I leer at him from across the room, and he can feel me leering. He leers back, and in that moment, I wonder if he knows that I think he’s disposable. That I look at him like flesh to be picked apart between the hours of 2am and 4am, and that after that, I will throw him away. I will flush him down the toilet. I will never call again. He is a cheap commodity in my capitalist heart, something that can be used one to four times before being tossed away with the rest of the disposable men that enter my life one week at a time. He is replaceable. He is finite. I’m going to gobble him up to my heart’s content, fill myself up with pleasure, and then shit him out. Does he know all this just based on the look in my eyes? The lechery around the edges? And does he feel the same way.
I’m aware that the assumption out there is that women desire to love men, but I am here to tell you that you should take your stereotypes and cliches and toss them on my heap of burning, charred bodies so I can watch them burn.
If it weren’t for weak men, I never could have been a strong woman. If it weren’t for men who failed to do the right thing, to stand up for what they believe in, to march valiantly into the night, then I never would have realized that where they fail, I succeed. It took years of watching men dilly dally on pressing moral issues, compromising their ideals for something less heroic, such as money or an unsoiled name, that made me realize: if men don’t do the right thing, then who will? I realized it was on me to fight the good fight, and while all this comes in very vague terms, you know what I’m talking about. The example of a strong man is an excellent one to follow, but witnessing the mistakes of a weak one is such great fodder for doing something beyond the expected.
On the other hand, if it weren’t for weak women, then I never could have been a strong woman. How many times have I seen women kowtow to the will of men, even when they knew that it was not in the best interest of anyone, anywhere? How many times have I seen women accept being lesser than despite the fact that they knew they were not? How many times have I seen women crumble and shatter and break in the hands of a man, not because they were weak, but because they lived in a moment in the world when that was the only option? Maybe calling them weak is the wrong word, but it took seeing women who didn’t have the same opportunities and options in life to help me realize that there had to be something better. I can’t go into the past and change the way that things were for them, but I can change how the world works for their daughters. I’m working on it.
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THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT
Ah, yes, whiskey dick. That often talked about, frequently chastised, sexually inconvenient condition that so many of us have fallen prey to after a long night of binge drinking at the Ruby Room (or whatever your local last call haunt is), and then stumbling home with whatever last call scraps looke…
Piece I wrote for Slutist