they have to list women in all of those categories.
Ok, here goes.
Favorite books: Anything by Stephenie Meyer
Favorite movies: Anything by Leni Riefenstahl
Favorite music: T.A.T.U.
I also don’t respond to any guy who says they’re looking for a woman who “doesn’t have drama,” not because I have a lot of drama, but because I feel like that is code for women who have opinions.
This is super double secret code for “I will blab endlessly about utter bullshit while you sit and listen with the patience of a saint”.
. . I also have a couple things in my profile that are screeners, that I’m hoping will turn off people I don’t want to be bothered by. I mention feminism. I say I’m a size 16. But I do it all in a flirty way, like, ’size 16 can be sexy,” not in a way that says, “I AM ALL THESE THINGS. DEAL WITH IT.”
Proud feminist, aging spinster, fatty. What’s not to love? Rhetorical.
PS: Size sixteen cannot be sexy. Saying so won’t change the fact that the vast majority of men, particularly desirable men who don’t need to lie to get sex, are repulsed by the rolls of blubber you refer to as “curves”.
So when you tell people that you’re a feminist, do they have assumptions about what the sex is going to be like?
JF: A couple of guys were shocked that I like to play various games in bed, because I’m a feminist. That’s always really interesting to me. I’m always like, ‘Are you kidding me? The feminists I know are the craziest women in bed you can find!”
There’s gotta be an iron law of the land that states the less desirable the woman, the kinkier she is in bed. Compensation in da houze!
So do you meet guys who pass the feminist test but then turn out to be disappointments for other reasons?
JF: Oh God. There is a type of feminist guy who is so eager to fall over himself to be deferential to women and to prove his feminist bona fides and flagellate himself in front of you, to the point that it really turns me off. And it makes me sad, because politically, these are the guys that I should be sleeping with! You know what I’m talking about?
Color me unsurprised that a woman’s gina tingle doesn’t oscillate to a man’s political beliefs.
They haven’t internalized their feminism, so it’s always being externalized. And it places a lot of pressure on the women they’re with. There’s this very self-conscious performance of feminism. And it does sometimes feel like they want a cookie. . . . OK, I know this is such a delicate conversation to have, but I want those guys to wake up because those are the guys I want to want to sleep with!
You want to want to sleep with men but your abrasive, unfeminine personality attracts eunuchs. Clever eunuchs who tell you what you want to hear in hopes of getting in your XL pants, but eunuchs nonetheless.
I sort of feel that I get cast in these dudes’ narratives as the Hellcat Dream Girl, there to prove how bad-ass they are because they’re dating such a bad-ass woman. They think it’s cute or sexy. But when I use that smart, outspoken bad-assery to challenge their own perspectives, it’s suddenly not sexy at all.
No shit it’s not sexy. What man worth his stones wants to spend time with a woman always pitched in heated battle against every perceived slight to her worldview? Especially when her perspective is a mountain of lies. Men get enough of that from other men. The point of women is that they aren’t men. But maybe we are entering an era of manjaws and art fags.
I feel like the same thing happened with the guy I dated for two years. He liked the idea of being a guy who would be with someone like me, but ultimately it turned out that he wanted someone who wouldn’t challenge him as much, a person who was easier and quicker to sweep away. I got evidence of that when, within three months of breaking up with me, he was dating a 23 year old who lists her political views on Facebook as “moderate.”
I hope this field guide to Americanus afeminoxious was as unpleasant for you as it was for me. But really, there was nothing new here. Guests of the Chateau have all seen these creatures before, in special holding cells, their cries of torment under the lashings of my bulldykewhip striking a dulcet note on weary ears.
The more interesting question is what kind of man would so debase himself to willingly spend time in such a woman’s company? To suffer the tortures of the damned, his ears ringing with the demonic cacophony of femicunt war shrieks? To betray the last, good measure of his manly essence for a pittance of overripe pussy? What kind of man, indeed?