Behind Enemy Lines. Of Feminism.

Before FemFan, I wasn’t curious about feminism beyond what I read about online. I knew enough to realize that it was a problem that must be crushed, like a roach under a boot. But I only step on a roach when I see one, and one squished bug will have no impact on the infestation. The source of the problem would remain intact. How could one destroy the infestation? “To kill the bug, we must understand the bug…” One would need to befriend some feminists and get them to reveal their innermost wants and fears. And FemFan was more than willing to be the gateway.

Let’s be clear: I never wanted to befriend and converse with feminists. Why would any self-respecting man want to? Every now and then I would run into an attractive feminist, who was not dressing up to her potential, think something like “she’s an idiot” and “what a waste,” and move on. However, in her eagerness to parade me in front of her friends, FemFan thrust me behind enemy lines, a place I did not want to be.

I braced myself for the inevitable clashes that would occur. You can’t watch the news without being inundated with gender wars bait. The other day I was watching a video about a little girl staring down a lion at a zoo. Though she was protected behind the glass, the lion tried to rip her apart with his paws. The anchorman said he would have ran away screaming “like a little girl,” which prompted the anchorwoman to ask him why it couldn’t he run away like a little boy. FemFan had the news on every morning, and every evening as well.

Surprisingly, FemFan didn’t try to start much, at first. Instead, she seemed to go out of her way to please me. Pleasing a man seemed like heresy to me, and that reinforced what I already knew: I was the prize in this relationship. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t any tension. For instance, one day she texted me the following:

I need a massage

Lemme know if you find a good one

Haha, I take it you lack massage skills? Obviously, I would return the favor.

What can I say? I have always been the receiver

I’m a feminist, remember? Equal massages both ways.

I’m not a feminist, remember? Unequal pay and double standards all day every day

I hope you’re joking.

I guess getting u to iron my shirts is out of the question LOL

She laughed, and went on saying that she isn’t good with domestics, only kids. I didn’t respond.

At that point, I cared about what she thought a little bit, hoping not to ruin a good thing all because of her feminist leanings, but soon I could not care less. While watching a news report on some woman who accomplished a lot of things yet wasn’t attractive, FemFan gushed praise on her, as if she was someone to look up to. And then she asked if I agreed and if I thought her smarts made her hot.

“Those smarts and accomplishments? They don’t do anything for me.”

“Really,” she asked, seemingly shocked. “Well they should.”

“Well… they don’t.”

She wasn’t angry. She just looked at the floor, disappointed. I imagined, hoped, that perhaps a little of her beliefs of what men wanted would change. It must have been a difficult thing for her to hear. I grabbed the remote and turned on Aliens.

FemFan liked to tell me of all the creepers who hit on her. During these times I convinced myself that game oversaturation wasn’t a real risk. There’s such a large group of adult boys who haven’t gotten far with it. Sure, they may be approaching, but those approaches are so poor because they aren’t using things that actually work. At least with the approach alone, they were making an effort, a point I made to FemFan. She didn’t take to it.

“That’s really what feminists want: not being hit on by creepers all of the time.”

“Talking to people you don’t like is part of life. How else are guys supposed to learn to meet women?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I just don’t like it. There should be a law against it.” I felt like unloading on her, but refrained. No point on starting an argument. I just wanted to have sex and sleep.

It seemed as if these conversations became more frequent. I had to start controlling what we watched. Maybe there was something about violence and women or something, I don’t remember, but she alluded to men being violent against women or whatever. I told her that the fear goes both ways, and brought up the most famous villain championed by men. I was shocked that she never heard of her.

“You’ve never heard of Lorena Bobbit??”

“No. Never.” I told her the story, and even pulled it up on Wikipedia. “No no stop I don’t want to hear it,” she said, while closing her eyes and cupping her ears with her hands.

“Guys have a real fear about this. We believe feminists are like this, and if they had the chance, would pass out free cutlery at clinics.”

“No, no! I love penis! I love men!” I believed her because I had earlier concluded that she was a fan of some aspects of feminism, a grunt in the trenches fighting a war that she really didn’t understand. Sure, she was studying women’s studies at the graduate level, but if Rommel could advance Germany’s front lines without knowing about the holocaust, then maybe a rank-and-file feminist could fight without being a full-blown feminazi. She could be towing the line because that’s what women do, and “equality” sounds awesome. Cheering on a cock-cutting wasn’t an idea that seemed possible to her.

Conversations like these were a little interesting, but the real fun came whenever her roommate was around. FemFan moved in with this roommate soon after we started seeing each other. She looked like the love spawn of your typical ugly rock star and a fan, the ones the rockers would never acknowledge. The Penguin had more loving parents. I cursed the makers of yoga pants whenever she wore them (all the time). OctoMom could only dream of the having the child-bearing hips of this feminist. I’d be shocked if she looked at herself in the mirror once a month. The bitter scowl across her face was a permanent fixture, even when she cackled. She was a fat, fugly feminist. Her fiancé was an alright looking dude, best described as a boy. At one time he ate meat like a man but weaned himself from it for love. That’s all you need to know about that pansy.

From day one FemFan complained to me about her roommate FemFatty. She was a controlling nightmare. “So why did you move in with her,” I asked. FemFan just didn’t think she’d be such a controlling bitch. I took full advantage whenever I could.

Shockingly, they had a football game on when I walked in one Sunday evening. The Steelers were playing, and you know how much feminists love to skewer accused rapists. But none of that began until an image of Matt Ryan appeared on the screen.

“There’s an overrated quarterback if I ever saw one,” I said.

“I went to Boston College and we love Matt Ryan he’s the best!” FemFatty said.

“But he’s soooo boring! Have you seen his commercials?” It was all light-hearted (on my part), but I could tell FemFan knew her roommate was about to pop. At that moment, Ben Roethlisberger appeared on the screen.

“Oh my GAWD why is he even playing?? He should be in JAIL!” FemFatty said.

“He wasn’t convicted,” I said.

“Yeah, because most of these rapists never go to jail! Look at the statistics!” She took an obvious defensive posture that matched her ingrained scowl.

A hush fell over the room with no one willing to break the tension.

“Matt Ryan still sucks.”

I wondered how often FemFatty’s fiancé endured these random acts of man-hating. Were they daily occurrences? I knew he wasn’t challenging her or standing up for men, or himself. If anything, he probably agreed that he was a rapist and never prodded her for sex. Can’t have a rape on the conscience.

Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I took advantage of FemFatty’s cold and cunty nature. Early one Sunday morning, she knocked on FemFan’s door and came in to tell us about some TV show that was on. Bridezillas or Say Yes to the Dress or something. Before she could get into it, I said “room service? Awesome! I’ll take an OJ and some bacon,” and then leaned back with a grin. Her jaw dropped, and she stared at FemFan wide-eyed. She started to shake as she stood there stunned, unsure of how to react. I laughed.

After she left, FemFan begged me not to tease her. “Please, please don’t do that!”

“Why not? I like teasing her. It’s so easy to tease her.”

“I know I know, but I have to live with her. You don’t know what it’s like.” I didn’t care to find out.

That’s pretty much how I interacted with these feminists. I didn’t care how sexist I sounded, because I was entertained by their reactions to my non-political correctness. I didn’t make it a point to say something sexist, I just was and was unapologetic. And it’s not like they could have said anything to me about it. I’m black. But while I relished in making them uncomfortable, things were different when I tried to set up a friend for a bang with one of FemFan’s femicunts.